Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 189

189 The Price of a Promise

Arya’s POVO

Maxwell’s jaw flexed. He stepped closer to the bars and looked down at the man like he

was trying to strip away the blood, the chains, the fear, and see the shape of the lie

underneath it all.

“The same Boris,” Maxwell said, his voice low and dangerous, “that sent men to destroy

Nightwind pack.”

The prisoner nodded, tears still caught in his lashes, his face half turned toward the floor

like he was ashamed to let us see what was left of him.

“Yes.”

That one word sat in the room like a blade.

Nightwind.

That name did something ugly inside me every time I heard it now. It dragged up smoke

and blood and panic and accusations and my child dying under the weight of a lie. It

dragged up James’s face. Marcel’s schemes. Leah’s poison. It dragged up the taste of

failure and fury and grief so sharp it had cut me open and remade me in places. And now

Boris stood inside that same chain of ruin too. Not directly, not here in this cell, but in the

pattern. In the kind of men who saw rich territory, vulnerable packs, and staged violence

and thought opportunity instead of crime.

Maxwell watched the prisoner for another moment, then asked the question that

mattered most.

“What else can you give us?”

The man swallowed hard. His eyes lifted. And again, again, it was me he looked at first,

not Maxwell. Not because I had more authority. Because I was the one who had found

the part of him still human.

“My… my mate,” he said.

His voice broke around the words. Then he dragged a breath in through split lips and

forced himself to keep going.

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“Her name is Sofia Livingstone. If you can help bring her out of Gracefield and guarantee

I survive, I’ll give you all the names you requested.”

For one beat, nobody spoke.

David’s head turned sharply toward him. Maxwell’s expression barely changed, but I saw

the focus in his eyes sharpen. And I, maybe because I had dragged him into this place,

felt the weight of the ask settle strangely in my chest.

Sofia.

A name.

Not just an idea.

Not some faceless woman invented for mercy.

A real woman.

Somewhere in Gracefield.

Living under Boris’s shadow maybe, not even knowing yet that her mate had failed or

been taken.

The prisoner, Cale, and I had not forgotten his name even if no one used it now, must

have seen something in Maxwell’s face because he rushed to explain.

“She’ll be watched,” he said quickly. “If Boris thinks I talked, if he thinks I failed and

talked, he’ll use her. He uses what matters to make examples.”

David made a disgusted sound.

“You should have thought of that before you rode at us.”

Cale shut his eyes for a second, pain and regret twisting across his face.

“I did,” he said. “I just thought I’d make it back.”

That hit harder than some grand speech would have.

Of course he thought he would make it back.

Every fool sent on a dirty mission thinks he’ll be the one who survives his Alpha’s bad

plan.

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Maxwell stayed silent long enough to make Cale strain under it. Then at last he said,

“If I agree to this, you speak fully.”

Cale’s eyes opened. Hope and terror fought there so fast it made him look younger.

“Yes.”

“You hold nothing back.”

“Yes.”

“You lie once, and whatever protection you think you’ve bargained for dies with the lie.”

Cale nodded too quickly.

“I understand.”

Maxwell looked at him for another beat, then gave one short nod.

“Done.”

David turned at once.

“Father, ”

Maxwell cut him off with a glance.

“I keep my word.”

He said it simply, but there was something old inside it. Something rooted so deep even

I, who had seen what ambition and politics could do to promises, believed him at once.

Cale sagged where he sat.

Not in relief.

Not fully.

In exhausted surrender.

Maxwell folded his arms.

“Names.”

Cale licked blood from the corner of his mouth and looked down like saying them out

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loud would make them even more dangerous.

“Redclaw,” he said first.

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The cell seemed to tighten around the word.

“Irongate.”

David’s expression darkened.

“Cliffsand.”

There it was.

Three packs.

Not great ones. Not ancient names with old weight behind them like Dragonclaw, Blackbirth, or Silverfang. Not the kind of territories that could shift politics with a single move. Small packs. The kind that survive by attaching themselves to stronger circles, trading obedience for protection, ambition for invitation, and violence for notice.

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Those are small packs,” he said, more to himself than to any of us. “Irongate and Cliffsand joined the Union about a year ago.”

He looked up again, sharper now.

“Redclaw joined recently.”

Cale nodded once. He looked drained now, like even speaking was starting to cost him too much. Pain was catching up with him. His bandaged leg trembled now and then, and

sweat had returned to his temple.

David was not moved.

“Those packs don’t move like this on their own,” he said flatly. “Not against Dragonclaw.

Not on Blackbirth roads.”

“No,” Maxwell said.

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