The Alpha's Exiled Mate Chapter 265

Freya's POV

A week had passed since my surgery. Martha's guest bedroom had become my sanctuary. The doctors had been cautiously optimistic about my recovery, but the reality was much harsher. Every morning, I would attempt to grip a pencil with my right hand, watching as it trembled and eventually fell from my grasp.

Today was no different. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains as I sat cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by crumpled papers—failed attempts at sketching. My wolf whined softly as another pencil clattered to the floor, rolling under the nightstand.

"Stupid hand," I muttered, flexing my fingers. The scars from the silver burns had begun to fade, but the damage beneath remained. I could feel the disconnection between my brain's commands and my hand's response, like trying to communicate through static.

A gentle knock at the door interrupted my frustration. Martha entered, carrying a vase filled with deep red roses.

"Another delivery," she said, setting the vase on the windowsill beside four others in various stages of bloom. "Alpha Thorne is nothing if not persistent."

I glanced at the roses, their scent rich and soothing to my wolf. Every day since my surgery, Thorne had sent roses.

"Has he called again?" I asked, trying to sound indifferent.

Martha nodded. "Twice this morning. I told him you were resting." She picked up the fallen pencil and placed it back in my hand, closing my fingers around it with gentle pressure. "Try again. Dr. Kraus said consistent practice is key."

I gripped the pencil, focusing all my energy on keeping it steady. For a moment, it worked—I managed to draw a wobbly line across the paper before my fingers spasmed and the pencil jerked, leaving an ugly slash across my attempt at a dress design.

"It's progress," Martha said encouragingly, but I could smell the concern in her scent.

"It's useless," I replied, tossing the pencil aside. "At this rate, I'll be designing stick figures for the rest of my life."

Martha sat beside me, her Beta warmth comforting. "The silver damage was extensive, Freya. Give yourself time."

Time. Everyone kept telling me to give it time. But time was the one thing I'd already lost too much of—three years in exile, and now who knew how many more months or years before my hand would work properly again, if ever.

The doorbell rang, pulling Martha away. I heard voices downstairs—a female voice I recognized as Emma's. A few minutes later, Martha escorted Emma into my room, her arms laden with magazines and newspapers.

"I come bearing gifts from the outside world," Emma announced, dumping the pile onto my bed. "I thought you might be bored. Plus, Stone Group's summer collection is featured in the latest Wolf Style magazine. I marked the page."

I managed a smile. "Thanks, Emma."

Emma studied me with a critical eye. "You look better. Less... hospital-ish."

"That's not saying much," I quipped, running my left hand through my hair. It had started to regain some of its luster, but I was still too thin, my cheekbones too sharp.

As Martha excused herself to prepare tea, Emma began chattering about work, the latest office gossip, and how Jasper had been in a foul mood since his confrontation with Thorne. I half-listened, idly flipping through the magazines with my left hand.

I turned my attention to a fashion magazine from three months ago, flipping through glossy pages of wolf models in elegant attire. A spread on a charity gala caught my eye—something about the Silverstone Pack's annual fundraiser. I was about to turn the page when a figure in the background of one photo made my heart stop.

"Wait," I whispered, bringing the page closer. In the corner of the image, partially obscured by a decorative pillar, stood a man with his back to the camera. But his posture, the set of his shoulders, the way he held his drink—I would recognize that stance anywhere.

"That's Ethan!" I gasped, my voice breaking. "My brother!"

Emma leaned over, squinting at the small figure. "Are you sure? You can barely see his face."

"I don't need to see his face," I insisted, my heart pounding. "That's him. That's my brother."

Martha returned with the tea tray, alarmed by my agitation. "What's happened?"

I thrust the magazine at her, pointing to the figure. "It's Ethan. My brother. He's alive."

Martha studied the photo, her expression cautious. "Freya, darling, I don't want to dash your hopes, but—"

"Call Thorne," I interrupted. "Please, Martha. He needs to see this."

---

Thorne's POV

The call came as I was reviewing evidence against Edward Brooks. Martha's voice was tight with concern as she explained Freya's discovery. I left my office immediately, instructing Mark to continue compiling the dossier for the council meeting.

When I arrived at Martha's house, Freya was sitting at the dining table, the magazine spread open before her. She looked up as I entered, her eyes bright with a hope I hadn't seen in weeks.

"Look," she said without preamble, pointing to the photograph. "It's Ethan."

I studied the image carefully. The figure was indeed male, approximately the right age and build, but his face was turned away from the camera. Still, there was something in the stance that seemed familiar, reminiscent of Freya herself.

"When was this taken?" I asked, noting the date on the magazine.

"Three months ago," Emma supplied. "At the Silverstone Pack's spring gala."

I frowned. "That's Jasper Stone's territory."

Freya's eyes narrowed. "Does that matter? If my brother is alive—"

"It matters for jurisdiction," I explained, pulling out my phone. "Mark, I need a team to investigate a lead. Send someone to identify and locate a male wolf photographed at the Silverstone spring gala three months ago." I described the figure and his location in the photo.

Freya watched me intently, her scent a mixture of hope and anxiety. "How long will it take?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "But I'll have my best people on it."

Two hours later, Mark called back. I put him on speaker for Freya's benefit.

"We've identified the location, Alpha," Mark reported. "The photo was taken at the Shadow Creek Underground, a neutral territory between Moon Bay and Silverstone territories. It's... not the most reputable area. Mostly exiles and fringe wolves."

Freya leaned forward. "And the man? Is it Ethan Riley?"

Mark hesitated. "We can't confirm identity from the photo, but locals report a wolf matching his general description has been seen at a place called the Moonlight Tavern. He keeps to himself, doesn't use his surname."

I watched Freya's face light up with determination. "I need to go there."

"Absolutely not," I said immediately. "Shadow Creek is dangerous, especially for—"

"For what?" Freya challenged. She held up her trembling right hand. "I've survived worse than a seedy bar, Thorne."

"It's not safe," I insisted. "I'll send a team to bring him in."

Freya stood, her wolf's energy crackling around her despite her physical weakness. "No. He's my only family. I have to go myself. It's been three years, Thorne. Three years of not knowing if he was alive or dead."

I understood her desperation. Family bonds ran deep in wolf blood, deeper than any law or logic. "Then I'm coming with you. Your hand is still healing, and Shadow Creek is no place for a lone wolf, especially one who can't shift fully."

She studied me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine for ulterior motives. Finally, she nodded. "Fine. But we go tomorrow. I won't wait any longer."

As Martha and Emma helped Freya prepare for the journey, I stepped outside to call Mark with additional instructions. The council meeting to review the Brooks family's crimes would need to be postponed.

Later, as we drove to Shadow Creek, Freya sat silently beside me, staring out the window. The tension between us had shifted from hostility to something more complex—a reluctant alliance born of necessity.

"I should have believed you," I said quietly, breaking the silence. "About your innocence. I failed in my duty as Alpha by allowing politics to cloud my judgment."

Freya didn't look at me, but I could smell the bitterness in her scent. "An apology doesn't bring back what I lost."

"No," I agreed. "But finding Ethan and uncovering the truth might help you move forward."

She turned then, studying my profile. "The truth might implicate people close to you."

I thought of my father's strange behavior, his insistence on the alliance with the Brooks family. "Justice doesn't care about proximity."

Freya was quiet for a long moment. "Apologies don't erase three years of exile and torture," she finally said, her voice barely audible over the car's engine. "But finding Ethan and the truth... that might help me look ahead instead of behind."