The Silvermoon pack-house hummed with forced merriment—golden lanterns casting dancing shadows that seemed to mock the very celebration they illuminated. The air hung thick with honeyed pastries and fresh jasmine, but beneath the sweetness lurked something bitter: the musk of wolves pretending everything was perfect.
Nyma sat enthroned in silk and lies, one hand curved protectively over her eight-month belly, the other gripping her chair's armrest until her knuckles whitened. She had spent three sleepless nights perfecting every detail—the midnight blue gown that made her silver eyes gleam, the arrangement of winter roses that reminded everyone of her Crescent bloodline's ancient power, even the delicate silver circlet that proclaimed her status as Luna.
All of it for him. All of it ignored.
Alpha Prince Adrain stood twenty feet away, but it might as well have been twenty miles. Five months. Five months of 'special training' that had taken him from her bed, her pack, her life—and now, returned with strangers who clung to him like parasites.
Seven wolves she'd never seen before formed a protective circle around her mate. Three women, four men, all bearing the scent of distant territories and fresh secrets. They laughed at his words, touched his arm with casual familiarity, and worst of all—he let them.
Nyma forced her smile wider as another pack member approached with a gift. Smile. Nod. Thank them. Pretend your heart isn't breaking in front of a hundred witnesses.
"Luna, you're positively glowing," cooed Elder Marta, pressing a hand-carved wooden wolf into Nyma's palm. "The little prince is blessed indeed."
Prince. Always prince. As if she hadn't sacrificed the Lycan throne itself to keep her child free from their twisted politics.
"Thank you," Nyma murmured, her voice steady despite the fractures spreading through her chest. "Though I think our little one will be whatever they choose to be."
From across the room, she felt golden eyes watching her. Not Adrain's—she'd given up hoping he'd look her way. No, these eyes burned with an altogether different hunger.
Prince Lucian.
Even at her own celebration, Adrain's younger brother watched her like a predator sizing up prey. Six months of marriage, and still he persisted with his unwanted attention, as if her rejection had been merely a postponement rather than a final answer.
A commotion near the entrance drew every gaze, and Nyma's stomach dropped. The Royal Lycan family had arrived.
The temperature in the room plummeted. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the musicians faltered, their cheerful melody stuttering into silence. Power walked through those doors—ancient, absolute, and utterly unforgiving.
Nyma rose gracefully, one hand still protective over her belly, and inclined her head. Protocol demanded respect, even when respect felt like swallowing glass.
Queen Mother Ivora swept forward, her presence commanding enough to part the crowd like a blade through silk. Tall, regal, with steel-gray hair and eyes that missed nothing, she was every inch the queen who'd helped build an empire on werewolf subjugation.
"Nyma." Her voice carried the warmth of winter stone. "You look... substantial."
Substantial. Not beautiful, not radiant, not any of the words traditionally offered to expecting mothers. Substantial. As if Nyma were livestock being evaluated for breeding potential.
"Queen Mother." Nyma's curtsy was perfection itself—respectful but not submissive, acknowledging rank without surrendering dignity. "Your presence honors us."
Behind Ivora, Princess Evelynn glided forward in flowing black silk, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. Where her mother was ice, Evelynn was poison—beautiful, deadly, and utterly without conscience.
"Dear sister," Evelynn purred, the endearment dripping with false affection. "How wonderful that you're finally giving us a proper celebration. It's been so... quiet... without Adrain home to keep you company."
The implication hung in the air like smoke. Every wolf in the room would catch it—the suggestion that Nyma had been abandoned, unwanted, while her mate found better company elsewhere.
Nyma's smile never wavered. "Yes, his training has been so intensive. Though I suppose some lessons are worth waiting for."
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Evelynn's features. Had there been a warning in those words? A hint that Nyma knew more than she was saying?
But it was the final arrival that made Nyma's wolf pace restlessly beneath her skin.
Prince Lucian entered as if he owned not just the room, but everyone in it. Golden-haired, golden-eyed, with the kind of devastating beauty that had toppled kingdoms and ruined queens. He was everything his older brother was, with none of the restraint.
His gaze found hers immediately, and the world narrowed to that single, burning connection. Want. Possession. The unshakeable belief that whatever Lucian desired, Lucian eventually claimed.
"Luna Nyma." He swept into a bow that somehow managed to be both respectful and mocking. "Motherhood becomes you. You're practically... luminous."
The way he said it—as if he were caressing the word, tasting it—made her skin crawl. But Nyma had been raised in the shadow of the Crescent line. She'd learned to weaponize courtesy long before she'd learned to shift.
"Prince Lucian. How kind of you to tear yourself away from court to attend our humble celebration."
"I wouldn't miss it." His smile was all predator. "After all, family is so important. Don't you think?"
The word 'family' carried weight—promise and threat wrapped in silk. They both knew what he was offering. What he'd been offering since the day she'd chosen his brother over the throne.
The crowd settled into a expectant hush as tradition demanded the presentation of gifts. In werewolf culture, gifts to an expecting mother were sacred offerings—wishes for health, prosperity, protection. But Nyma had learned that in Lycan hands, even blessings became weapons.
Queen Mother Ivora approached first, her heels clicking against marble like a countdown. Behind her, a servant carried an ornate silver cradle, its surface carved with ancient Lycan runes that seemed to writhe in the lamplight.
"A gift befitting royal blood," Ivora announced, her voice carrying to every corner of the room. "Though it grieves me that it will never rock the future king it was crafted for."
The message struck like a physical blow. Every wolf present would understand: this child could have been heir to the greatest supernatural empire in existence. Instead, thanks to Nyma's selfish choices, they would be merely an Alpha's pup.
Nyma studied the cradle, noting the specific runes carved along its edges. Protection spells, but also... binding magic. Ancient Lycan law woven into silver, designed to call a child back to their true heritage. Clever. Insidious. Utterly like Ivora to offer a gift that was really a trap.
"How thoughtful, Queen Mother." Nyma's voice carried clearly through the silence. "A cradle is only as precious as the love that fills it. And I intend to fill this one with more love than any throne could provide."
It was a direct rejection of everything the cradle represented—power, politics, the Lycan way of treating children as pawns rather than people. Ivora's eyes flashed, but her smile remained carved in place.
Princess Evelynn stepped forward next, presenting an ornate box with theatrical flourish. Inside, nestled on black velvet, lay a golden dagger. Its blade caught the light like captured flame, while blood-red rubies studded the hilt in patterns that suggested violence rather than beauty.
"For protection," Evelynn said, her voice honey over broken glass. "Since your... choices... have left you so beautifully isolated. A mother must be prepared to defend herself when there's no one else willing to do it."
Laughter tittered through the Lycan contingent—cruel, knowing sounds that cut deeper than any blade. The message was clear: by rejecting their offer to make her child a prince, Nyma had forfeited their protection. She was alone, vulnerable, with only her own strength to rely on.
Nyma lifted the dagger, testing its weight with the expertise of someone raised among warriors. The balance was perfect—this was no ceremonial piece, but a weapon meant for killing.
"Beautiful work," she said, sliding the blade back into its sheath with practiced ease. "Though I've found the strongest defense is never needing to use it at all."
Her silver eyes met Evelynn's directly, unflinching. "Strength isn't about making threats, sister. It's about never having to."
Evelynn's smile faltered, just slightly.
But it was Prince Lucian's approach that made the air itself seem to thicken. He moved with liquid grace, carrying a long, slender box as if it contained the crown jewels themselves. The crowd leaned forward, sensing drama, and Lucian—showman that he was—didn't disappoint.
The box opened to reveal a delicate silver chain, from which hung two interlocked rings. Even from a distance, Nyma could see the intricate engravings, the way the metal seemed to pulse with its own inner light.
"The rings of secondary bonding," Lucian announced, his voice pitched to carry intimate warmth to her ears while remaining perfectly audible to their audience. "Worn by Lycans who understand that one mate can never be enough. Who embrace the fullness of what our kind can offer."
Nyma's blood turned to ice water. Around the room, she heard sharp intakes of breath. He wasn't just offering her a gift—he was making a public proposal. Suggesting that she take him as a second mate, as Lycan law allowed.
"Surely," Lucian continued, his golden eyes never leaving hers, "someone as intelligent as you understands that power shared is power multiplied. You could have everything, Nyma. Everything you've denied yourself out of some misguided notion of... fidelity."
The word dripped with disdain, as if faithfulness were a quaint custom practiced by lesser beings.
The room held its collective breath. This was the moment—accept his offer and gain the protection of the royal family, or refuse and cement her status as an outsider forever.
Nyma reached for the chain with steady hands, lifting it until the rings caught the lamplight. They were beautiful, she had to admit. Perfectly crafted symbols of a power she could claim with a single word.
Instead, she snapped the chain in half.
The sound of breaking metal rang through the hall like a bell tolling, followed by the musical chime of rings hitting marble as they scattered at Lucian's feet.
"How clumsy of me," Nyma said, her voice carrying false regret that fooled no one. "It seems the chain wasn't strong enough to bear the weight of what it represented."
Her silver eyes blazed as she met Lucian's gaze directly. "I have a mate, Prince Lucian. One mate. And I have no intention of collecting more like trinkets."
The silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Then, from somewhere in the crowd, someone began to laugh—rich, genuine amusement that broke the tension like a hammer through glass.
"Well," called out Soren, Adrain's Beta and the pack's eternal diplomat, "who's ready for cake? I hear the kitchen outdid themselves with the chocolate ganache."
Laughter rippled through the pack members, nervous but genuine, while the Lycan contingent remained stone-faced. But Nyma caught something else in the responding chuckles—approval. Respect. Her pack had watched her stand up to Lycan royalty and refuse to be intimidated.
As conversations slowly resumed and the crowd began to disperse toward the refreshment tables, Nyma finally allowed herself to look toward her mate.
Adrain stood exactly where he had been all evening—surrounded by strangers, seemingly oblivious to the drama that had just played out in his wife's honor. He was laughing at something one of the women had whispered, his golden hair catching the light, his strong hands gesturing as he told some story that had captured his audience's rapt attention.
Not once had he looked her way. Not when his mother had publicly shamed their child. Not when his sister had threatened his mate. Not even when his brother had propositioned his wife in front of their entire pack.
The man who had once sworn to love and protect her had become a stranger who couldn't be bothered to acknowledge her existence.
Nyma placed her hand over her belly, feeling their child stir restlessly beneath her palm. Soon, she promised silently. Soon we'll be somewhere safe, surrounded by people who actually want us.
Tomorrow, she would travel to her family's territory for the birth. Tonight, she would endure this farce of celebration for the sake of appearances.
But as she watched her husband disappear further into his circle of admirers, Nyma couldn't shake the feeling that she was witnessing the end of something that had never truly begun.
The last celebration, indeed. Because after tonight, there would be nothing left worth celebrating.