Chapter 6 Diplomacy
6: Diplomacy
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my short, unwanted career as “kidnapped leading lady in a werewolf fantasy novel,” it’s this: Lucian has the range.
One moment he’s the brooding, silver-eyed nightmare hovering by my bedside like Dracula’s emotionally constipated cousin. The next, he’s parading me around his fortress like I’m his brand-new Gucci accessory. And today? Oh, today he decided to be King of Lunareth, Destroyer of Negotiation Tables.
“Stay by me,” Lucian murmured as the great hall doors opened.
I peered up at him, sarcasm bubbling despite the formal doom vibe. “Sure, because nothing says ‘comfortable icebreaker’ like dragging your hostage into a business meeting.”
He ignored me. Classic.
The emissaries strode in—four men and one woman, cloaked in the silver-blue of the Stormfang Pack. Their presence alone filled the room with tension sharp enough to shave with. They bowed low, but I noticed the stiffness in their shoulders, the faint curl of their lips when they glanced at me.
Oh boy. Someone forgot to put “bring your kidnapped soulmate” in the royal meeting etiquette guide.
Lucian took the throne like it was his birthright which, spoiler, it probably was. He didn’t announce, didn’t posture. He just sat, and the silence bent to him like a spine cracking.
Me? I sat one step below, on a smaller chair he’d pointed to with all the subtlety of a man saying : sit, pet.
The emissaries exchanged quick looks. Their leader, a wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair, stepped forward. “Your Majesty. We bring word from Halecrest.”
Halecrest. My heart stuttered. Rowan’s home.
I leaned forward despite myself, only for Lucian’s hand to close around my wrist, grounding, possessive. His touch said: Still yourself. Or I’ll still you.
The emissary cleared his throat. “Alpha Rowan survives. His wounds have not claimed him. Already he rallies what strength he has, gathering allies who would see… balance restored.”
Balance restored. Translation: Let’s dethrone the Tyrant Alpha, they say.
Lucian’s eyes narrowed. The air thickened. Shadows seemed to stretch toward him, drawn by the gravity of his wrath.
“He bleeds,” Lucian said, his voice quiet and lethal. “He will not rise again.”
The emissary didn’t argue, but the way his jaw twitched said plenty.
And me? My stomach was a merry-go-round from hell. Rowan was alive. Relief warred with dread. Because if he was alive, he’d come. And if he came, he’d find me. And if he found me? Cue werewolf civil war part two, guest-starring me as the world’s most regrettable prize.
The emissaries began their official spiel—grain shortages, border disputes, trade routes blah blah blah. Normally, I’d tune out faster than my brain in math class, but every time they said “alliance,” their eyes flicked to me.
Oh. OH.
I wasn’t just arm candy. I was leverage. Proof. A living contract that screamed: The Tyrant Alpha has the Moon’s Chosen. What do you have?
I tried to whisper to Lucian. “Hey, do you mind explaining why I’m suddenly the medieval UN peace treaty?”
He didn’t glance at me. “Because you are mine. That is all they need know.”
“Cool, yeah, except that makes me sound like a human PowerPoint slide titled ‘Reasons You Shouldn’t Mess With Dravenmoor.’”
“Apologize but you need to shut your mouth I couldn't follow you at all.” Ugh! I gave up!
His lips curved in the faintest ghost of a smile. Like my panic was endearing. Like he didn’t notice my entire existence currently spiraling into political disaster.
Darius stood at Lucian’s right, silent, observing. When the emissaries pushed harder—hinting at Rowan’s survival, hinting at rebellion—Lucian didn’t rise to the bait.
He didn’t have to.
Darius stepped forward, voice calm but sharp as a blade. “The Pack holds firm. Our Alpha has never been defeated. To suggest otherwise is not only foolish. It is disrespectful.”
The emissaries bowed, murmuring apologies, but the tension only thickened.
And me? I sat there wishing someone would drop a trapdoor beneath my chair so I could yeet myself into the basement.
Finally, the woman emissary—tall, striking, eyes glinting like frost—spoke. “The Moon’s will is clear. Yet destiny… is seldom so simple. Rowan Hale’s bond with the girl was known. The packs will question. Already they do.”
The girl. Oh goodie, that’s me.
Lucian’s grip on my wrist tightened. Not painful, but immovable. His voice turned glacial. “There is no bond but mine.”
The woman’s gaze slid to me. For a fraction of a second, pity flickered there. Pity. Like she saw a bird in a gilded cage and knew it would never fly again.
And I hated—hated—that she wasn’t entirely wrong.
The emissaries finally withdrew, their promises of allegiance ringing hollow in the vast hall.
As soon as they were gone, Lucian rose, dragging me with him. He didn’t speak until we reached the courtyard, moonlight spilling over the cobblestones.
“You listened,” he said, as though I’d passed some unspoken test.
I snapped. “Listened? Lucian, I’m one political power point away from being the reason this whole place goes up in flames! Do you even get how messed up this is? Rowan’s alive, everyone thinks I’m still bonded to him, and now I’m basically your nuclear launch code in a dress.”
His silver eyes glowed, dangerous. “You are not his.”
“I was!” My voice cracked. “I was his before this! And you—” I gestured wildly at him, at the looming towers, at the wolves prowling the shadows. “You ripped me out of my life, claimed me like I’m furniture, and now everyone acts like I’m some Moon-blessed trophy!”
For once, Lucian didn’t immediately counter. He just looked at me, his expression caught between fury and something softer. Something that scared me more.
He stepped closer, lowering his head until his forehead nearly touched mine. “You think this bond theft. That it chains you.” His hand cupped my jaw, sparks racing where his skin met mine. “But what chains can burn with such fire?”
I shivered, traitorous body reacting even as my brain screamed run.
Later, when Lucian was called away (something about border scouts), Darius found me alone in the torchlit corridor.
“You struggle,” he said simply.
“No kidding, Sherlock.”
He didn’t smile. He rarely did. “Know this: Rowan’s name will not fade. His survival will rally others. And they will come for you.”
My chest squeezed. “And if they do?”
Darius’s gaze held mine, unflinching. “Lucian will not let you go. He would burn the world first.”
Oh. Well. Super comforting.
That night, Lucian returned late, weary but still radiating that terrifying Alpha energy. He found me awake, curled on the bed, brain buzzing.
He sat at the edge, silent for a long time. Then: “Do you dream of him?”
The question sliced me open.
I swallowed. “Sometimes.”
His jaw flexed, but his hand still found mine, threading our fingers together. Sparks surged, unrelenting.
“He will not have you,” Lucian said, more vow than threat.
And I realized then: Rowan wasn’t just my past. He was Lucian’s rival, his shadow, the ghost haunting every step we took. The male lead character who always have the final laugh.
And me?
I was the battlefield.