The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven - Chapter 424

Chapter 424: A Way to Prove Them Wrong
[Third Person].

Instantly, Draven’s gaze found him, and whatever Reginald meant to say withered in his throat.

“Do not dress provocation in courtesy, Lord Fellowes,” Draven said. “You know exactly what you’re implying. You ask my wife, my Luna, to prove her worth before wolves who already know her place beside me.”

The word ‘wife’ carried weight. It silenced the few who might have argued further.

Meredith lowered her eyes slightly, not from shame but to steady herself. She could feel the storm in Draven’s tone; she could feel, too, the undercurrent of protectiveness that left no room for misinterpretation.

“She is not a pawn for your entertainment,” Draven went on. “I’ve fought enough wars for this city. I won’t fight a mock one to satisfy pride.”

The sharp authority of his words hung in the air. Even the servants near the walls froze, unsure whether to breathe.

Reginald forced a thin smile. “You misunderstand, Alpha. I only thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Draven said simply.

No one moved for a long moment. Then, slowly, Randall inclined his head in approval, or at least in agreement and said, “My son speaks wisely. Let the matter rest.”

A few elders nodded reluctantly. The tension broke with the faint rustle of robes and the muted sound of chairs adjusting.

Meredith finally raised her eyes, meeting Draven’s steady gaze. He gave the smallest nod, one that said everything she needed to hear and feel.

Across the table, Wanda’s nails pressed crescents into her palms beneath the tablecloth. The faint, polite smile she kept on her lips did nothing to hide the fire rising in her chest.

‘He’s defending her,’ she thought, the realization burning through her composure. ‘He’s protecting her the way he should have been protecting me.’

Jealousy twisted with longing—that deep, helpless ache of wanting to be the one whose name he said like that, whose dignity he shielded from a room full of power.

Her eyes lingered on Draven, on the way his hand rested lightly on Meredith’s chair, possessive but gentle, and for the first time, Wanda understood the sharpness of hunger not for status, but for the kind of devotion he had just shown.

She took a long, slow breath, forcing her expression smooth again. ‘I have to find a way to make him see me again.’

Servants refilled goblets and served sugared fruit as musicians struck up a new rhythm—soft strings and steady percussion that invited the dancers waiting at the edges of the room to step forward.

The folk dancers twirled in pairs, their robes catching the glow of the torches, gold thread glinting like fire under the chandeliers.

Laughter returned, measured but genuine this time. Guests clapped softly to the rhythm. The earlier tension had dissolved into a performance of civility—Stormveil’s usual way of pretending peace after a storm.

Draven sat with his shoulders slightly reclined, goblet in hand, but his eyes were distant.

Beside him, Meredith was quiet, watching the dancers with mild interest, though her mind was elsewhere—measuring every glance thrown their way, every hushed conversation that rippled through the hall.

Across the room, Wanda stood near her father, the wine in her goblet reflecting the red of her dress.

Her gaze hadn’t left Draven for long. She waited until the musicians changed tempo, the sound of laughter briefly rising above the rest of the hall, then she began to move, her steps deliberate and graceful.

When she reached the table, her smile was already fixed in place—bright, poised, rehearsed.

“Alpha Draven,” she said warmly, lifting her goblet slightly. “If I may?”

Draven turned his head, expression neutral. “Go ahead.”

“I would like to propose a toast,” she said, projecting her voice just enough to draw a few nearby conversations to a pause. “To the Alpha who led our people home from foreign soil, who proved that even among humans, the will of Stormveil does not bend.”

The words were flattering, perfectly shaped for the crowd. A ripple of approval passed through the guests.

Draven didn’t smile. He raised his goblet, the motion slow, courteous, but devoid of warmth.

“You’re generous, Wanda,” he said evenly. “But the glory isn’t mine alone.”

His voice carried clearly enough to be heard by those nearby. “I had capable hands beside me. Without them, there would be no safe return to celebrate.”

Wanda’s smile faltered for half a heartbeat before she steadied it again.

“Of course,” she said smoothly, turning her eyes toward Dennis and Jeffery as though remembering her manners. “You both have my respect.”

Dennis leaned back in his chair, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Respect, huh?” he said lightly. “I will take that.”

Jeffery nodded politely, hiding his amusement better than Dennis could.

But Wanda’s eyes drifted past them toward Oscar. She waited for some acknowledgement from him—perhaps a nod, a smile, anything—but Oscar didn’t even glance her way.

He was leaning back in his chair, his focus elsewhere, fingers idly tracing the rim of his goblet. If he had heard her at all, he gave no sign of it.

Wanda swallowed her irritation behind a soft, practised laugh and turned her attention back to Draven.

“Still,” she said sweetly, “I can’t help wanting to hear more of the story. You told the council all the formal parts—the politics, the strategy—but not the interesting ones.” Her gaze flicked subtly toward Meredith. “I’m sure there is more to it than that.”

Meredith met Wanda’s look without blinking. The faint curve of her lips wasn’t quite a smile—more like an acknowledgement, one wolf recognizing another’s challenge and refusing to yield.

Draven didn’t answer immediately. His eyes shifted briefly toward Wanda, then away again, the disinterest in his gaze sharp enough to sting.

Before the silence could grow heavy, Dennis cleared his throat, leaning forward with mock brightness.

“You should have seen how interesting it got,” he said cheerfully. “Setting the humans up was the best part. But unfortunately, you weren’t there.” He took a leisurely sip from his glass. “Next time, maybe don’t do something that makes my brother drive you away from his territory.”

Immediately, the comment landed with a clean, quiet sting.

Wanda’s fingers tightened around her goblet. For an instant, her smile froze—then she forced it back into place, the colour rising in her cheeks only slightly.

A few nearby guests who had overheard the exchange looked away quickly, pretending not to have noticed.

Meredith almost felt sorry for her. Almost. But then Wanda’s eyes darted toward her again—sharp, assessing, resentful, and the feeling vanished.

Draven didn’t comment. He merely set his goblet down and said in his calm, commanding tone, “That’s enough, Dennis.”

Dennis inclined his head in acknowledgement, still smirking.

Wanda exhaled slowly, steadying herself. “Well,” she said lightly, “it’s good to know you all had fun without me.”

Her tone was easy, but her eyes betrayed the heat beneath it—the same burning envy that had followed her all evening.

When she glanced at Draven one last time, his attention was already elsewhere, his head bent toward Meredith as he said something quiet that made her lips curve faintly in response.

Wanda’s smile flickered, then vanished altogether. She turned away, lifting her goblet and downing what remained of her wine in a single swallow.

One day, she thought, watching them from the corner of her eye. ‘One day, I will stand where she is. No matter what it takes.’

The music swelled again, bright and full, the dancers returning to the floor as laughter rippled through the hall.

But beneath the soft light and golden sound, jealousy and ambition twisted quietly through the air—unseen, but far from gone.

Wanda’s smile didn’t return as she made her way back to her seat. The air around Draven’s table still hummed faintly from the weight of what had just transpired.

Her pulse pounded in her ears; every step back to her father’s side felt like a slow retreat through thick air.

She had almost lowered herself into her chair when her father’s voice slid coldly into her mind.

“What was that stunt?”

Wanda flinched. “Father, I was only—”

“You were only embarrassing yourself,” Reginald’s tone snapped like a whip, even in the silent channel of their mind link.

“You drew attention when I specifically warned you to maintain composure. You can’t even follow the simplest instructions. And that is why you remain nothing more than a disgrace.”

The word stung sharper than she expected. But she swallowed hard, keeping her expression composed for the public eye. Her hands tightened on her lap beneath the tablecloth.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she replied quickly, the words small and automatic.

Reginald didn’t answer; instead, he turned his attention forward again, his expression calm, as though their exchange had never happened.

Wanda sat motionless, her stomach twisting with humiliation and anger. Around her, the laughter and music went on—detached and meaningless.

She took another drink of her wine with her eyes lowered and her jaw clenched.

No one would see how deeply the exchange cut her. But inside, she vowed silently that this would not be her end.

“I will find a way to prove Father wrong. I will prove them all wrong.”