Hiding Me as His Luna, I Become the Luna of His Enemy

Lucian replied within seconds. [Okay. I’ll come fetch you in three days.]

Seeing his rune-light agree, Lyra felt a small ease settle in her chest at last.

Her body had always been fragile and after the cleansing and the procedure, she remained under the healers’ care for three more dawns to regain strength.

It wasn’t until the day she was discharged that Darius finally came to the White Hall.

“Hey. I’m sorry. Mireille’s been on her period for the last few days and the cramps have been so bad she can’t even walk. She gets anxious whenever I’m not around,” he explained.

With her back to him, Lyra continued folding the last of her small chest and answered flatly, “Mm.”

Sensing her coldness, Darius stepped close and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“What happened with the potion that time—yes, you went too far. You crossed a line. But I’ve reflected too. I shouldn’t have lost myself… I won’t let it happen again,” he promised.

“I know you despise Mireille because you love me, but truly, there is nothing between us. She is only a friend. And remember—you’re my mate. What is it you fear?” he pressed.

If Darius could have seen her face then, he would have noticed the disdain flashing in her eyes.

Friends? You lay with her. What friendbed fools around like that? she thought, bitter. Would it only count as “something” if Mireille bore his pup?

But Lyra no longer cared. In a few moons she would be gone for good. There was no use quarrelling over things that would soon be ashes.

“What’s past is past. I don’t wish to speak of it.” She folded the last scarf. “Aren’t you here to escort me? Let’s go.”

Darius felt a strange hollow—she had not even offered him a smile.

Fine, he thought. When Mireille departs, I’ll surprise Lyra. We will begin anew. I will let the old nights be buried.

Everything of late only proved one thing clearer—Mireille is but a friend. What I feel for Lyra… His gaze lingered on his wife. It is love.

He lifted her trunk and guided her from the healing wing.

As they reached the corridor, the attending healer approached with measured steps.

“Lyra, is this your mate? I thought—”

Fearing the healer might speak of the procedure, Lyra cut him off. “Thank you for your care. I recover well now; I will not waste the pack’s resources.” She drew Darius away and hurried from the clinic.

But no sooner had they returned to the villa than Mireille’s voice rang like a bell.

“Oh, Lyra, three years and you remain unchanged!” she sang mockingly.

Lyra shot her a warning glare, then turned to climb the stairs to finish packing.

Mireille’s next words made her halt.

“Three years ago, I was the one who slipped a draught into your cup. I told you to find him at the bar. I knew Darius loved me, but when I left, who could say he would not fall for another? You liked him too, so I set a small trap.”

She sauntered forward, one strap of her dress deliberately hanging, the faded kissmarks at her throat and chest plain to see.

“You took care of him for three years. I appreciate that sacrifice. But now I’ve come back—this house is mine no longer. It’s time for you to leave, Lyra.”

She smiled, triumphant. “You have no kin here in Frostmere. Do not cross me. Take heed: leave while you still can.”

Lyra’s body trembled with cold fury; the revelation seared through her. So it was her plan from the start, she thought.

Without hesitation, Lyra raised her hand and struck Mireille across the face.

She fixed Mireille with a hard look. “So long as I breathe in this den, you will remain the other woman. Push me, Mireille, and none of us step away unscathed.”

Mireille reeled, stunned, lips parted with outrage. Her eyes hardened as she lifted her hand to strike back—when Darius appeared in the doorway like a blade.

In an instant Mireille’s expression shifted; her voice trembled with contrition.

“Lyra, Darius and I are only friends! That night was a mistake! Please! Don’t tell anyone!”

In the next beat, she sank to her knees, begging, forehead nearly kissing the floor.

Before Lyra could speak, Darius shoved her aside roughly.

Lyra, still tender from her recovery, hit the floor hard and hurt. But it was Mireille he lifted to her feet with practiced gentleness.

When he turned to Lyra again, his eyes cut like knives. “You are being absurd, Lyra! I’ve told you—why will you not let this lie?” he demanded.

“If you spread rumors of that night, how will Mireille live with shame?”

Tears rimmed Lyra’s eyes. She bit her lip. “You didn’t ask me what truly occurred, Darius. Will you believe anything she says?”

His hands balled into fists. Seeing her so fragile stirred something in him—but in the end he sided with Mireille.

“I only trust what stands before me,” he declared. “Apologize to Mireille now. Swear you will not lay a hand on her again.”

Lyra let out a cold, mirthless laugh, chin high with pride. “I did what any woman would. I am not the one to apologize.” Her stance did not waver. “You two are the ones at fault.”

Whatever conscience may have lingered in him evaporated.

He looked down at her with the weight of pack authority. “No. This time, Lyra, you will admit your fault.”

He summoned the guards. In moments, they seized her arms and hauled her upright.

“If you will not beg forgiveness, I will execute the family’s discipline. Ninety-nine lashes—you will not endure them,” he said, believing force would bend her will.

He thought threat would break her.

Lyra met his challenge without flinch.

“I struck her,” she said, voice steady. “Because she deserved it. But I have not threatened her.” Her eyes flashed. “Darius, if you dare lay a hand on me, even just once—you’re gonna regret it for the rest of your life.”