GREYSON PACK HOUSE
Khaelis' POV
The silence at the table did not break immediately.
It stretched, thin and brittle, coiling through the dining hall like a living thing, the kind that waited for one careless breath to shatter it and spill something ugly across the polished wood. The candles continued to burn steadily, their flames unbothered by the tension pressing against every rib in my chest, but nothing else moved. Even the servants at the far end of the room stood unnaturally still, eyes lowered, as though sound itself had become dangerous.
Andrea looked between us, her brows drawing together as confusion replaced her earlier excitement. Children always sensed these shifts before anyone explained them. They felt when the world tilted, even if they did not yet know how to name it.
Isabella cleared her throat at last, the sound far too loud in the quiet. "Andrea," she said gently, forcing warmth into her voice, "why don't you take the cubs to wash up? You've eaten enough to outrun the moon tonight."
The cubs groaned in protest, but Andrea slid off her chair obediently. She hesitated beside the Fenris Sentinel, lingering for a heartbeat too long, then leaned in to whisper something that made the woman's expression soften in a way that struck painfully deep. It was not a smile meant for guests or courtesy. It was familiar. Earned.
When the children finally filed out of the hall, their footsteps fading down the corridor, the space they left behind felt cavernous.
Too empty.
The Sentinel returned her attention to her meal as though nothing had happened, as though she had not just dismantled my sense of belonging with a handful of casual truths. She lifted her glass, took a measured sip, and set it down with controlled ease, entirely at home in a seat that was never meant to be hers.
I forced myself to keep eating, not because I was hungry, but because stopping would feel like surrender, and I had already given up enough ground tonight.
"So," Isabella said carefully, folding her napkin with precision, "you must be exhausted after the council evaluations."
"They were thorough," the Sentinel replied. "As they should be."
Her gaze flicked toward me again, brief and deliberate, as though acknowledging my presence without granting it weight.
"And the Alpha?" Isabella continued. "Will he be joining us later?"
"No," the Sentinel said simply. "He's occupied."
Occupied.
The word settled heavily in my gut, dragging unease along with it. I pushed my plate aside, appetite finally gone.
"You seem familiar with this house," I said, my voice steady despite the way my pulse thrummed in my ears.
The Sentinel turned fully toward me for the first time that evening.
Up close, she was even more unsettling. Not because of her beauty, though it was undeniable, but because of the quiet certainty in the way she carried herself, as though she had already survived the worst this world could offer and emerged sharpened by it.
"I should be," she replied. "I spent a long time here."
Isabella stiffened, the movement subtle but unmistakable.
"You never mentioned that," I said.
She tilted her head slightly. "You never asked."
Fair enough.
"And yet," I continued, unable to stop myself now, "you know my daughter. Her habits. Her fears."
Something flickered across her expression then, too quick to name, too controlled to linger. Regret, perhaps, or something close to it.
"I knew her," she said carefully, "when she was smaller. When things were different."
Different how?
The question burned on my tongue, but before I could voice it, Isabella rose abruptly from her seat.
"Dessert," she announced, far too brightly. "I'll see to it myself."
Coward.
The Sentinel watched her leave, her gaze unreadable, then returned her attention to me.
"You've done well here," she said quietly.
The words did not feel like praise.
"They don't make it easy for outsiders," she continued. "Especially ones without a wolf."
There it was, laid bare at last, the truth everyone danced around but never named.
My spine straightened. "I am Luna."
"For now," she replied calmly.
The room seemed to tilt, the air growing heavier with each breath I took.
"For now," I echoed.
She leaned back in her chair, unbothered, composed. "You were chosen for peace. For image. For balance."
My hands curled beneath the table. "And what were you chosen for?"
Her lips curved slightly.
"Power."
Footsteps echoed down the hall before I could respond, heavy and familiar enough to send a traitorous spark of relief through my chest.
Lucas.
He entered the dining hall with his coat still on, his presence commanding the room by instinct alone. His eyes swept across the table, passing over Isabella's empty seat, the half-finished plates, the untouched dessert, until they landed on her.
The Fenris Sentinel stood.
Not hurried. Not bowed.
Just ready.
"Alpha," she said.
"Sentinel," he replied.
No surprise crossed his face. No confusion. No hesitation.
Only recognition.
Something inside me fractured quietly.
"You're home early," I said, though my voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.
Theron did not look at me.
"We need to talk," he said instead, his gaze fixed on her.
Not to me.
Never to me.
They turned and walked away together, shoulder to shoulder, their steps matched with an ease that spoke of familiarity far older than my place in this house.
I remained seated, the weight of the Alpha's home pressing down on me as though it had finally grown tired of pretending I belonged within its walls.
From the hallway, Andrea's laughter drifted back toward us, bright and unbroken, untouched by the quiet war unfolding above her head.
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time since becoming Luna, I wondered what it would feel like to leave.
Not to run.
Not to flee.
Just to walk away.
Because whatever the Fenris Sentinel had come to reclaim, one truth had settled cold and certain in my chest.
It had never really been mine.
And as Lucas's door closed somewhere down the hall, the sound echoing like a final decision, I understood something else just as clearly.
This house was already choosing her.