Chapter 25 Why was she jealous?
A feral sound ripped out of Ronan before he could stop it.
“Northwood?”
The name came out low, fractured, like it had scraped its way up from somewhere deep and ugly. He turned slowly toward Matthew, eyes burning, the red bleeding through the gold as Fenrir surged hard against his ribs.
Matthew had already dropped into the chair opposite the desk, casual in the way only someone who had stood beside Ronan on battlefields could afford to be. He leaned back, laced his fingers over his stomach, and hummed. “The one and only.”
Ronan dragged a hand down his face, then turned away, pacing once before stopping at the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a glass of scotch, the amber liquid sloshing harder than necessary. Fenrir snarled quietly, restless, every instinct screaming threat.
“A masquerade ball,” Matthew continued, watching him. “Draven’s hosting it himself. Big affair. Important guests.”
Ronan scoffed. “Of course he is.” He took a sharp swallow. “Because nothing says leadership like throwing a party while your pack rots.”
“Rumors say he plans on announcing Cierce as his Luna.”
That earned a harsh laugh. “Figures. He’ll dress it up as unity. Loyalty. A new era.” Ronan shook his head. “He never cared about his people. He just likes reminding everyone he’s still standing.”
Matthew didn’t argue. He accepted the second glass Ronan shoved across the desk toward him, raising it in a mock toast. “I don’t think the invitation is about celebration.”
Ronan paused. “Then what?”
Matthew exhaled slowly. “A reminder.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened. He already knew.
“Seven months ago,” Matthew said evenly, “you promised them warriors. Reinforcements. You made that offer before everything with Elara happened.”
“I never forgot,” Ronan said flatly.
“You didn’t follow through.”
“Because I didn’t want to.”
Matthew sighed. “Ronan.”
Ronan turned, eyes hard. “What was the point?” he snapped. “Giving them warriors when they couldn’t even protect their own? When they let rot fester in their pack and called it discipline?”
“That’s not your problem anymore.”
“It is,” Ronan shot back. “Because they created her world. And I had to pull her out of it half-dead.”
Fenrir growled in agreement, a deep, vicious sound that rattled the glassware on the desk.
Matthew took a sip, unfazed. “You’re being petty.”
Ronan looked away, staring out the window. “I’m being kind.” His voice dropped. “You and I both know the alternative. I could have wiped Northwood off the map. Holding back my warriors is mercy.”
Matthew studied him. “And you want to crush them.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No denial.
Silence stretched, heavy but familiar.
“So,” Matthew said finally, setting his glass down. “Do we attend?”
Ronan’s gaze drifted to the garden below, to where Elara had stood earlier with his mother. To the way she smiled without fully meaning it. To the way she still flinched at shadows.
“I don’t think that’s my decision,” he said quietly.
Matthew nodded. “She’ll have to face the council eventually. The kingdom too. They already see her as your mate. The sooner she understands how this world works, the safer she’ll be.”
Ronan didn’t answer at first. Fenrir pressed closer, conflicted, torn between protection and patience.
“I won’t force her,” Ronan said at last. “Not into court politics. Not into Northwood. Not into anything.”
Matthew’s mouth curved slightly. “I know.”
“They can wait,” Ronan added. “However long it takes.”
Matthew stood, stretching lazily. “Good. Because Northwood won’t.”
Meanwhile,
Arwen walked Elara to the door of her chambers herself.
The corridor glowed softly with candlelight, shadows dancing across the stone walls. Elara’s steps slowed instinctively as they reached her door, her fingers twisting into the fabric of her sleeve.
“Like I said earlier, we are family here,” Arwen said gently, squeezing her hand. “As long as you’re under this roof, no one will harm you again.”
Elara smiled. It was small, hesitant, but real.
She still couldn’t believe she was gone from Northwood. No shouting. No punishment for staring. No watching her every move.
And yet… her chest tightened.
She missed it.
Not the place. Not the pain.
The people.
Or one person.
Hector.
Arwen noticed the shift immediately. “You miss home.”
Elara swallowed. “I don’t know if it was ever really home.”
Arwen’s voice softened. “Sometimes the place that hurts us the most is the one we learn to survive in.”
Elara didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Arwen squeezed her hand once more. “Whatever you choose,” she said firmly, “you’ll have the palace’s backing.”
Elara looked up, confused.
“What do you mean?”
Arwen only smiled. “Freshen up. Get some rest. The maids will bring your medication.”
“Oh,” Elara said faintly.
“And Elara?” Arwen added. “Tomorrow will be… busy.”
Elara blinked. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
Arwen’s smile deepened. “You’ll see.”
\---
And she did see.
The sun had barely crested the horizon when the maids arrived, moving with quiet efficiency. Warm water steamed in basins, soft towels were folded neatly, and clean linens waited like a promise. Every touch was gentle, every gesture deliberate.
A young woman with auburn hair and soft grey eyes approached, her hands deftly tying the back of Elara’s green dress. “You look beautiful, my lady,” she said, her voice bright.
Elara flinched, shrinking back slightly. “Please… don’t call me that,” she whispered.
The maid froze, startled. “We wouldn’t dare call you anything else.”
Elara’s throat tightened. “You don’t have to—”
“Our heads would hang,” the maid added, her tone firm but kind.
Elara’s stomach dropped. They must be joking. Surely Ronan wasn’t that… merciless?
A low, rumbling purr vibrated inside her chest, and her heart skipped.
"He absolutely is," her wolf replied lazily. "For you."
Elara’s heart skipped. The voice was hers, yet not hers. She realized then that she had a name for this presence—Lyra, her wolf, her companion, her inner strength.
Elara stared at her reflection. Her silver hair shimmered in the morning light. “Lyra… why did you go silent?” she whispered inwardly.
"Needed rest," Lyra answered. "Hard to stay awake when your King is flooding the palace with a choking aura."
Her throat tightened, a cough catching her in its grip. “My—what?” she gasped.
The maids froze, wide-eyed, then descended into a flurry of panic.
“My lady!”
“Is the dress too tight?”
“Do you need water?”
“My Lady?” the auburn-haired maid asked sharply.
“I—I’m fine!” Elara barked, her face heating up all the way to her neck.
"Your Mr. Hot King," Lyra snickered.
Elara’s ears burned as her cheeks flushed crimson. The maids, already unnerved, had summoned the healer.
He arrived with quiet urgency, his hands moving over her with care. Pulse, temperature, eyes, reflexes—each check meticulous. “She’s fine,” he concluded. “Still recovering. Blushing is normal. The palace is cold for your body so you should layer up until you have adapted.”
Elara nodded stiffly. “Thank you,” she muttered, her eyes flicking toward the door despite herself.
The maids noticed immediately and they exchanged knowing looks.
“The King has stepped out,” one said softly. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Oh,” Elara murmured, and instantly wished she hadn’t.
"You miss him," Lyra teased, low and feral.
“No,” Elara said through clenched teeth, trying to steady herself.
"Of course you don't."
Minutes later, a maid’s voice drifted from the hall. “Breakfast is ready. The Queen requests your presence.”
Elara froze. “Downstairs?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Her pulse quickened. The palace suddenly felt enormous, the corridors too wide, the walls too tall, and she felt too small to navigate it alone.
“We’ll come with you,” the maids said softly, but the reassurance did little to calm her.
As they moved toward the dining hall, hushed voices floated over the polished floors:
“I heard she’s moving into the palace soon.”
“Before the Hunt.”
“Apparently, she’s stunning.”
“Sparks might fly.”
Elara stopped dead in her tracks. Her stomach knotted. Something sharp twisted in her chest.
Why did that hurt?
She barely knew him.
"Jealous," Lyra purred, its voice low, resonating in her mind.
Elara swallowed hard, panic prickling her skin. Why was she jealous?