Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 204

204 The Offer on the Table

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James’s POV

After Maxwell laid the plan out, the room went quiet in a way that made every little

sound feel too loud. The scratch of Nixon’s pen. The low pop from the fire. My own

breathing, which had gone strange somewhere in the middle of this conversation and

still had not settled properly.

Hand Nightwind over to Dragonclaw.

Not forever. Not exactly. Not in spirit. Maxwell had made that part clear. I would remain Alpha in charge. The pack would still be mine to run. But on paper, in structure, in the places where men like Boris and Marcel played their games with titles and Union cover, Nightwind would sit under Dragonclaw until the proper path could be opened later.

It made sense.

That was the problem.

It made too much sense.

I sat there with my hands braced on my knees and stared at the map table like the answer might be written there if I looked hard enough. The pride in me hated it. The part of me that had fought too long and bled too much to carve Nightwind out of dangerous ground hated the shape of yielding anything, even for a while. But another part of me, the one that was tired enough now to stop confusing pride with leadership, understood exactly what Maxwell was putting in front of me. Protection. Union cover by extension. Time. A way to stop Boris and whoever stood behind him from circling closer the second they realised I had no shield left.

I knew all that.

Still, I did not answer right away.

I think Maxwell expected that. He was too seasoned not to.

He watched me for a few moments without pressing, then said, calm as ever,

“It’s not compulsory.”

I looked up.

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He had one hand resting on the table now. Not relaxed. Not soft. Just no longer cutting

with every sentence the way he had earlier. He had already said the worst of it. We both

knew where I stood in his eyes when it came to Arya. There was no need for him to keep

driving the knife.

“You can think about it,” he added. “Whatever you decide is up to you.”

That should have eased something in me. Instead it almost made it harder. Because

force would have been simpler. Humiliating, yes, but simpler. If he had come in here

throwing rank around, if he had said Dragonclaw was taking Nightwind and I could

either accept it or let my pack drown, then at least resistance would have had a shape.

But this?

This was an offer made by a man who had every reason not to make it at all.

He must have seen some version of that in my face because his expression tightened

slightly before he spoke again.

“The only reason I’m making it,” he said, “is because you both came to my aid when I

needed help with rogue issues. And because Arya is now my daughter.” He held my

gaze without flinching. “If not for that, I wouldn’t get involved.”

That landed exactly where he meant it to. No false kindness. No pretence. No effort to

make me feel worthy of help I had not earned. He was helping because of old debts and

because Arya’s life was tied to the consequences if Nightwind fell. Not because he

thought well of me.

Strangely, I respected the offer more because of that.

I leaned back slowly in the chair and let out a breath.

“I know.”

It sounded rough. Tired.

It was both.

For a moment neither of us said anything else about the offer. Maybe because there was

nothing useful left to say until I had fully thought through what agreeing would mean.

Maybe because even Maxwell knew a man sometimes needed a second to sit inside a

decision before he opened his mouth too quickly and ruined it.

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< 204 The Offer on the Table

He was the one who changed direction first.

“What did you find on Boris?”

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The shift should have felt abrupt. It did not. Everything fed everything else now. There

was no clean line between betrayal, Union politics, land, survival, Arya, Leah, Marcel, and

the wolves moving under other wolves’ orders. Every thread led to another one.

I straightened a little and forced my mind back to the problem in front of us.

“Donald talked first,” I said. “Before the second prisoner did. He gave me names, but not

enough to make the whole board clear.”

Maxwell listened without interrupting. I told him what Donald had said. About Boris.

About the route timings. About how the attacks no longer smelled like simple rogue

opportunism once you looked properly. About the packs circling the edges of this mess.

Then I gave him the names.

“Redclaw. Irongate. Cliffsand.”

Maxwell’s face changed at that. Not shock exactly. He was too controlled for that. More

like recognition. Hard recognition. The look of a man seeing one map slide over another

and match too perfectly.

“The same packs,” he said.

I frowned.

“What?”

He folded his arms.

“The same packs that moved against me on the road back from Blackbirth dinner.”

Something cold moved down my spine.

For a second all I did was stare at him. Then the shape of it widened in my head. Not

separate incidents. Not isolated aggression. Not random boldness from smaller packs

suddenly feeling brave. A pattern.

Nightwind.

Dragonclaw.

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< 204 The Offer on the Table

Roads.

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Masked pack wolves.

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