Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 234

234 I Will Handle It

Lev’s POVO

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The room went dead quiet after Marcel finished speaking.

Not the ordinary kind of quiet either. Not the kind that came when people were merely

listening. This one had weight. The sort of silence that settled after filth had been thrown

into the middle of a room and everyone was waiting to see who would be forced to wear

Marcel had done what men like him always did when the ground shifted under their feet. He reached for a woman. He pointed at Arya like she was the easiest explanation for his problems. Like she was just some bitter female trying to punish a man for not choosing her. Like all the blood and humiliation and politics behind Nightwind could be reduced to a jealous woman sulking because another woman got the title.

I turned my head and looked at Arya.

She was still sitting straight beside me. Too straight.

That was the first sign.

Her face was calm, but I knew enough about her now to recognise what sat underneath

1. Her eyes had gone sharp and cold. Not wild. Not broken. Just filled with a hatred so

controlled it looked almost beautiful.

And deadly.

I could feel she wanted to speak.

I did not need the bond for that. I could see it in the slight lift of her chest, in the way her fingers held still against her lap a second too deliberately, in the way her mouth had parted just slightly like words were already gathering there.

I reached over and placed my hand over hers beneath the table.

She stilled.

Then she turned her head to look at me.

There was fire in her eyes.

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<234 I Will Handle It

Pain too.

That was what did it for me.

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Not the anger. I knew anger. I respected it. But the pain beneath it was mine now too,

whether the world liked it or not. Marcel was one of the men who had helped put that

hurt inside her. One of the men who had profited from it. One of the men who had

watched her be stripped down in public and had called it politics.

No.

I was not letting him fling mud at her and then sit there comfortably waiting for her to

defend herself while a room full of men weighed her tears against his lies.

I squeezed her hand once.

“I will handle it,” I said quietly.

Her gaze searched mine.

Maybe she wanted to object. Maybe part of her wanted to tear Marcel apart herself. A

part of me would have enjoyed watching it. But not like this. Not while the room was

arranged to make her prove her own innocence after being wronged.

No.

This was mine now.

My woman would not be spoken to in that manner while I sat and watched.

Not in my hall.

Not at my table.

Not while I breathed.

Her fingers eased under mine just slightly. Not surrender. Trust.

That did something dark and fierce to my chest.

I let go only after I was sure she would not rise.

Then I looked at Marcel.

He was trying to hold his expression together, but I could already see the cracks in it. He

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had expected his accusation to land cleaner than it had. He had expected some easier

shift in the room. Some murmurs about jealous

1. Some opening to hide inside.

Instead, he had thrown the words and found the air colder than before.

Good.

I leaned back in my chair, slow, calm, letting the silence stretch until it became

uncomfortable.

Then I cleared my throat.

The sound seemed louder than it should have in that room.

“Marcel,” I said, my voice measured, “I am glad you made your allegation.”

Several men looked up more sharply at that.

Marcel blinked.

He had expected pushback perhaps. Anger. A simple correction.

He had not expected gratitude.

I let him sit in that confusion for a second.

“I have been meaning to weigh into this situation,” I continued, “and now that you have

made it your business, I would like you to clarify certain things for me.’

There it was.

The shift.

Real fear moved across his face then. Small. Quick. But visible.

His eyes flicked instinctively toward Radimir.

Looking for a way out already.

Radimir did not move.

He sat there with his usual age-hardened stillness, but he said nothing. He knew better than to leap in too early. Or perhaps he was curious how much I knew.

Either way, Marcel was on his own.

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I folded my hands lightly on the table. “Tell me, Marcel. What exactly was your arrangement with James Nightwind?”

He swallowed.

The room waited.

Marcel forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Arrangement? There was no arrangement. James and my daughter met, they fell in love, and I gave them my blessing.”

He should have said less.

He should have lied smaller.

He should have remembered I was not some younger wolf he could test with half-clever

answers.

I laughed.

Not loudly.

Just enough.

The sound carried in the room like a slap.

Marcel’s face tightened.

“So,” I said, “it is not true that you promised James a seat on the Union in exchange for land, gold, and marriage to your daughter?”

The room changed at once.

Not noise, exactly. But a collective disturbance. Men shifting in chairs. Eyes sharpening. Murmurs that did not fully form because nobody wanted to interrupt before they heard

the answer.

Marcel stared at me.

For one second, just one, he looked like a man whose body had forgotten what shape to

hold.

Then he said, too quickly, “The land and gold were gifts.”

Gifts.

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I almost smiled.

Around the table, a few low murmurs escaped anyway. Disbelief. Ridicule. Men who knew exactly how absurd that sounded but were enjoying the public undressing too much to hide it fully.

“Gifts,” I repeated.

Marcel lifted his chin like repeating the lie might strengthen it. “James wished to honour

our relationship.”

“Your relationship,” I said.

He nodded once, too stiffly.

I could have ended him there already if I wanted. The room was halfway to turning on him without further help. But no. Not yet. Not for what he had helped do to Arya. Not for

how easy he had found it to point at her just now.

He would sit in this longer.

I leaned forward slightly. “Interesting.”

My voice stayed calm. That was important. Men like Marcel always hoped outrage would

make others sloppy. I had no intention of giving him that comfort.

“Then perhaps you can also explain the two women Maxwell and Arya caught in your

pack,” I said, “former members of Nightwind, absorbed into Silverfang as payment for

framing Arya.”

The room exploded.

Not fully. Not chaos. But enough gasps and sharp mutters and chair movements to break

the polished surface at last.

Good.

Marcel’s face went pale.

Actually pale.

And suddenly the confidence he had dragged in with him looked very far away.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said.

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Lie.

Weak one too.

I let the room hear the denial. Let them measure it against his face.