Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 91

91 The Mark I Hid, The Father I Found

Arya’s POVQ

The evening stretched long, but it didn’t feel slow.

Not with Maxwell in front of me, seated like a mountain that refused to move, listening like every word

mattered, like my pain wasn’t an inconvenience, like I wasn’t something unwanted that had wandered

into his territory by mistake.

The dining room lights were warm, but there was nothing soft about the conversation.

We spoke like warriors do after battle, direct, precise, stripping stories down until only the truth

remained.

Maxwell asked questions without prying.

When did Marcel arrive?

When did he first begin pushing?

What exactly did he promise James?

What did the pack members say? Who led the chant against me? Who threw the first stone?

He didn’t ask those questions because he enjoyed my suffering. He asked them like he was building a map. Like he needed to understand the enemy’s routes, the way they moved, the way they used people

as shields.

And I answered him.

Not in tears.

Not in softness.

In facts.

In names.

In moments.

In the sound of the whip.

In the feeling of silver biting skin.

In the way laughter echoed in my ears like it was the pack’s chosen hymn.

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Gen

I told him how Leah walked around the packhouse like she owned the walls, the land, the people How she smiled in public and smiled wider in private. How she came into my space just to gloat

Maxwell’s jaw tightened several times.

His hands flexed once on the table.

But he didn’t interrupt.

He let me speak.

Because sometimes, the only way to heal a wound is to expose it to air, even if it stings.

Still, there was one thing I didn’t say.

One thing I kept locked behind my teeth.

The mark.

Not because I wanted to deceive him.

Because I knew what it meant.

I remembered Nixon’s words too clearly, his voice tight with sadness and warning, like he hated the truth but couldn’t spare me from it.

No one will associate with you with the mark on your neck now.

You have been marked as a rogue.

Even if I wanted to help, I dared not at this point.

He hadn’t said it to be cruel. He’d said it because that was how the werewolf world worked, packs

were kingdoms, and rogue marks were death sentences signed with fear.

If I dragged Maxwell into my problem, it wouldn’t be a small inconvenience.

It would be political.

It would be war

And Nixon had already risked enough for me.

Lesley had risked everything for me

I couldn’t repay their kindness by bringing a storm down on another man’s house.

That thought kept digging at me all through the conversation.

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Maxwell wasn’t blind.

He saw my pauses.

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He saw the way my hand hovered near my collar sometimes like my body remembered what it was

hiding.

He didn’t force it.

But he waited.

Because a true Alpha knew when someone was holding back.

And eventually, the silence between my answers became louder than the words.

I sat back in my chair, shoulders tight.

Maxwell leaned forward slightly, eyes steady.

“You’re still carrying something,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

It was a fact.

My mouth went dry.

My fingers curled around the edge of the table.

I stared at him for a moment, then looked away.

Because the fear wasn’t childish.

It wasn’t irrational.

It was practical.

What if he changed his mind?

What if he looked at the mark and decided I wasn’t worth the trouble?

What if all of this, this safety, this warmth, this home, vanished the moment he saw proof of how dangerous I was to keep?

I inhaled slowly.

Then I forced myself to speak.

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“I want to show you something,” I said.

Maxwell didn’t move.

His gaze sharpened slightly.

“Show me,” he replied.

My heart pounded once.

Twice.

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I reached up to my collar with trembling fingers I hated myself for. I hated that I still trembled. I hated

that I was still affected by what James had done, by what Marcel had orchestrated, by what the pack

had cheered for.

But I did it anyway.

I pulled aside the fabric covering my neck.

Not slowly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Just one clear reveal.

The mark was there.

Jagged.

Violent.

Not the smooth curve of a claim.

Not the proud bite that said mate.

This was a severed thing.

A cut into flesh, into bond, into identity.

A brand that screamed: rogue.

Maxwell went still.

Not the stillness of calm.

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The stillness of shock.

His eyes locked onto the mark like he couldn’t process it for a second.

His brows drew together.

His jaw tightened.

His nostrils flared slightly as his wolf reacted beneath his skin.

Then his expression shifted.

Shock became fury.

Pure, dangerous fury.

The kind that didn’t need shouting to be deadly.

My eyes burned instantly.

Because his reaction made the truth hit me all over again in a new way.

I had been treated like an animal.

Like a disposable thing.

Like my bond, my love, my sacrifice, meant nothing.

Tears welled before I could stop them.