Chapter 97 Accusation
Aelira’s POV
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After I finish in the bathroom, I walk back into Mrs. Quillon’s beautifully decorated sitting room. My heart races as I try to assemble the pieces of that crucial night.
I halt at the doorway, catching sight of Mrs. Quillon as she speaks softly into, her mobile phone.
“Yes, she is still here, inquiring about that night. No, I haven’t revealed anything to her.”
My wolf instinctively perks up, sensing the significance of the conversation. Who is she speaking
with?
Mrs. Quillon glances up and notices my presence. For a brief moment, her expression shows alarm before she quickly wraps up her conversation. “I must go. She’s returned.”
She puts her phone down with an air of nonchalance. “Did you manage to find the restroom, dear?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I respond, carefully analyzing her expression. I detect a subtle shift in her wolf’s scent- fear laced with deception.
Taking a deep breath, I decide to confront her head–on. “Mrs. Quillon, there’s something else I’d like to
ask you.”
She gestures for me to take a seat, though her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
“I want to discuss that night at the gathering,” I begin, observing her closely for any signs of reaction. “I have reason to believe someone mixed moonberry extract into my wolf–whiskey.”
Her eyes widen slightly at my accusation. “That’s quite a serious claim.”
“I’m not pointing fingers at anyone in particular,” I clarify. “But I was taken to a guest room after becoming disoriented. A pack servant helped me–a she–wolf with auburn hair.”
Mrs. Quillon’s grip on her teacup tightens almost imperceptibly. “We have multiple servants with
auburn hair.”
“This one had a small birthmark near her right eye,” I insist. “She may have cleaned the room after I
departed the following morning.”
For a brief moment, Mrs. Quillon’s composure falters. “I’m afraid we have many servants… It’s hard to
remember specific ones from a month back.”
“Please,” I lean in, a note of desperation creeping into my voice. “This is crucial. She could have seen
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who was with me that night.”
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Mrs. Quillon opens her mouth as if to reply, just as the doorbell rings. A look of relief floods her
features. “Excuse me, I need to answer that.”
She rushes to the door, leaving me powerless to stop her. I lean back, frustration bubbling up within me. She is hiding something, and I am certain of it.
“Mrs. Quillon,” a deep, familiar voice calls from the entryway. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Daelor. What brings him here?
I rise from my seat as Mrs. Quillon ushers him into the sitting room, her relief at the interruption painfully evident.
“Alpha Briarhallow,” she greets him with exaggerated warmth. “What a delightful surprise. Would you
like some tea?”
“No, thanks,” Daelor replies, his silver–gray eyes locking onto mine immediately. “I am here for Aelira.”
Mrs. Quillon looks back and forth between us, clearly bemused yet grateful for the distraction. “Of course. I’ll leave you two to converse.”
As she rushes out of the room, despair washes over me. My one lead, my opportunity to learn who had
been with me on that fateful night, slips away.
“What brings you here?” I ask, unable to mask the frustration in my tone.
Daelor’s face reveals nothing. “I could pose the same question to you. You mentioned going shopping
with Oriana.”
I avert my gaze, a mix of guilt and shame intertwining with my sense of urgency. “I needed to uncover
something.”
“I realized that when Oriana called asking about your whereabouts,” he replies, his tone carefully composed. “You seemed distressed as you left. I was worried about you.
The worry in his voice breaks down my defenses. My shoulders droop as the enormity of everything
weighs heavily on me.
“Let’s go,” he says softly. “We can have a conversation in the car.”
I give a nod, too emotionally drained to protest. As we approach his luxury SUV adorned with the Nightshade Pack emblem, I sense Mrs. Quillon observing us from the window. Will I ever learn what
she knows?
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Once we’re inside the car, Daelor turns toward me, his silver–gray eyes filled with intense concern.
“What’s happening, Aelira? Why did you fabricate where you were headed?”
I gaze out the window, struggling to articulate my thoughts. How can I convey my deepest fear? That the pup I carry might not belong to the right father?
“I think…” My voice falters. “I suspect Roderic Riven and Cyrinne Wynthor drugged me during that
territorial gathering.”
Daelor’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “What makes you believe that?”
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The floodgates open. I spill my thoughts to him, detailing my suspicions–the moonberry–infused wolf- whiskey, my fragmented memories, and Cyrinne’s cryptic threats surrounding my “past.”
“I don’t believe the wolf with me that night was Alarion,” I eventually confess, instinctively placing my
hand on my belly. “This means…
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“The pup might not belong to him,” Daelor concludes, his tone unnervingly steady.
Tears well up in my eyes as I nod in agreement. “I need to uncover what transpired that night. I need to
find out who was with me and what evidence Cyrinne thinks she possesses.
Daelor starts the car but does not immediately move. “Are you sure that Roderic and Cyrinne planned
this?”
“Who else would stand to gain?” I retort bitterly.
“Perhaps…” he hesitates, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “Maybe the wolf intended to help you.
I stare at him in disbelief. “Help me? By exploiting my vulnerability while I was drugged?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he responds hastily.
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“I don’t give a damn about what the intention was,” I snap, an unexpected surge of anger rising within me. “Drugging someone and then…” I pause, unable to finish. The thought repulses me. “No one has the right to do that. I would rather have had no help at all.”
My intensity catches him off guard. As he pulls away from the Quillon estate’s driveway, his focus. wavers momentarily. The SUV swerves sharply, narrowly missing a passing vehicle.
He quickly regains control, his grip steady once again. Yet, I notice the tension in his jaw and the slight paleness of his complexion.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the weight of my confession lingering in the air.
“The pack servant,” I finally break the silence. “The one who came to assist me that night–she’s the
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crucial link. She must have seen who was with me.”
“Did Mrs. Quillon recognize her?” Daelor probes, his voice measured.
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I shake my head. “She claimed she didn’t recall. But I noticed a change in her scent when I brought it up. She knows something.”
“Did she confirm whether the servant belongs to the Quillon pack?”
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“No,” I exhale deeply. “She dodged the question entirely. That’s why I suspect the servant may have
been placed there by Roderic.”
Daelor contemplates this, his silver–gray eyes revealing deep thought. “I will find her.”
These three straightforward words, delivered with absolute confidence, almost convince me that it
could be done.
“How will you do that?” I inquire, hope flickering within my despair.
“I possess resources,” he responds, a trace of his Alpha authority tinting his voice. “If she is out there, I
will locate her.”
A wave of fatigue washes over me. The emotional weight of the day has sapped the little energy I had
left. I lean back against the seat, suddenly appreciative of Daelor’s presence and his quiet fortitude.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He extends his hand and briefly squeezes mine, an unexpectedly gentle act from such a powerful
Alpha. “You are not facing this alone, Aelira.”
Those words, though simple, envelop me like a protective barrier. For the first time since learning that Cyrinne was aware of my pregnancy, I sense a flicker of hope.
Once back at my apartment in Myrthale Residences, I am just getting comfortable on the couch when my mobile phone rings. Oriana’s name lights up the screen.
“Aelira? Where have you been?” her voice slices through the worry. “Daelor called me earlier, asking if I
had any idea where you were. He sounded genuinely worried.”
I exhale, too exhausted to concoct a lie. “I went to the Quillon estate to look into something.”
“Look into what? Why didn’t you let me know?” The hurt in her tone makes me flinch.
“It was a spur–of–the–moment decision,” I confess. “I needed to find out about… that night at the territorial gathering.”
Oriana is quiet for a beat. “The night you suspect you were drugged?”
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“Exactly.” I share everything, from my suspicions about Roderic and Cyrinne to my concerns about the pup’s parentage and my frantic quest for the enigma of a pack servant.
“Those scheming, manipulative monsters!” Oriana erupts once I finish. “How dare they! When I get my hands on Cyrinne Wynthor, I’ll rip those fake eyelashes right off her face and-”
Despite everything, I can’t help but smile at my friend’s unwavering loyalty. “Oriana,” I interject, cutting her off mid–rant about Cyrinne’s fate, “it’s alright.”
“It is not alright!” she protests. “What they’ve done is criminal. We have to report them to the Territorial
Enforcers!”
“With what proof?” I reply wearily. “It’s my word against theirs, and they hold influence.”
Oriana lets out a frustrated huff. After a moment of seething silence, she asks more softly, “So what’s
next? What are you planning to do?”
I have already transitioned beyond the initial shock and anger, reaching a state of cold clarity. My hand rests on my belly, feeling the slight bulge that nurtures my pup – a child born out of deception, potentially fathered by a total stranger.
“The pup cannot remain,” I assert, my voice calm and resolute.
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