Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 55

55 Bring Your Luna

James’s POV

Marcel’s voice carried a faint amusement, as if this was a pleasant social invitation and not another leash being tightened.

“You should join me,” Marcel said. “It will be beneficial for you to be seen. There will be introductions.”

My jaw clenched.

Marcel’s next words slid in like a knife.

“And you should come with your Luna,” he said casually, “so I can introduce both of you

properly to the VVIPs.”

My grip on the phone tightened.

For a moment, my breath stalled.

Bring your Luna.

My Luna.

Leah.

Or, if Marcel was still playing a double game, Arya, dragged out like a trophy, used to prove I still “controlled” her.

But Marcel’s tone was clear.

He meant Leah.

His daughter.

The one he was trying to install.

The one he was trying to crown.

My throat went dry.

I forced my voice steady.

“What time?” I asked.

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Marcel gave it, light and confident.

“I will have my men expect you,” he added. “Do not disappoint me, James. The Union is watching. We are close.”

Close.

Always close.

Always one more requirement.

One more show of compliance.

One more sacrifice.

I swallowed hard.

“Understood,” I said.

Marcel chuckled softly, pleased.

“I knew you would understand,” he said. “See you soon.”

The call ended.

The office went silent again.

My hand stayed around the phone for a second too long, like I didn’t trust it not to bite.

Then I set it down slowly.

Nixon stared at me.

He didn’t need to ask who it was.

He already knew.

“What did he want?” Nixon asked anyway, voice flat.

I exhaled through my nose, rough.

“A tea party,” I said.

Nixon’s mouth twitched, humourless.

“And?” he prompted.

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I clenched my jaw.

“He wants me at Blackbirth,” I said. “With my Luna. To introduce us to VVIPs.”

The words tasted like ash.

Nixon’s gaze hardened.

There was no “I’m sorry” on his face.

Only confirmation.

Only that look that said, You see now?

For the first time, I wasn’t excited.

A week ago, I would have been.

A VVIP introduction meant legitimacy. It meant allies. It meant the Union tightening around my pack like armour instead of a blade.

It meant my ambition was working.

Now it felt like a joke.

Like a puppet show.

Like I was being paraded.

If what Nixon said was true, if Marcel had engineered this entire collapse, then I had

truly… truly messed up.

Not a small mistake.

Not a calculated sacrifice.

A catastrophic one.

One that might not be fixable.

My throat tightened again.

I rubbed my face hard, dragging my palm down my jaw like I could wipe away the

weight.

“How?” I muttered, more to myself than to Nixon.

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Nixon didn’t answer.

He didn’t offer comfort.

He let me sit in it.

Because comfort was what got me here.

Comfort in believing I could control Marcel.

Comfort in believing I could delay consequences.

Comfort in believing Arya would eventually understand.

I swallowed and looked up at Nixon.

“How do I redeem myself?” I asked, voice rough.

The question came out before I could stop it.

Nixon’s eyes sharpened slightly.

“Redeem yourself?” he echoed.

I clenched my jaw, pride fighting to shut my mouth.

But the words had already left.

“How do I make her see,” I said, voice low, tight, “that she’s the only woman in my

heart?”

The moment I said it, it sounded pathetic.

It sounded like I was begging.

Me.

Begging,

Nixon’s face didn’t soften.

It didn’t mock me either.

It just looked… grim.

“In your heart?” Nixon repeated, voice quiet.

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He shook his head slowly.

“James,” he said, “you don’t understand what you did.”

My chest tightened.

“I saved her,” I snapped.

Nixon’s eyes flashed.

“You saved her body,” he shot back.

The words hit like a punch to the ribs.

He kept going, voice low and hard.

“You destroyed everything else,” Nixon said. “You destroyed her place. Her name. Her

dignity. Her child. Her bond.”

I flinched.

Nixon didn’t care.

“You don’t put that back with speeches,” he said. “You don’t put that back with ‘I love

you.””

My jaw clenched.

“You don’t put that back by delaying Leah for a few weeks,” Nixon added.

My hands curled into fists again, but I stayed seated.

Because he was right, and I hated it.

My chest felt tight, like something was pressing on it from the inside.

I remembered Arya’s eyes,

That cold resolve.

No warmth.

No doubt.

No flicker of the woman who used to soften when I touched her.

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Just hatred.

Just anger forged into something precise.

And the painful part was it was justified.

That truth sat like a stone in my stomach.

I stared down at the desk, at the inked documents, at the future I had been so proud of building.

In that moment, I felt like a joke.

A man playing Alpha while another man pulled the strings.

A man calling himself protector while the woman he claimed to love lay broken because

of his choices.

A man believing he could still command loyalty while his own Beta stood across from him, blood dried at the corner of his mouth, eyes full of disgust.

Nixon didn’t speak again.

He didn’t need to.

The phone call had done it.

Marcel hadn’t asked how Arya was.

Marcel hadn’t asked if the pack was stable.

Marcel hadn’t asked if I was coping.

He had ordered me to attend a social gathering.

And to bring my Luna.

A command disguised as courtesy.

I swallowed hard and lifted my gaze to Nixon again, voice low.

“If I let her go,” I said, “she’ll hate me forever.”

Nixon’s expression didn’t change.

“She already does,” he replied.

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The bluntness cut.

I flinched, anger rising, but it had nowhere to land.

Nixon’s eyes stayed steady.

“You saw her,” he said quietly. “You heard her. She told you what died.”

My throat tightened.

I remembered her words like a brand:

The Arya you used to know died with our baby.

I swallowed hard.

“And you still think you can bring her to Blackbirth,” Nixon added, voice sharpening. “Introduce her to VVIPS like she’s a dress you can put on when it suits you?”

My jaw clenched.

“I didn’t say,

99

Nixon cut me off.

“You don’t have a choice,” he said. “Marcel is giving you one path. And it doesn’t include

Arya.”

Silence again.

My wolf still silent.

My heart pounding too fast.

My mind racing.

Not in circles this time.

In straight lines.

If I go to Blackbirth with Leah, I accept Marcel fully.

If I refuse, Marcel punishes the pack.

If I try to stall, Marcel tightens the leash again..

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And Arya…

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Arya would never forgive any of it.

Because she didn’t see “strategy.”

She saw betrayal.

She saw cowardice.

She saw me letting another Alpha decide her fate.

I dragged a hand down my face again, rough, then exhaled hard.

Nixon watched me, still, like he was waiting for the Alpha to return, or for the man to finally admit he wasn’t in control.

I looked up and met his eyes.

For the first time in days, I didn’t feel like roaring.

I felt… sick.

Sick with what I’d done.

Sick with the possibility that Nixon was right.

Sick with the realisation that I had walked into Marcel’s trap smiling.

I remembered the look in Arya’s eyes when I saw her in that room.

No warmth.

No doubt.

Just cold resolve born from anger and pure hatred.

And the most painful part,

The part that made my stomach twist and my chest ache,

Was that it was justified,

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