Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 180

180 His for the Evening 2

Arya’s POV

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A woman with painted lips and a smile that never reached her eyes tilted her head and asked, “So tell us, Arya, what is life really like in the wild?”

There it was.

A few snickers, quickly hidden.

I set down my cup with care and looked at her directly. “Cleaner than this question.”

Two women coughed into their hands to hide laughter. The speaker’s smile faltered.

Rebecca’s mouth thinned.

Mary shifted slightly in her seat but stayed silent.

Another woman leaned in, eager now that blood might be in the water. “Rebecca mentioned there was… quite a scene at Leah’s wedding. You seemed very visible near Alpha Lev.”

Rebecca took over before I could answer. “Visible is a kind word. She was all over him.

Her gaze slid to Mary with theatrical sympathy. “I only say this because Mary should be

careful. Men get distracted by novelty.”

My fingers curled lightly around my cup.

Old Arya, the Arya who still believed dignity alone could protect her, might have kept

quiet longer. Might have swallowed it for Maxwell’s sake. Might have told herself

enduring was smarter than reacting.

But I had bled too much for women like Rebecca to talk about me like I was meat and

expect meekness.

I remained still and let her continue.

Another woman laughed and said, “Please. Lev has taste. He can’t truly want another

male’s leftovers. If he is indulging himself, I’m sure Arya understands her place.”

“Exactly,” someone else added. “She’s already risen higher than anyone expected.

Maxwell adopting her? That is a blessing most strays never get. She should be wise

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<180 His for the Evening 2

enough not to reach beyond that.”

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“Mary has nothing to worry about,” a third said, smiling over the rim of her tea cup.

“Some women know the difference between attention and position.”

A few murmurs of agreement followed.

Diana didn’t join in.

That was worse.

She sat back and watched, amused, as if this was entertainment she had arranged for

herself.

Mary finally spoke, quiet and polished. “No one should be cruel.”

The room shifted.

It wasn’t defense. It was image management.

Rebecca patted her hand. “No one is being cruel, dear. We’re being realistic.”

I looked at Mary then.

She was beautiful, yes. Well-bred, composed, dressed in the kind of effortless luxury

that said she had never had to earn the right to stand in rooms like this. But there was

tension in her mouth, and something wounded under the calm. She did not look at me

like a woman certain of victory.

She looked like a woman who had heard Lev’s refusal and was still trying to stand

straight under it.

For one brief moment, I almost pitied her.

Then Rebecca smirked at me again and the pity died.

I set my cup down.

The sound was soft. The room still stilled around it.

I looked at Mary, not Rebecca. “You should worry less about me stealing Alpha Lev from

you,” I said evenly, “and be more concerned about winning his heart in the first place.”

Silence.

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Then one sharp laugh burst out from the far side of the room before its owner could stop

herself.

Heads turned.

The woman who laughed did not apologise. She leaned back in her chair, eyes bright

with approval. She wore iron-grey silk and a heavy torque at her throat, and there was

nothing delicate about her despite the formal setting.

“Ingrid,” someone hissed under their breath.

So this was Ingrid. Luna of Ironclan.

Ingrid smiled at me openly. “I like her.”

Rebecca looked furious enough to spit.

Mary went pale, then pink.

Diana’s eyes narrowed, not angry, exactly, but interested now in a different way.

The atmosphere changed after that.

Bullying only works when the target folds or rages on command. I had done neither. I

had answered cleanly and let them choke on it. Once the tension cracked, the sport of

picking at me became less amusing.

A few women drifted to safer topics.

A few moved away entirely.

And, to my surprise, some moved closer.

Not all the smiles were fake this time.

One introduced herself as the Luna of Frostmere and asked, in a lower voice, whether

Dragonclaw’s women’s centre truly allowed widows to work without requiring a male sponsor. Another asked about the health centre Maxwell had been improving. A third

confessed she had heard about what happened in Silverfang and wanted to say,

carefully, so the room could not accuse her of taking sides, that I had “conducted myself

with remarkable nerve.”

I answered cautiously, but I answered.

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For the first time in that circle, I realised something that should have been obvious and

yet hit me like a revelation:

badmouthing was the worst most of them could do to me here.

No one dared touch me.

No one dared drag me.

No one dared call guards.

No one dared make me kneel and call it order.

They could whisper.

They could sneer.

They could try to reduce me with titles like stray and rogue.

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