Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 40

40 The Whip and the Severing

Arya’s POV

Marcel’s voice carried down the corridor like he wanted it to.

Like he wanted me to hear every word.

“I won’t let her remain in the pack when she can harm my daughter,” he said, cold and absolute. “Besides, Leah isn’t pregnant anymore, and you haven’t claimed her. I can just take her home and our deal is off.”

The words hit the bars like a hammer.

I was still on the floor of the cell, my wrists bruised, my throat raw, my palms blistered from earlier when I’d grabbed silver like an idiot. My body felt heavy, like it was sinking into the stone.

But my ears were sharp.

My heart kicked hard.

Because the way Marcel said it, our deal is off, wasn’t grief.

It was leverage.

James answered quickly, desperate.

“Marcel, wait, please.”

I heard movement outside. Boots shifting. A guard’s breath. The scrape of cloth.

Then James’s voice again, strained, pleading in a way I hadn’t heard from him in a long

time.

“I will mate with Leah properly,” he said. “And get her pregnant again. Just continue the

deal.”

My stomach clenched.

Even through the fog of shock and fear and rage, that line cut clean.

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Get her pregnant again.

As if it was a task.

As if Leah was an agreement you could renew by spilling blood and seed.

“As for Arya,” James continued, voice tight, “I promise she won’t be of trouble again. I will cancel my claim on her,”

I pressed my fist against my mouth, biting down hard to stop the sound that tried to rise.

Cancel his claim.

He was saying it like it was mercy.

Like he was saving me.

The corridor went quiet for a beat.

Marcel spoke again, voice clipped.

“Cancel your claim,” he repeated. “That is the only sensible thing you’ve said since this

mess began.”

James rushed on, as if he couldn’t afford Marcel’s silence.

“But I can’t let her fend for herself out there alone,” he added quickly. “You know what the

wilderness does to lone wolves. You know what enemies do to rogues. I,”

My laugh broke out. Low at first. Then louder.

Not because it was funny.

Because it was disgusting.

My shoulders shook as I pushed myself upright, using the wall for support. My legs felt like

they might buckle, but I forced them to hold.

“Save it, James.”

My voice came out hoarse, but it carried.

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The corridor fell silent so fast it felt like someone had pressed a hand over the packhouse’s

mouth.

I stepped closer to the bars, careful not to touch silver, my eyes burning, my chest tight.

“The banishment would be just fine,” I said, each word deliberate.

Then I sank back against the wall again, like I couldn’t be bothered to stand for their

theatre.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Rebecca’s voice sliced in, soft, poisonous, and calculated.

“I think James’s idea is best, dear,” she said to Marcel, voice thick with false concern. “If

this vicious woman is allowed to go out there, she might gather people to come and attack

this pack.”

A pause.

Rebecca continued, the words sharpened with intent.

“She is better kept under watch.”

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached.

Under watch.

Not justice.

Not truth.

Not proof.

Control.

Containment.

A caged animal.

Marcel exhaled loudly, like he was tired of the whole subject.

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40 The Whip and the Severing

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I heard him shift closer to the bars, as if he wanted to ensure I heard the final decision.

Then Marcel sighed, long and heavy, and said, “Fine.”

One word.

That was all it took.

I heard James speak again, voice cautious, as if he was afraid to push too hard.

“Marcel,”

Marcel cut him off.

“Your mate remains,” Marcel said. “She will pay, and she will remain where we can see her.”

James’s voice cracked. “And the lashes,”

“One hundred,” Marcel snapped. “Silver.”

A beat.

Then Marcel added, like a final nail, “And you will sever your claim. She will not carry your

name. She will not carry your protection. She will be nothing but a punishment you keep

under your roof.”

James didn’t answer immediately.

In the silence, I could hear my own breathing.

I could hear the blood beating in my ears.

I could hear the faint tremor in the air that always came before something awful.

Then James spoke, voice raw.

“Fine,” he said.

Just like that.

Fine.

I shut my eyes for one second.

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Not to pray.

To keep myself from screaming.

Because it didn’t matter what I said.

They weren’t deciding my fate with me present.

They were deciding it like they were deciding what to do with a broken weapon.

Rebecca’s voice softened, satisfied.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she murmured.

I heard Marcel step back.

Boots turned away.

Then James’s voice came again, closer to the bars now, lower.

“Arya…”

I opened my eyes.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t answer.

There was a pause.

James swallowed.

Then his voice went colder, like he remembered who was listening.

“We will investigate,” he said, not to me, but to the corridor. To the guards. To Marcel’s

shadow. “Until then, she remains in the cell.”

I heard keys.

The lock turned again.

Footsteps moved away.

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And the corridor emptied, leaving the silence behind like a punishment of its own.

I sat there in the cold cell, staring at the wall.

My hands shook.

Not from weakness.

From rage.

Because I had just heard my mate bargain my life like a transaction.

Because I had just heard him promise to “get Leah pregnant again” as if it was as simple as signing papers.

Because I had just heard him agree to silver lashes like he was agreeing to a meal.

And the worst part?

He’d said Fine.

Like I was already guilty.

Like my pain was already earned.

I didn’t cry again that night.

Not because I didn’t want to.

Because something else took over.

Something sharp.

Something steady.

Something that made the fear quieter.

I kept my hand over my stomach until my palm ached.

Not comfort.

A vow.

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<40 The Whip and the Severing

A silent promise to the life inside me: Hold on.

The hours crawled.

Boots passed sometimes.

Voices murmured outside, sometimes close, sometimes far.

No one came in.

No one offered water.

No one offered food.

The cell stayed cold.

And then, sometime before dawn, the sounds changed.

More footsteps.

More keys.

More voices, rougher, louder.

A guard barked orders.

“Open it.”

The lock turned.

The door swung wide.

Light hit my eyes.

I blinked hard, squinting, forcing myself upright.

Four guards stepped in.

Not one.

Not two.

Four.

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Their faces were blank.

Their hands were already holding chains.

Silver chains.

My stomach tightened.

I backed up instinctively.

“Don’t,” I warned, voice hoarse.

One of them spoke flatly. “Orders.”

I lifted my chin.

“From who?” I demanded, though I knew.

The guard didn’t answer.

Two of them moved toward me.

I shifted back again, pressing myself toward the wall.

“Stay back,” I snapped.

My voice carried.

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