Raiden’s words linger long after he speaks them, their weight pressing into the quiet spaces of my mind.
His confession–raw, unguarded, and so unlike the man I once knew–stirs emotions I thought I’d buried. For nearly two years, I’ve worked to process the wounds he left behind, to rebuild my life without the shadow of his rejection looming over me. But now, his midnight eyes, filled with genuine regret, crack open something I’d long since locked away.
I don’t want to feel anything for him. But feelings don’t ask for permission, do they?
I turn back, unable to help myself.
“What do you want from me, Raiden?” I ask finally, my voice quieter than I intend but no less firm.
Exhaustion seeps into my words, the kind that comes not from physical strain but from emotional heaviness.” Forgiveness? Absolution? What purpose does this confession serve when nothing can be changed?”
The directness of my question surprises him.
I can see it in the way his jaw slackens slightly, how his eyes widen for the briefest moment before his composure
returns.
He’s too used to my diplomatic tone, the careful neutrality perfected during our marriage to keep the peace. But I’m not that woman anymore.
“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I don’t deserve it. And I know nothing I say can undo the past. But I needed you to know-”
The truth in his tone is undeniable, and for a moment, it feels like the ground shifts beneath me.
This is the acknowledgment I once craved, the vali
(Raiden’s POV)
The grand hall gleams under the light of crystal chandeliers, the air filled with the hum of conversation and the soft clinking of glasses.
Packs from across the region mingle, celebrating the success of the SOA preparations. But beneath the surface of alliances and diplomacy, there’s an unspoken tension–a quiet acknowledgment of the history between me and the woman this night seems to orbit around.
Siena.
My eyes find her too easily, drawn like a moth to a flame I know will burn me if I get too close.
She moves through the crowd with effortless grace, her shimmering in the low light, her posture poised yet relaxed. She belongs here in a way I never allowed myself to see before, her presence commanding the respect of everyone she speaks to.
Alaric remains at her side, his presence constant and irritatingly casual.
He watches over her like a silent sentinel, his attention unwavering.
Horace bristles every time he leans in to speak to her, every time she smiles at something he says. It’s a primal reaction, one I have no right to feel but can’t suppress.
I force myself to focus on the conversations around me, nodding at the appropriate moments, offering polite
responses.
But it’s all a blur, a meaningless backdrop to the way my chest tightens every time Siena laughs, every time she tilts her head toward Alaric with a familiarity I can’t stand to witness.
When the ceremonial dance is announced, the air shifts. The tradition is an old one, a partnered ritual meant to symbolize alliances between packs. It’s formal, elegant, and deeply symbolic–a dance that carries more meaning than the casual revelry that follows.
I see my opening.
Approaching her table feels like walking into a storm, every step charged with the weight of our shared history.
Siena is mid–conversation, her expression open but guarded, the mask of diplomacy firmly in place. When she notices me, her amber eyes flicker with irritation.
“Alpha King,” she greets, her tone polite but distant.
“Luna Siena,” I reply, the formal address slipping from my lips before I can stop it. Something in her expression tightens, but she doesn’t correct me, and for that, I’m grateful.
I glance briefly at Alaric, who watches me with a calm intensity that sets Horace on edge, before turning my full attention to her. “Would you honor Silverfang with this dance?”
The phrasing is deliberate, careful. I’m not asking as her former mate. I’m asking as the Alpha King of Silverfang, acknowledging her independence and the respect she’s earned.
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Chapter 143
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For a moment, she says nothing, her amber eyes searching mine as though trying to decipher my intentions. Then, with a slight nod, she places her hand in mine.
“Of course,” she says, her tone smooth and measured.
Her hand is warm but distant, her touch light as though she’s careful not to let it linger too long.
Alaric doesn’t say a word as we step away, but I feel his eyes on me, a silent warning I choose to ignore.
The music begins, and we move into the intricate steps of the dance. It’s been years since we’ve done this together, but the muscle memory is still there, guiding us through the movements with practiced ease.
Her hand rests lightly on my shoulder, mine at her waist, the space between us carefully maintained despite the closeness of the dance.
For a moment, it feels like stepping back in time, a ghost of the connection we once shared haunting every step. The rhythm of the music, the gentle sway of her body against mine–it’s both familiar and foreign, a bittersweet reminder of what was and what will never be again.
“The territory transfer was unnecessary,” Siena says quietly, her voice breaking the silence that has settled between us.
Her eyes remain fixed downward, studying the delicate lines of the tablecloth as though the intricate pattern might somehow offer answers neither of us can articulate.
Then, softly, almost as an afterthought, she adds, “But appreciated.”
The acknowledgment is small—almost perfunctory—but it’s the first crack I’ve noticed in the diplomatic armor she’s so masterfully constructed around herself.
For the first time since her return, there is a flicker of something beyond careful neutrality, something softer, more genuine. It might be slight, easily missed, but I cling desperately to it, even as I know it’s far from enough.
Even as I understand that this small concession doesn’t erase the years of pain, or the countless ways I’ve failed
her.
Still, it’s something.
“It was always rightfully Windhowl’s,” I admit at last, my voice pitched low, intended solely for her ears.
Around us, conversations flow gently, punctuated by the clink of glassware and silverware, laughter and murmured discussions filling the evening air. Yet it feels as though we exist in a separate, fragile bubble, a moment suspended in time.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
