Chapter 6 Tension
Aelira’s POV
My breath snags, sharp and shallow, as I watch Cyrinne step gracefully out of Alarion’s car. The sheer audacity—her willingness to stride up to our family home, after all she’s done, after everything that’s unravelled—hits me like a slap. Sunlight catches in her auburn hair, gilding her carefully controlled beauty. She’s wrapped in immaculate white from head to toe, the uniform of a healer, her purity as deliberate as her every move. The sight of her makes my stomach twist.
Alarion follows, arms burdened with packages. His face tightens the moment he sees Daelor beside me. The look Alarion gives is all territorial challenge, amber eyes narrowing with a dangerous flash.
“Elysande!” Cyrinne’s voice rings out, syrupy and bright, as she sweeps forward to greet my mother-in-law with outstretched arms. “It’s been far too long!”
Elysande’s smile is brittle, a mask stretched thin over discomfort. “Cyrinne. What a surprise.”
Cyrinne holds out a gift, expertly wrapped. “A little something for you. That tea blend you love so much from the east.”
Elysande takes the package, her politeness as cold as winter glass. “How thoughtful.”
Cyrinne pivots to me, a second package cradled in her manicured grip. “And for you, Aelira. Some rare healing herbs—wonderful for… fertility concerns.”
The way she lingers over the word, the calculated compassion, makes my wolf rear up in fury beneath my skin. My gaze darts to the other herbs in Alarion’s arms—proof of their errand together, while I was at the hospital drowning in fear for my mother.
“No, thank you,” I say, voice flat, the hostility sharp and unvarnished. “I don’t accept gifts from women who answer my mate’s phone.”
Cyrinne’s green eyes widen, feigning wounded innocence. “I was only helping Alarion pick out the best herbs. For you, of course.”
Her smile is all teeth, sweetness curdling to poison. My wolf growls, low and restless. Pregnancy has made me more sensitive, more attuned to danger, and every instinct screams that Cyrinne is a threat.
“Aelira!” Roderic Riven’s voice cracks through the moment, harsh as a slap. Alarion’s father stands in the doorway, his scowl thunderous. “Is this how the Luna of Thunder Pack treats her guests?”
I straighten, refusing to shrink. “Does Thunder Pack entertain uninvited guests in the family home now, rather than the pack house?”
Roderic’s glare deepens, his voice lowering to a venomous mutter. “Cyrinne Wynthor is always welcome here. She’s practically family.”
He lets the next words slip just loud enough for me to hear: “Unlike some.”
The barb lands deeper than I want to admit. Three years, and I am still an outsider, never truly belonging.
“Roderic,” Elysande warns, her voice knife-edged. Her glare slices through his bravado, and he falls instantly silent.
He switches tactics, turning to Cyrinne with manufactured warmth. “Cyrinne, dear, how wonderful to see you! Tell me about your new role as Chief Healer. We’re so proud.”
The contrast is glaring—Cyrinne is welcomed, celebrated, while I am merely tolerated. She slips easily into the spotlight I’ve never been allowed to claim.
“Yes, do tell,” Daelor interjects, his deep voice a rumble, eyes sharp and assessing. “It’s impressive how quickly you rose to such an influential position after severing your mate bond.”
The room falls silent, Daelor’s observation hanging heavy in the air. For a heartbeat, Cyrinne’s smile fractures, but she recovers fast.
“Timing and opportunity,” she says smoothly. “The Pack needed a leader in healing, and I was available.”
“Aelira,” Roderic snaps, ignoring Daelor’s pointed remark, “prepare the welcome tea for our guests.”
The words sting. The traditional welcome tea is a ritual for honored visitors—never for someone like Cyrinne, not with my mother lying in a hospital bed fighting for her life.
“I’ll ask the staff at the pack house to prepare it,” I answer coldly, hands trembling with barely restrained anger.
Roderic flushes, caught between outrage and humiliation. “As Luna, you should—”
“Perhaps Alarion should prepare the tea,” Daelor suggests, his voice smooth as dark velvet, slicing off Roderic’s tirade. “I hear he has a discerning palate for herbal blends.”
Alarion’s jaw clenches, eyes hardening at Daelor’s interference. The tension between them vibrates, a silent war for dominance.
“You seem awfully protective of Aelira, Alpha Briarhallow,” Cyrinne observes, her tone thick with implication. “How… interesting.”
A low growl escapes Alarion, barely audible but unmistakably territorial. My blood boils at the hypocrisy. He has no right to stake a claim after everything he’s done.
“Daelor was gracious enough to drive me home after my visit to the hospital,” I say, my own voice cutting. “Since my mate was unavailable.”
I do not flinch from the word—mate—a reminder to all of them where Alarion’s loyalty should have been.
Alarion meets my gaze, his expression unreadable, then looks away. “Let’s continue this inside,” he says, dismissing Daelor’s suggestion. “It’s more comfortable.”
Inside the sitting room, the tension coils tighter. Elysande busies herself with refreshments. Roderic hangs on Cyrinne’s every word as she outlines her vision for the pack’s healing center, his admiration glowing.
“Your ideas are revolutionary,” Roderic gushes. “Thunder Pack is lucky to have you leading our innovation in healing.”
I bite my tongue until it nearly bleeds. Most of Cyrinne’s “innovations” are echoes of my mother’s research.
Alarion turns to Daelor, searching for an opening. “I’m curious about your sudden career shift, old friend. You always preferred your security work. Why take on Alpha King now?”
Daelor sits back, filling the space with his authority. “Priorities change.”
“That’s not much of an answer,” Alarion presses, his voice tightening.
Daelor’s silver eyes flicker to me, then back to Alarion. “Maybe I saw an opportunity to unite the Northern packs with something other than brute force. Diplomacy is long overdue.”
The two Alphas circle each other with words, their dominance thickening the air until my wolf shudders. Pregnancy makes me sensitive to these power games—I rest my hand over my flat belly, protective and secretive.
I shift, trying to ease the discomfort. Cyrinne notices and slides closer, her movement too fluid, too rehearsed.
“Aelira,” she whispers, voice honey-sweet and edged with steel. She nudges me, harder than necessary. “You should refill Daelor’s tea. It’s a Luna’s duty.”
Her push nearly knocks me off the couch. I catch myself, fury igniting like wildfire. My wolf snaps to attention, fierce and defensive of our unborn pup.
“What are you doing?” I snap, loud enough for all to hear.
Conversation stops, the room’s attention swinging to us.
Cyrinne’s green eyes go wide with innocent surprise. “Just reminding you of your role. There’s no need for dramatics.”
“Dramatics?” I echo, incredulous, my voice rising despite every effort to contain it.
“You’re making a scene,” Cyrinne stage-whispers, just loud enough to ensure her words land. “How embarrassing for Alarion, especially with another Alpha present.”
She’s twisting the knife, painting herself as the victim and me as the jealous, unstable Luna.
“Aelira, control yourself,” Roderic barks, his support for Cyrinne unwavering.
I’m caught, trapped by the web Cyrinne weaves, any defense only tightening her snare.
“I know my presence unsettles you,” Cyrinne says with faux sympathy, reaching for my hand. I jerk away. “But I’m only Alarion’s childhood friend. Nothing more. Your insecurities are showing, dear.”
Her words drip with calculated malice. She’s shifting every ounce of guilt onto me, making my pain look like weakness.
Across the room, Daelor watches, gaze narrowed, every muscle tense. He sees the game. He knows.
I turn on Cyrinne, my voice raw, stripped of pretense. “A childhood friend? Is that what they call someone who shares a scandal with a mated Alpha these days?”
