But as his presence enveloped her, Freya felt the weight of her helplessness. She was trapped, a mere pawn in his twisted game.
His intentions were clear, and there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from the darkness that had consumed them both.
His fingers brushing against her cheek with an unsettling gentleness. His touch sent a jolt of fear through her, a realization of the power he held over her.
Her breath hitched as his hand trailed down her neck, his grip firm yet possessive.
His voice was a low rumble, a mixture of desire and satisfaction. "You have intrigued me from the moment I laid eyes on you," he admitted, his tone filled with a smug confidence.
Freya's heart raced, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. She was trapped, a prey ensnared by a predator.
As Fenrir's grip tightened, his intentions became painfully clear—tonight, he would make her his, whether she willed it or not.
Unbeknownst to Freya, her life had truly ended the moment Fenrir stole her innocence.
Night after night was filled with tears and unending suffering.
Almost every night, Fenrir attempted to impregnate her. He was a firm believer in the Moonchild prophecy and was determined to bring it to fruition by any means necessary.
Thus, he heartlessly forced the union between himself and the girl believed to be the incarnation of the Moon Goddess, Freya.
Each night was a harrowing ordeal, a relentless cycle of pain and degradation.
Freya's once vibrant spirit was gradually eroded by the torment she endured.
The room that had become her prison was a witness to her anguish, her cries echoing off the walls as she fought against the violation of her body and soul.
Fenrir's actions were a chilling embodiment of his belief in the prophecy. To him, Freya was little more than a vessel—a means to an end.
His intentions were masked by his conviction, his distorted belief that what he was doing was justified by the greater purpose he believed he was serving.
Freya's body bore the scars of the atrocities inflicted upon her. Her physical pain was a reflection of the emotional and psychological torment that had left its mark on her very being.
She felt trapped in a nightmare, unable to escape the clutches of the man who held her captive both physically and emotionally.
With each passing night, Freya's resilience was worn thin. The hopelessness that had settled in her heart grew heavier, overshadowing any glimmer of fight that remained within her.
The memory of her past life—the days of freedom and laughter—seemed like a distant dream, a reality she could never return to.
The nights blurred together, a never-ending cycle of darkness and agony.
Freya's spirit was broken, her identity stripped away, replaced by the nameless dread that consumed her existence.
Fenrir's actions had extinguished her light, leaving only the shell of the girl she had once been.
And Gabriel had to witness it all.
Night after night.
With his own eyes.
The heartbreaking cries of the Moonlit Clan girls echoing in his ears until this very day.
Gabriel stood in the corridor, his expression difficult to decipher, his fists clenched and his jaw tightly set.
As his father, Fenrir Moonfire, and other pack members busied themselves with violating the girls from the Moonlit Clan in their pursuit of seizing the Moonchild prophecy—rumored to be born from the womb of a Moonlit Clan girl—Gabriel could only listen to the agonizing screams with a tumultuous discomfort in his heart.
It was a stroke of misfortune, he thought bitterly.
Why did he have to be a part of this group of villains, led by his deranged father?
Unconsciously, he punched the wall, shattering bone and breaking through the plaster. It didn't matter; he could regenerate quickly.
He possessed alpha blood, granting him power beyond that of werewolves beneath him.
His heart was heavy with conflicting emotions—anger, disgust, shame.
He wanted to intervene, to put a stop to the horrors he witnessed night after night.
But his father's iron grip and the pack's allegiance to him held him back, leaving him trapped in a sickening web of complicity.
He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sounds of suffering that permeated the air.
The cries of the girls cut through him like a knife, a constant reminder of the atrocities being committed within those walls.
He clenched his teeth, his inner turmoil reaching its peak.
Gabriel's mind raced with questions and self-reproach.
Why hadn't he done something sooner?
How had things escalated to this point?
He felt a burning rage within him, directed both at his father and himself.
His fists trembled as he fought against the urge to lash out, to break free from the constraints that held him captive in this nightmare.
Gabriel's conflicted emotions continued to torment him, eating away at his sanity. He felt like a prisoner in his own skin, trapped in a world of darkness and depravity.
His own identity was a source of shame—his bloodline tainted by the brutality of his father.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, as he stared at the door that led to the horrors he wished he could erase.
The suffering of the Moonlit Clan girls weighed heavily on his shoulders, a burden he could hardly bear.
As the nights turned into a relentless cycle of torment, Gabriel's determination grew.
He knew he couldn't stand by and watch any longer.
He had to find a way to put an end to the madness, to free himself from the clutches of his father's tyranny and rescue the innocent souls trapped in this nightmare.
With newfound resolve, Gabriel's gaze hardened, his jaw set in determination. He would find a way to break the chains that bound him, to rise against the darkness that had consumed his life.
The legacy of the Moonchild prophecy was a cruel fate, but he refused to let it define him any longer.
The members of the ShadowNight Pack were nothing more than repugnant filth in Gabriel's eyes.
Especially those who were loyal followers of his father. And he hated himself for doing nothing about it.