The great hall emptied like water through a sieve, taking with it the forced laughter and political posturing that had defined the evening. The Royal Lycans departed first—Queen Mother Ivora's parting glance carrying the weight of unfinished business, Princess Evelynn's smile sharp enough to cut glass, and Prince Lucian's golden eyes promising that broken chains would not deter him.
Nyma stood amid the wreckage of her celebration, watching her own family prepare to leave. Her mother, Luna Elara of the Raven Flock Pack, lingered at her side with the intuition that only came from birthing and raising a daughter who carried storms beneath her skin.
"You're certain about tomorrow?" Elara's voice was soft, meant for Nyma's ears alone. Her weathered hands—hands that had delivered dozens of pups, healed countless wounds, and held her pack together through two wars—cupped Nyma's face with infinite gentleness. "You can change your mind. Come home tonight."
For a heartbeat, Nyma wavered. How easy it would be to flee now, to let her mother wrap her in protection and never look back. But running would mean abandoning her pack, leaving them leaderless under Lycan scrutiny. It would mean admitting defeat before the real battle had even begun.
"Tomorrow," Nyma confirmed, her voice steady despite the fractures spreading through her chest. "I need to... tie up loose ends first."
Alpha Cedric, her father, stepped forward. Where Elara was warmth and intuition, Cedric was mountain stone—immovable, eternal, and utterly devoted to his daughter's happiness. His storm-gray eyes swept the remaining crowd with tactical precision, cataloging threats the way he'd once surveyed battlefields.
"The roads won't be safe after sunset," he said, his meaning clear. If you need us, we'll come running.
"I know, Papa." Nyma pressed a kiss to his weathered cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of pine and old leather that had comforted her since childhood. "Kael and Raina will see me home safely."
Her brother stood nearby with his mate, both of them carrying the patient watchfulness of wolves who understood that sometimes the greatest kindness was knowing when not to interfere. Kael—three years older and twice as protective—had insisted on remaining for the escort tomorrow. Raina, his mate of four years, had the healer's instinct for reading pain in others' faces.
As her parents finally departed, their car's taillights disappearing into the forest, Nyma found herself alone with the handful of pack members still cleaning up—and Adrain's mysterious entourage.
Seven strangers who'd arrived with her mate like shadows made flesh. Seven wolves whose scents she didn't recognize, whose loyalties remained unknown, and whose very presence felt like an invasion of the home she'd worked so hard to build.
They clustered around the bar now, helping themselves to her finest whiskey as if they belonged here. As if they had any right to her hospitality when their host hadn't even bothered to introduce them properly.
Nyma's patience—already strained to its breaking point—finally snapped.
She rose from her throne-like chair with deliberate grace, one hand curved protectively over her swollen belly. Eight months of pregnancy hadn't slowed her down; if anything, it had sharpened her edge. Motherhood was already teaching her that sometimes love meant baring teeth.
The click of her heels on marble echoed through the hall as she approached the group. Conversations died. Glasses paused halfway to lips. Even the most arrogant wolf recognized an apex predator when she moved with purpose.
Adrain looked up from whatever story had captured his audience's attention, startled to find his wife bearing down on them like a silver-eyed storm. For a moment—just a moment—guilt flickered across his golden features.
Then he smiled, that practiced charm she'd once found irresistible now feeling hollow as a poisoned chalice.
"My love," he said, rising to meet her. His arm slipped around her waist with familiar ease, pulling her into the warmth of his body. To any observer, they would look like devoted mates sharing an intimate moment. "I was just telling them about—"
"I'm sure you were." Nyma's voice carried the deceptive sweetness of honey laced with arsenic. She tilted her head, studying the faces that had monopolized her mate's attention all evening. "But shouldn't I know who I'm hosting in my own home?"
The emphasis on my was subtle but unmistakable. This was her territory, her pack house, her domain. They were guests here—uninvited guests, at that.
Adrain had the grace to look sheepish. "Of course. Where are my manners?" He gestured to the group with the flourish of a showman. "Allow me to properly introduce my... colleagues."
Colleagues. Not friends, not pack mates, not any of the dozens of words that might explain their obvious intimacy. The careful neutrality of the term only raised more questions.
The first to step forward was a mountain of a man, easily six-and-a-half feet of scarred muscle and predatory grace. His face looked like it had been carved with a dull knife—all harsh angles and old wounds that spoke of violence survived rather than avoided. Dark hair hung in his eyes, but it couldn't hide the way those eyes catalogued everything around him, including the best routes of escape.
"Cain Blackwater," he said, his voice the rough growl of a wolf who'd spent too many years in his other form. No pack affiliation, no explanation of his connection to Adrain. Just a name dropped like a challenge.
Nyma extended her hand with regal composure, noting the way his calloused palm completely engulfed her smaller fingers. Fighter, definitely. But also something else—something that made her skin crawl with primitive recognition. This wasn't just a warrior; this was a killer.
"Welcome to Silvermoon, Mr. Blackwater," she said, her smile never wavering even as she fought the urge to wipe her hand clean. "I hope you'll find our hospitality... adequate."
The second wolf practically oozed forward, her movements liquid silk over deadly steel. Beautiful in the way poisonous things often were—all golden curves and predatory grace, with eyes like green glass and a mouth made for lies. She wore her danger openly, from the silver blade resting against her thigh to the way she sampled the air around Nyma as if testing for weaknesses.
"Vasha Nightshade," she purred, her accent carrying hints of the Eastern territories where pack law was more suggestion than commandment. "Specialist in... problem solving."
Problem solving. Another careful euphemism that could mean anything from diplomatic negotiation to quiet assassination. The blade at her hip wasn't decorative—it was working steel, well-maintained and frequently used.
"How versatile," Nyma replied with arctic politeness. "I do hope we won't require your particular expertise during your stay."
Vasha's smile sharpened. "Oh, you'd be surprised how often problems... arise... when least expected."
The third member of their little collection stepped forward with the economy of movement that marked either a monk or a sniper. Average height, unremarkable features, the kind of face that vanished from memory the moment you looked away. But his eyes—pale blue and utterly emotionless—belonged to someone who'd seen too much and felt too little.
"Dante Rivers," he said simply, offering no explanation, no elaboration, no social niceties. Just acknowledgment of his existence and nothing more.
Nyma found his restraint more unnerving than Vasha's obvious threats or Cain's barely contained violence. Silent wolves were the most dangerous—they were either broken beyond repair or so secure in their lethality that they didn't need to posture.
"Mr. Rivers." She inclined her head slightly. "A pleasure."
His response was a grunt that might have been agreement.
Next came the twins—or at least, Nyma assumed they were twins. The resemblance was uncanny enough to be disturbing, from their matching platinum hair to their identical sharp-boned features. But where genetics had made them mirrors, personality had created deliberate contrasts. The male wore casual arrogance like expensive cologne, while the female radiated the kind of chaotic energy that suggested impulse control wasn't in her vocabulary.
"Dren," the male said, his voice carrying the lazy confidence of someone who'd never been told 'no' and wouldn't recognize the word if he heard it. He gestured casually to his sister. "And this beautiful creature is Della."
Della stepped closer than social convention allowed, close enough that Nyma could smell the wine on her breath and see the calculating gleam in eyes that matched her brother's perfectly. Without warning or invitation, she leaned in and pressed air kisses to both of Nyma's cheeks—a gesture that was somehow both intimate and mocking.
"We've heard so much about you," Della murmured, her breath warm against Nyma's ear. "Adrain simply couldn't stop talking about his... devoted... wife during our travels."
The pause before 'devoted' was deliberate, loaded with implications that made Nyma's wolf pace restlessly beneath her skin. But if they expected her to flinch, to show weakness, they'd underestimated exactly what kind of woman Adrain had married.
"How wonderful that he thinks of me during his... travels," Nyma replied with syrup-sweet venom. "I do hope you found his conversation as... stimulating... as his company."
Della's eyes flashed with surprised respect. She'd expected a simpering pack wife, not a woman who could match implications with interest and emerge victorious.
"Oh, we certainly did," Della said, stepping back with a grin that was all teeth. "Didn't we, brother?"
Dren's answering smirk faltered just slightly as Nyma's silver gaze fixed on him like a laser sight. "Absolutely fascinating," he agreed, but the word came out slightly strangled.
"I'm delighted to hear it," Nyma said, her tone suggesting the exact opposite. She let her gaze sweep over the assembled group with the detached interest of a scientist cataloguing specimens. "And you're all here under my roof as... what, exactly? Refugees? Diplomats? Or perhaps just... tourists?"
The question hung in the air like smoke, heavy with the weight of everything unasked. Who are you? What do you want? And why does my mate look at you like you share secrets I'm not allowed to know?
But it was the final member of their party who made Nyma's blood turn to ice water.
She'd been hanging back, content to let the others take center stage while she observed from the shadows. But now she stepped into the light with the fluid grace of a predator who knew exactly how dangerous she was—and how beautiful.
Dark curls framed a face that belonged on ancient coins—all classical lines and perfect proportions, with skin like warm honey and eyes the color of aged whiskey. She was stunning in the way that stopped traffic and started wars, the kind of beauty that made strong men stupid and smart men reckless.
"Lira Ashford," she said, her voice carrying the smoky warmth of expensive bourbon. "Beta's daughter from the Northern Reach Pack."
The name hit Nyma like a physical blow, even though she'd been expecting it. Lira. The first love. The one who'd supposedly meant nothing. The ghost from Adrain's past who was apparently very much flesh and blood and standing in Nyma's home like she belonged there.
"Lira," Nyma repeated, tasting the name like poison. She felt Adrain tense beside her, his arm tightening around her waist in what might have been protective instinct or guilty restraint. "How... nostalgic."
For a moment, the two women simply looked at each other—silver eyes meeting whiskey-brown in a clash of wills that had nothing to do with words and everything to do with the man standing between them. It was Lira who looked away first, but not before Nyma caught something dangerous flickering in her gaze.
Want. Possession. The unshakeable certainty of someone who believed she had a prior claim.
We'll see about that.
"Well," Nyma said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. "Now that we've all been properly introduced, I trust you'll remember where you are." Her smile could have frozen fire. "You're guests in the Silvermoon Pack house. My house. Under my protection, subject to my rules."
She let her gaze drift over each of them in turn—not challenging, exactly, but making it clear that she saw them. All of them. Their weapons, their secrets, their barely concealed agendas.
"I do hope you'll find our hospitality... memorable."
The word carried just enough emphasis to make it clear that 'memorable' might not necessarily mean 'pleasant.'
Adrain's arm tightened around her again, and this time she was certain it was restraint. "Nyma—"
"Oh, don't worry, darling," she said, reaching up to pat his chest with perfectly manicured claws. "I'm sure your... colleagues... understand the importance of respect. After all, they're far too sophisticated to mistake courtesy for weakness."
Her smile was all innocence and sharp edges. "Aren't you?"
The question was directed at the group, but her eyes found Lira's specifically. A challenge wrapped in velvet, daring the other woman to test boundaries that had been clearly established.
For a long moment, nobody spoke. Then Cain—surprisingly—let out a bark of laughter.
"I like her," he said, raising his glass in a mock toast. "She's got spine."
"Spine is useful," Vasha agreed, her tone suggesting she was reassessing her earlier calculations. "Fragile things break so easily."
"Good thing I'm not fragile," Nyma replied with honey-sweet steel. "I find that broken things have a tendency to... cut... those who try to handle them carelessly."
Message received and understood, Lira's slight smile seemed to say. Game on.
The tension stretched like a wire about to snap—and then Adrain, apparently realizing that his evening was balanced on a knife's edge, cleared his throat.
"Perhaps we should call it a night," he said with forced lightness. "It's been a long day, and tomorrow—"
"Tomorrow I leave for my family's territory," Nyma finished smoothly. "To prepare for the birth in... more comfortable... surroundings."
She didn't miss the way Lira's eyes flashed at that news, or the careful way Adrain's face went blank. Good. Let them stew on that information overnight.
"Of course," Adrain said, his voice carefully neutral. "Whatever makes you most comfortable, my love."
My love. The endearment felt hollow, perfunctory. When had his declarations of affection become mere social obligations?
"How thoughtful of you," Nyma murmured, stepping out of his embrace with fluid grace. "I should check on the arrangements for tomorrow's departure. I'm sure you'll want to... catch up... with your friends."
The emphasis on 'catch up' carried enough innuendo to make even Della blush slightly. But it was the way Lira's jaw tightened that told Nyma her barb had found its mark.
"Goodnight, everyone," Nyma said with regal composure. "Sleep well. I'm sure tomorrow will be... illuminating... for all of us."
With that parting shot, she turned and walked away, her heels clicking against marble with the steady rhythm of a countdown. Behind her, she could feel seven pairs of eyes tracking her movement—assessing, calculating, wondering how much of a threat the pregnant Luna actually posed.
Let them wonder, she thought as she climbed the stairs toward her chambers. They'll find out soon enough.
But it wasn't until she was safely behind closed doors that she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth that had been clawing at her chest all evening:
The strangers weren't the real threat.
The real threat was the way her mate's eyes had lingered on Lira's face when he thought nobody was watching.
The real threat was the comfortable familiarity between them—the kind that came from shared secrets and intimate knowledge.
The real threat was the growing certainty that Adrain's five months of 'special training' had been anything but solo instruction.
Nyma pressed her hand to her belly, feeling their child stir restlessly beneath her palm. Tomorrow, she promised silently. Tomorrow we'll be safe with people who actually want us.
But first, she had to survive tonight.
And something told her it was going to be the longest night of her life.