Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 87

87 Chants I Don’t Deserve

James’s POVO

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Suspicion changed everything.

It didn’t arrive politely. It didn’t come like a thought I could examine calmly. It slammed into my chest

the moment Maxwell’s words finally settled in my bones and refused to leave. It was the kind of

suspicion that turned every memory into a weapon.

Marcel’s smile.

Marcel’s pauses.

Marcel’s “soon.”

Marcel’s insistence on controlling every conversation.

Marcel dragging me away from union officers like I was a child.

Marcel calling me again and again on the road back, then going quiet at the exact moment my pack

came into view.

It sat in my gut like rot.

And it made one thing clear: if Marcel Rainhorn had played me, then I could not afford to be careless

with him.

Not anymore.

Not after the bodies.

Not after the ash.

Not after Arya.

I kept my face neutral when Marcel returned to the packhouse and demanded to see me again. I kept

my tone respectful. I kept my posture controlled. But inside, I was watching him the way I watched

enemies on a battlefield, waiting for the small slips, the overconfidence, the moment they revealed

where the knife was hidden.

He entered my office like he belonged there.

Like the massacre in my territory was a minor inconvenience and not proof that my pack had been left

unprotected while I sat at a “get-together” in Blackbirth.

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Leah wasn’t with him this time.

Thank the moon.

Cel 28

Mers

It was just Marcel.

He shut the door behind him and took a step toward my desk, gaze sweeping my office as if he was

assessing how much damage my pack had suffered and what it meant for his interests.

“How are your people?” he asked.

His voice was warm. Concerned. Fatherly.

It sounded like care.

But I watched his eyes.

They were too sharp.

Too calculating.

“How do you think they are?” I replied.

Marcel sighed.

“I know this is difficult,” he said, shaking his head slightly as if he was genuinely saddened. “But you

will recover. This is what being an Alpha is, storms.”

I didn’t respond.

Because I was done being soothed by a man who might have been holding the knife.

Marcel stepped closer.

“I want to talk about the gold mine agreement,” he said, casually, like we were discussing harvest

quotas and not the fact that one-eighth of my pack was now dead.

My jaw tightened.

There it was.

Land

Gold.

His favourite words.

I leaned back slightly in my chair, keeping my face flat.

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“We can talk about that when you deliver what you promised,” I said.

Marcel blinked once.

A flicker of surprise.

Then he smiled, slow and controlled.

“James,” he said gently, “I am trying.”

“Trying,” I repeated, voice cold. “That’s the word you keep using.”

Marcel’s smile held.

I continued, voice steady.

“I delivered on some of my promise,” I said. “I married your daughter. I made her Luna. I put her in

Arya’s place. I bled my reputation for you.”

Marcel’s expression tightened slightly at the mention of Arya, but he didn’t react beyond that.

I pressed harder.

“And up till now,” I said, “I am yet to join the Union. I haven’t met Radimir. I haven’t even been formally

evaluated. And now Lev is in charge.”

Marcel’s eyes narrowed slightly.

I watched the reaction carefully.

Not anger.

Not shock.

Just calculation.

I continued anyway.

“Do you know what that means?” I asked.

Marcel didn’t answer.

“It means it won’t be easy,” I said flatly. “Lev isn’t going to roll over because you snap your fingers.”

Marcel’s jaw tightened.

Then he smoothed his expression again and spoke calmly.

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“We will adjust,” he said. “Radimir will return.”

“Will he?” I asked.

Marcel’s eyes sharpened.

I didn’t let him steer the conversation away.

“And one more thing,” I added. “My association with you didn’t deter whoever it was from attacking my

pack.

Marcel’s gaze locked on mine.

He studied me for a long beat.

Then he asked, voice still calm, “Did you catch any prisoners?”

There it was.

Information.

He wanted it.

If he was innocent, it would make sense.

If he wasn’t, it would be even more important.

Because if I had prisoners, then I had answers.

Answers could expose him.

I kept my face blank.

“No,” I said.

Marcel’s brows lifted slightly.

I didn’t elaborate.

I kept my tone controlled.

“We weren’t able to catch anyone,” I said. “My people were busy trying to survive.”

Marcel held my gaze.

I could almost see him weighing whether to press.

Then he nodded once.

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“I understand,” he said.

It was too easy.

Marcel Rainhorn was not the type to accept “no” without pushing.

Not when his interests were involved.

Not when land and gold were on the line.

But he didn’t push.

Instead, he sighed and leaned back slightly, adopting that concerned father stance again.

“I understand why you are unhappy,” he said. “And I won’t push on the land agreement for now.”

My suspicion sharpened.

Because “for now” from Marcel meant “until I find another way.”

Marcel continued, voice smooth.

“I will find the fastest way to deliver on the promise,” he said. “You have my word.”

His word.

His word meant nothing to me now.

Then he tilted his head slightly, as if testing another angle.

“Would you be willing,” he asked carefully, “to part with more land to entice some of the Alphas

involved?”

My blood flared.

There it was.

The real request.

The real reason he was here.

He wanted more.

Always more.

I leaned forward, voice low.

“No,” I said.

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Marcel blinked.

I continued, sharper.

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“If I agree to that,” I said, “I might as well just give away my sweat. I might as well hand you my pack

on a platter.”

Marcel’s eyes narrowed

But he didn’t push.

Again.

Instead, he nodded slowly.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “I will not insist.”

That was not like him.

Not at all.

The old Marcel would have argued, threatened, guilted, reminded me of what I owed him.

This Marcel was… measured.

Controlled.

Almost cautious.

It was unsettling.

I watched him closely.

He moved toward the door.

“Rest,” he said, as if that was the natural ending to the conversation. “You have suffered enough.”

Then he left.

The door shut.

And the silence he left behind was heavy.

I stared at the door for a moment, jaw clenched.

Why wasn’t he pushing?

Why wasn’t he demanding?

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Why was he suddenly “understanding”?

It didn’t sit right.

It felt like a man stepping back because he’d already gotten what he needed.

Or because he was setting something else in motion.

I exhaled sharply.

I didn’t have time to chase every suspicion.