Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 152

152 Ashes Under Oath 2

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Lev’s POV

Maxwell’s mouth curved without humour. “That depends what you mean by deliver.

Could he get James attention? Yes. Could he drag him into rooms and introduce him

around and make him think doors were opening? Yes. Could he parade influence and call

it protection? Absolutely.” His eyes hardened. “Could he give James a clean, lawful,

honourable path? No.”

My chest went cold.

Maxwell held my gaze as he said the next part.

“I suspect Marcel faked the Union signing.”

I went very still.

He nodded slowly, watching the reaction land. “Made James throw a banquet. Brought in

some unknown ‘Union officers.’ Put on a show. Inspection. Discussion. Timing. Theatre.

Enough to make James believe certification was about to happen.” He spat the next

words like they tasted bad. “Then everything blew up at the perfect moment.”

Arya.

I did not say her name out loud. I didn’t need to. The room felt like it filled with it

anyway.

Maxwell leaned forward now, forearms on his thighs, voice low and hard. “I believe

Marcel set the stage long before the poison scandal exploded. First, he fed James

urgency. Then he tied Leah to him. Then he created a process only he controlled. And

when it was time, he used the chaos to cut Arya out.”

I stared at him. “You’re saying he planned the humiliation.”

“I’m saying Marcel never wastes a crisis if it removes an obstacle.”

A muscle jumped in my jaw.

Maxwell’s gaze sharpened further. “And Arya was the obstacle.”

The words made my hands itch for violence.

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Because he was right.

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Because Arya was not just James’s mate. She was his real strength. The one who fought.

The one who thought. The one who steadied a young pack while James chased

legitimacy. The one who could have seen through Marcel if James had not already been

primed to distrust her at the exact moment Marcel needed her silenced.

Maxwell saw where my mind went and gave a grim nod. “Yes. Exactly. He had to

incapacitate her socially first. Make James turn against her. Make the pack doubt her.

Once that happened, Arya’s warning would sound like bitterness. Jealousy. Defiance.

Anything but truth.”

I looked away toward the fire because for one hard second the room felt too small.

Arya had stood in this house and told pieces of it through clenched teeth and shaking

breath, but hearing Maxwell lay out the mechanics of the trap turned her pain into

architecture.

Engineered

Targeted.

Built

My wolf pushed harder inside me now, not separate from me, not another voice in the

room but an old violent instinct tightening around one fact, someone had orchestrated

harm around the woman my body recognized as mine.

I dragged a hand across my mouth and forced myself back to the conversation. “And the

attack on Nightwind.”

Maxwell’s expression darkened further. “I suspect Marcel had a hand in that too.”

“Suspect.” I repeated. “Or know?”

“Suspect,” he said, deliberate and irritated with the limitation. “But the pattern is too

clean. Think it through He gets James and Leah away from the pack on some useless

gathering James isn’t there to coordinate defence. Leah is safe, tucked far from danger.

Arya is already weakened in status after the poisoning scandal. If Nightwind falls in that

window, what happens?”

I answered immediately. “James returns to a ruined pack and no leverage.”

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“Exactly.”

“And Marcel becomes the only available ‘protector.””

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Maxwell’s eyes flashed approval. “And likely the owner in all but name. At minimum, he

squeezes land. Gold. Rights. Influence. At worst, he absorbs them entirely through Leah.”

The fire cracked. Neither of us moved.

Maxwell’s voice dropped lower. “They weren’t counting on Arya.”

The words hit harder than all the rest.

Not because they were surprising.

Because they were true in the exact way truth becomes unbearable.

He continued, and now there was something like fierce pride under the anger. “A true

Luna in her own right. She coordinated. She held. She kept that pack from being

overrun.” He looked at me with open meaning. “James would have come home packless

without her.”

I swallowed once.

My mind gave me images I had not witnessed: Arya bloodied and commanding, grief

pushed aside to save people who would later let her be called rogue. Arya choosing

action while men chased prestige and bargains. Arya holding a line while carrying

betrayal and loss in her body.

Something dark and reverent moved through me.

Maxwell saw it. His eyes narrowed, but not in disapproval. In warning.

“I know that look too,” he said.

I met his gaze. “Then you know I’m trying very hard to stay in this chair.”

That earned a brief, rough chuckle. “Good. Stay there.”

“I can’t separate James from Marcel after this,” I said, voice lower now. “I know what

you’re saying. I understand fear, desperation, ambition. I understand he was trapped by

his choices. But he still put her in a position where Marcel could do this.”

Maxwell nodded. “That’s fair.”

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“He failed her.”

“Yes.”

“He chose wrong, repeatedly.”

“Yes.”

“And now she’s the one carrying the cost in her body.”

Maxwell’s face tightened. “Yes.”

The last one came out almost like a growl.

Silence sat between us for a few beats, thick and living.

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Then Maxwell leaned back again and rubbed a hand over his beard. When he spoke, the

edge was different now, less recounting, more instruction.

“The best thing you can do right now,” he said, “is help her heal.”

My mouth flattened. “Heal and forget?”

He watched me carefully. “I said help her heal and help her forget.”

I held his gaze for a long second.

“I can help her heal,” I said.

His brow lifted. “And the second part?”

I looked toward the study door without really seeing it. Beyond it, somewhere in the house, Arya was breathing under this roof. Maybe asleep. Maybe not. Maybe pacing the way she did when rage and exhaustion were fighting for first place. Maybe replaying things no one should have to replay. Maybe hating herself for wanting things her body wanted while her grief was still fresh.

Forget.

No.

Not if forgetting meant erasing what was done to her.

Not if forgetting meant becoming soft where she needed edges.

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Not if forgetting meant turning betrayal into a lesson and moving on politely.

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