(Radw’s POV)
I recognize this mask, this careful distance, all too well.
It merors the very treatment I once inflicted upon her, unaware or uncaring of its cruelty.
The irony burns me, bitter and undeniable, twisting painfully through my chest as she deflects each of my subtle attempts to shift the conversation away from business.
I watch her carefully as she flips through the documents, her slender fingers precise and efficient.
Her amber eyes skim briefly over each page, absorbing details effortlessly. She nods politely at my questions, answers succinctly and professionally, never allowing the smallest crack in her carefully constructed armor.
Five days she’s been her.
“You’ve barely glanced at those, and you already know what’s wrong, don’t you?”
Page three–supplier invoice is missing. Page six–there’s a discrepancy in the totals.”
“Still sharp as ever
She nods, turning another page, “Is that all you needed?”
“Just trying to have a conversation Siena. It’s been …it’s been so long.”
She finally looks up, “I thought we were reviewing documents.”
“You used to let me in more than this.”
“That was a different time. Different context.”
Different Luna.
She returns her gaze to the page, eyes flicking across the numbers like they’re more compelling than anything I could say.
“You don’t have to be this cold.”
“I’m being professional.”
She closes the folder with a quiet snap and sets it between us like a barrier.
For five agonizing days in which she’s moved gracefully and detachedly through Windhowl, checking in with Rairity, approving leadership structures, and quietly assessing pack progress.
Never once has she come to Silverfang, requested my input.
Asked me for…anything.
It’s as if she’s built an invisible wall around herself, one I can’t breach no matter how desperately I try.
Worse still is the constant presence of Alaric, that foreign Alpha whose protective hovering around Siena stirs primal, irrational jealousy in my wolf.
Each time I see Alaric’s hand brush lightly against her elbow, each time he leans in close, murmuring softly with easy familiarity, something fierce and possessive snarls inside me.
I have no right to feel it–I forfeited that long ago–but my wolf refuses logic, driven only by raw instinct and regret.
The conference room buzzed with low, formal chatter as council members and delegates trickled in, taking their seats around the long obsidian table. I barely registered the words of the diplomat beside me–my eyes were already on her.
Siena.
She took her seat directly across from me, her posture composed, her expression unreadable. Alaric slid into the chair beside her with his usual quiet vigilance, an ever–present shadow. My jaw tensed.