Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 168

168 Safe in the Wolf’s Den 3

Arya’s POVO

Maxwell’s Beta stepped in to guide our route, and we followed the flow through a set of wide doors into a larger space that made even the main hall seem restrained.

The ballroom was all light and polished grandeur, crystal, gold, deep wood, high ceilings, and a dance floor broad enough to hold power itself. Music swelled, richer now, meant for movement and display.

A room full of alphas, heirs, mates, rivals, and ambition.

A room full of power.

And as I stepped in, whispers followed me again.

I felt them skim my skin like cold fingers.

That’s her.

Maxwell’s daughter.

The one from Silverfang.

Lev’s been seen with her…

My shoulders started to rise before I caught myself.

Lev’s hand returned to my lower back.

Steady.

Certain.

Infuriatingly familiar now.

He guided me through the crowd like he owned the space around me, not in a way that made a spectacle, but in the subtle, undeniable way only powerful men could. Bodies shifted before we reached them. Conversations opened and closed around us. He never once appeared hurried.

And yet there was no mistaking what he was doing.

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Keeping me inside his orbit.

Inside his reach.

Inside his protection.

My pulse stumbled.

Ria all but purred aloud. Let him.

I tightened my jaw. Be quiet.

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Maxwell was drawn aside by two older alphas before we reached the inner line of tables, and his Beta went with him. Lev paused with me near one edge of the floor, close enough to the music to feel it in my ribs.

For the first time in several minutes, we were almost alone.

Almost.

“Too much?” he asked quietly.

I looked out over the ballroom instead of at him. “I’ve had easier nights.”

His hand shifted slightly, thumb brushing once over the bare curve where the dress left

my back exposed.

My breath caught.

“That dress was a cruel idea,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

The corner of his mouth moved. “You wore it anyway.”

I finally looked at him.

His gaze dropped to my mouth, then returned to my eyes with that same maddening

control.

“Yes,” I said.

Something passed between us then, heat, challenge, restraint, all braided together so

tightly I could not separate one from the other.

The music changed.

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A slower set.

Couples began moving toward the floor.

Lev did not ask.

He turned toward me fully and held out his hand.

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I stared at it for half a heartbeat, aware of the room, aware of the eyes, aware of what it would look like if I took it.

Aware too of what it would feel like if I didn’t.

I placed my hand in his.

His fingers closed around mine, warm and firm, and he led me onto the floor.

The first touch of his other hand at my waist made my body remember too much at once, training walls, breathless restraint, his mouth near my mark, his low voice telling me to breathe again and again until I did.

This was different.

Public.

Measured.

Controlled for the room.

And still somehow more dangerous.

He drew me closer than propriety required, not enough to invite comment, just enough that every breath I took had to pass through him first. I rested my free hand on his shoulder, fingers curling lightly into the fabric there.

We moved.

Lev danced the way he fought, economical, certain, no wasted motion. He guided without jerking, corrected without force, watched everything. My steps found his rhythm quickly despite the noise in my head.

His hand at my waist tightened once when I missed a beat, grounding me.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

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I did.

The ballroom blurred.

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Whispers, lights, old grudges, Radimir’s gaze, Rebecca’s venom, the weight of names and history, all of it receded at the edges when Lev looked at me like that. Not soft. Not gentle in the weak way. But attentive. Present. As if he was holding the line between me and the room with nothing but his body and his will.

His eyes moved over my face, reading breath, tension, the slight stiffness I still carried

whenever too many wolves watched me at once.

“You’re holding your shoulders,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“Drop them.”

I exhaled and did.

“Again.”

I hated that he was right. I hated that obeying him steadied me.

I did it again.

His thumb traced a small line at my waist, hidden from the room. “Good.”

My pulse climbed.

“You cannot keep doing that,” I whispered.

“Doing what?”

“Talking to me like we’re alone.”

His gaze darkened. “We’re not?”

The question burned.

My fingers tightened on his shoulder.

The music slowed another measure, and he drew me slightly closer, enough that my

dress brushed his legs and heat moved through me in a treacherous wave. I could feel

the strength in him, the leash on it, the deliberate restraint.

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