Chapter 7 Second Chances
Aelira’s POV
“Scandal?” Elysande’s voice slices through the room, sharp as glass. Her eyes flick between Alarion and Cyrinne, then settle on me with a sudden intensity that makes my skin prickle. “What scandal is this?”
Alarion steps forward, broad shoulders squared, his posture bristling with defense. “It’s nothing, Mother. Just rumors.”
“Rumors come with photographic evidence now?” My voice is steadier than the tremor in my hands; I force it to sound unshakable.
Cyrinne emits a dismissive laugh, brittle and high. “People always talk, Elysande. There’s nothing inappropriate between Alarion and me, I assure you.”
Elysande’s gaze hardens. She pulls her tablet from the drawer—her movements crisp, purposeful. A few taps, and she turns the screen outward, facing us all.
“Nothing?” she asks, her tone icy. The screen displays a news article, a photo of Alarion and Cyrinne, standing close—too close—by his office window. “This doesn’t look like nothing to me.”
Alarion’s jaw locks, a muscle ticking along his cheek. “That’s out of context.”
“And this?” Elysande swipes to another image—Cyrinne’s hand clutching Alarion’s arm outside the pack house. “Is this just another misunderstanding?”
For a moment, Cyrinne’s perfect smile slips. I catch Roderic shifting in his seat, discomfort written in the lines of his mouth.
Elysande zooms in, her finger tapping the background. “That’s Luthen, isn’t it? Your Beta. So these business meetings happened with pack witnesses?”
Alarion doesn’t answer. Luthen Brielle’s presence is irrefutable proof—this wasn’t a single lapse, but a pattern.
Setting the tablet down, Elysande turns on Cyrinne, her gentle warmth replaced by a steel-edged protectiveness only a mother can wield.
“Listen well,” she says, every word clipped and deliberate. “Whatever game you’re playing, it ends tonight. Alarion and Aelira will have their formal mating ceremony soon, with both families present and blessing.”
Cyrinne’s emerald eyes flash with something cold and sharp. “Elysande, you’re mistaken. Alarion and I are only—”
“Childhood friends. Yes, I’ve heard.” Elysande interrupts, voice colder than ever. “But friends don’t create scandals that nearly kill their friend’s mother-in-law.”
Roderic tries to recover his authority, his tone brittle. “Elysande, you’re making too much of this. Cyrinne is welcome here—”
“To do what?” Elysande demands, whirling on him. “To come between a mated pair? To undermine her Luna? To stain the reputation of this pack and this family?”
Silence falls—a heavy, suffocating hush. Even Roderic has nothing left to say.
Cyrinne rises with slow, deliberate grace, smoothing her pristine dress as if nothing could touch her. “Perhaps it’s best if I leave.” Her voice is calm, but I see the fury flicker behind her composure. “I never intended to cause trouble.”
Alarion steps forward immediately. “I’ll drive you—”
“No,” Elysande and I say together, voices overlapping in unplanned unity.
For a split second, Cyrinne’s mask fractures, raw anger leaking through before she schools her features. “Of course. I’ll call a car.” She glances at me, face softening to a mask of false sympathy. “I hope your mother recovers, Aelira.”
Her words taste like poison. My wolf snarls beneath my skin, but I keep my silence as she glides from the room, Roderic following, eager to play the loyal host.
Daelor, who has watched the whole drama with predatory calm, finally speaks, his tone lightly teasing but his gaze razor-sharp. “So, a formal mating ceremony? Congratulations are in order.”
Alarion’s glare is ice and fire. “Yes. Soon.”
“Wonderful news,” Daelor continues, the smile never reaching his eyes. “Nightshade Pack values a strong alliance. I’ll be sure to send a suitable gift.”
Everyone hears the warning in his words: Alarion’s personal scandals threaten not just his mate, but the stability of the packs.
Elysande manages a brittle smile. “Dinner, then? Before everything goes cold?”
The meal is a tense, joyless affair. Roderic returns midway through, expression soured by defeat. Daelor is all calculated politeness, discussing territory matters with a deftness that only seems to make Alarion more irritable.
My thoughts keep drifting to my mother, pale and fighting for her life because of all this, and to the secret I carry—our unborn child, the only thing anchoring me to hope.
After dinner, I excuse myself, claiming exhaustion. It’s no lie. Pregnancy and heartbreak have wrung me dry.
“I should be going as well,” Daelor says, rising. “Elysande, your meals never disappoint.”
Alarion walks Daelor to the door, while I drag myself upstairs. My limbs are heavy, my soul even heavier. I barely manage to change into a nightgown before collapsing onto the bed, curling around the ache in my belly.
I lay a hand over my stomach, protective and tender. “What a day you’ve had, little one,” I whisper, tears pricking my eyes. “I’m sorry for all of it.”
Sleep claims me in shuddering waves. I don’t know how long I drift before the mattress shifts and Alarion’s scent fills the room. He slides in behind me, his arms enfolding me, warm and all too familiar.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs, lips brushing my neck.
I stiffen in his grip. “Yes.”
His arms tighten, desperate. “Why was Daelor Briarhallow bringing you home?”
Of course. That’s his first concern. Not my mother’s life hanging by a thread, not the anguish boiling inside me.
“He drove me from the hospital,” I answer, voice flat. “Where my mother is fighting for her life, because of the spectacle you and Cyrinne made.”
Alarion bolts upright. “What? Your mother’s in the hospital?”
I turn, searching his face for any trace of understanding. “She saw that news report about you and Cyrinne. It brought on a crisis—she coughed up blood, Alarion. They rushed her into emergency surgery.”
Horror splits across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.” My voice is cold. “Cyrinne answered your phone.”
He runs his hands through his hair, genuine distress wracking his posture. “We need to go to the hospital. I have to explain to your mother—there’s nothing between me and Cyrinne.”
“Is that true?” I demand, sitting up to face him fully. “Because what I see—what everyone sees—says otherwise. The way you ran to her when she cut her hand, how you left me at the pack house to rush to her after a fender bender…”
His expression hardens. “It’s complicated, Aelira.”
“Uncomplicate it,” I snap, the last of my patience gone. “Tell me the truth. Who is Cyrinne to you now?”
He hesitates, then reaches for his phone and scrolls. He hands it to me, voice subdued. “Read this.”
The screen displays a news article from two years ago: PACK ENFORCER CRITICALLY INJURED SAVING ALPHA’S LIFE. The story details how Beta Draven Wynthor threw himself in front of Alarion during a rogue attack, taking a catastrophic blow to the spine and brain—leaving him permanently disabled.
“Draven is Cyrinne’s mate,” Alarion says, voice hollow. “Or was, until she dissolved the bond.”
The pieces begin to fit, jagged and sharp. “She left him because he’s disabled?”
Alarion nods, shame etched into every line of his face. “He needs full-time care. He can’t be her mate. It broke her. Broke both of them.”
A storm of emotions churns through me—sympathy for Draven, revulsion at Cyrinne’s abandonment, unease at Alarion’s role in it all.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” My voice is barely a whisper.
His shoulders slump. “I live with the guilt every day. If Draven hadn’t stepped in…”
“That doesn’t explain you and Cyrinne,” I say, cutting through his self-pity.
He meets my gaze, pain raw in his amber eyes. “When she learned how bad Draven’s injuries were, she snapped. She tried to kill herself. With a broken piece of glass.”
The memory clicks into place—his frantic reaction when Cyrinne was cut, the panic that seemed disproportionate. “That’s why you lost it earlier. It’s not love. It’s trauma.”
He nods, shame flickering across his face. “I should have told you. I know how it looked.”
I sit with this, letting the new understanding settle in. It explains his actions, but not everything.
“I get that you feel responsible. But why all the secret meetings? Why does your father treat her like royalty?”
Alarion’s breath comes out in a rush. “Cyrinne lost everything because Draven saved me. My father thinks we owe her. He’s the one who pushed for her to be Chief Healer.”
I remember the way Cyrinne manipulates, the way she leans into Alarion’s guilt, bending it to her advantage.
“Is she using that guilt to control you?” I ask softly.
He blinks. “What?”
“Alarion, she’s manipulating you. She’s using your guilt as a leash. I know you feel responsible, but this is more than supporting a friend.”
He considers, uncertainty etched across his face. “I never thought of it that way.”
I take his hand, hope flickering. “I need to know, honestly—given everything, do you think it’s smart to keep her so close? My mother’s at risk. Our family’s at risk. Are you going to let her keep doing this?”
He squeezes my hand, his voice gentle but noncommittal. “I hear you, Aelira. I’ll be more careful about boundaries with Cyrinne.”
His words are right, but they ring hollow, lacking the promise that I need. I nod, too depleted to fight tonight. Despite all his explanations, something inside me stays unsettled, a wound that refuses to close.
