Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 192

192 The Slap That Set the Room Right

Arya’s POV

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By the time I reached the women’s centre, my patience was already thinner than the

thread we had been sorting all morning.

It had been a long day of Luna work. Not ceremonial work. Not the kind that looked

pretty in front of a hall full of nobles with polished smiles and sharpened teeth. Real

work. The kind that left your feet aching, your head crowded, and your hands smelling of

herbs, wool, and children who clung to your skirts because they knew your face now and

trusted you enough to ask questions.

I had spent the first half of the day making the rounds Maxwell liked me to do now that

the pack had started settling into the idea of me in this role. First the orphanage, where I

checked the food stores and the mended bedding and sat too long with one little girl

who wanted to show me she could write her name now without help. Then the

schoolroom, where the older children had started arguing over reading slates and one

boy had tried to pretend he was not limping from a bruised ankle until I made him sit

down.

After that came the health centre, where the healers complained about dwindling linen

strips and low willow bark, and I promised both would be restocked before evening.

Then widows’ row, where draughts crept in beneath poorly sealed doors and pride made

women thank me like I was doing them a favour instead of doing what should have been

done already. By the time I left there, the afternoon sun had turned rich and golden,

pouring through Dragonclaw’s stone corridors and warming the outer yard in soft light

that did nothing for the restlessness under my skin.

I had slept too little. Thought too much. Felt too much.

That was the real danger these days. Not the obvious enemies with claws and blades

and false rogue scents. Not the packs moving in shadows. Not even the names Boris and

Marcel circling closer and closer around the same poison. It was the quieter things. The

way Lev still lived too sharply in my body after Blackbirth. The way David had started

calling me sister with an ease that hurt something hopeful inside me. The way Maxwell

looked at me now like I belonged in his house so fully that some frightened part of me

had started believing him.

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<192 The Slap That Set the Room Right

Belonging made me dangerous in ways war never had.

It gave me something to lose.

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Maybe that was why my temper sat closer to the surface than usual when I pushed open

the doors to the women’s centre and stepped inside.

Warmth met me first. The women’s centre had become one of my favourite places in

Dragonclaw, though I had not told anyone that. The room always smelled of clean cloth,

hearth smoke, old wood, soft soap, and the quiet industry of women making comfort out

of scraps because no one else thought to do it before winter came. Light from the high

windows fell across the long worktables covered in fabric, needles, folded blankets, and baskets of thread. A quilt project had taken over the far side of the room now, my idea,

and one the older women had accepted with surprising enthusiasm once they realised I

was not suggesting ornamental nonsense but warm coverings for households that

needed them.

There were women at every station. Some sorting cloth. Some stitching. Some

measuring blankets I had requested from storage for redistribution across the lower

houses.

And in the middle of all that useful work, leaning against the nearest table like she had

come there not to help but to be seen, was Gail.

I saw her.

She saw me.

And the look that sharpened on her face told me immediately she had been waiting.

Of course she had.

Gail was the Beta’s daughter, and being the Beta’s daughter had taught her all the

wrong lessons. She had beauty, confidence, and the kind of entitlement that comes from

being told your whole life that standing near power is the same thing as having worth.

She dressed well, spoke loudly, and moved through the women’s centre like the air

owed her space. Today she wore pale blue with silver trim, as though she had planned

to look soft while behaving cruelly.

I should have known trouble was coming the moment I saw her smile.

I ignored it.

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At first.

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I walked further in, nodded to the women who nodded first, and set the small list I had

been carrying on the nearest worktable.

“Milley,” I called, because Milley was there, as she often was now, sorting thread near

the stacked baskets. “Did the stitching needles from the lower store arrive?”

Milley looked up at once, relief crossing her face at having something practical to

answer.

“Yes, Arya. This morning. I kept them in the side drawer so they won’t go missing.”

“Good.” I moved towards her table and checked the bundles she had tied. “And the

blanket count?”

“Thirty-two finished. Eight more folded in the back room.”

I nodded.

“We’ll send the heavier ones to the west row first. The houses there catch more wind.”

I had barely finished speaking when Gail laughed softly behind me.

That laugh.

False sweetness with sharpened spite underneath.

“It’s almost impressive,” she said. “The way some people start acting like they were born into authority the moment they’re handed a little pity.”

The room quieted in that instant way rooms do when everyone hears the first edge of conflict but pretends not to.

I turned slowly.

Gail had pushed off the table and was standing straight now, arms folded over her chest, chin tipped up just enough to make her look insolent rather than openly rude, if someone wanted to lie to themselves. A few of the women kept their eyes down and their hands moving, but I could feel attention shifting through the room like heat.

I kept my face blank.

“Are you here to help?” I asked.

192 The Slap That Set the Room Right

She smiled wider.

“No. I’m here because I heard David returned.”

There it was.

Her confidence had a source.

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The assumption sat openly in her expression. David is back, so the house will right itself.

David is back, so the stray will be put where she belongs.

I said nothing.

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