Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 165

165 A Seat at Blackbirth 4

Arya’s POV

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We were welcomed at the entrance and guided inside by Blackbirth attendants moving.

with polished precision. The hall was already alive, music low and expensive,

conversation in controlled clusters, the sound of glasses, the sweep of gowns, the scent

of wolves layered so thick it almost felt like pressure.

I held my chin up and stayed at Maxwell’s side.

Heads turned.

I felt it immediately.

Who is she?

Why is she with him?

Why does Maxwell look like that beside her?

Questions moved faster than words in places like this.

Maxwell did not slow. His Beta moved a half-step behind and to my other side, a silent

wall of loyalty and warning. We crossed the hall toward a reserved section, clearly

marked by status even without signs.

Then I saw him.

A young man sat at the table already, a little older than me, broad-shouldered, well-

dressed, handsome in a sharp-edged way that might have been charming if not for the

displeasure written openly across his face. He looked like Maxwell around the eyes but

carried his resentment differently, harder, less disciplined, as if he preferred anger to

grief because it cost less to hold.

His gaze landed on Maxwell first.

Then on me.

And sharpened.

Maxwell’s expression changed by a fraction, cooler, older, less patient.

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“It’s amazing how quick you are to associate with me when there are benefits, David,” he

said as we approached.

So this was David.

Maxwell’s son.

David leaned back slightly in his chair and smirked, but the look did not reach his eyes. “I

learned you let a stray into our pack and even called her daughter. I was worried you

were going senile.”

His gaze dragged over me in a way that made my skin go cold, not because he desired

me but because he wanted to insult with precision.

“I can see she’s a looker,” he said, voice edged with contempt. “Or are you hooking up

with her? Rogues will open their legs for anyone who promises them shelter and a

meal.”

The words hit like a slap.

For a heartbeat, the old Arya, the one carved open by humiliation, by whispers, by

women lying and men watching, rose so fast inside me I tasted metal.

Maxwell moved before I did.

His hand hit the table with a crack that turned nearby heads. Power rolled off him, sharp

and unmistakable, his eyes blazing with the kind of anger that made younger wolves

remember suddenly who they were speaking to.

“David, ”

I touched Maxwell’s hand.

Just once.

A quiet pressure.

He broke off and looked at me.

I shook my head slightly.

Not because David’s words did not deserve punishment. They did.

Not because they did not hurt. They did.

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But because this was not the moment for Maxwell to tear his son apart over me in a hall

full of Union eyes waiting for weakness, drama, blood.

I would not be used for that.

Maxwell held my gaze a second longer, then exhaled through his nose. The fury in him

remained. He simply leashed it.

He pulled out a chair for me instead.

I sat gracefully, refusing to give David even a flinch.

The silence that followed was thin and dangerous.

Maxwell stood at the head of the table, looking down at his son with a coldness that carried years of unfinished war. “You had better show respect,” he said, each word deliberate. “She is the daughter I adopted.”

David’s face changed.

Not all at once.

Not completely.

But enough.

The sneer faltered. His eyes flicked to me, then back to Maxwell, and for the first time since we arrived I saw something beneath the arrogance.

Shock.

Confusion.

And something older. Rawer.

“Had you not let Mom die in that battle,” he said, voice tight now, no longer smirking, “I would have had a sister.”

The hall did not disappear, but it blurred at the edges.

The bitterness in his words was not really about me.

I saw that instantly.

This was grief wearing anger’s skin.

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A son who had chosen blame because mourning had nowhere else to go.

My chest ached for both of them before I could stop it.

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Maxwell’s face went still in a way I had learned to fear more than shouting. He looked at

David for a long beat, and when he spoke his voice was lower, stripped of performance.

“There are days I wish I died in her stead.”

The grief in it was so naked that even David flinched.

I felt it in my own ribs.

David’s jaw flexed. He looked away first.

Maxwell did not let the moment rot into silence. He continued, not softer but steadier.

“Arya was the one who came to secure my borders with her mate when rogues nearly

overran Dragonclaw. You would have been packless if it weren’t for her. Show her some

respect.”

David’s head snapped back toward me.

Real surprise this time.

“She is the one?” he asked, staring. “I thought she had a mate.”

Maxwell nodded once. “Had. He rejected her and cast her out for a seat on the council.”

The words cut, even though they were true.

Cruel in their simplicity.

Brutal because they needed no embellishment.

I kept my face composed.

David looked pissed suddenly, not at me, but at what he had heard.

“That Gail is a real bitch,” he muttered, the anger in his voice shifting target. “She called

me saying you’d taken in a stray. I didn’t know it was her.”

His eyes met mine, and to my surprise, the contempt was gone.

He straightened in his seat and said, more formally, “I owe you an apology. For what I

said. And how I said it.’

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The sincerity in it caught me off guard.

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I studied him for a moment. The same man. Same sharp mouth. Same hard edges. But

the malice had drained, leaving something almost boyishly defensive beneath all that

pride.

I gave him a small smile. “It’s all right. You were looking out for your father.”

Maxwell made a low sound that might have been disbelief.