#Chapter 81: Raiden
(Raiden’s POV)
The grand hall gleams under the light of crystal chandeliers, the air filled with the hum of conversation and the soft clinking of glasses.
Packs from across the region mingle, celebrating the success of the SOA preparations. But beneath the surface of alliances and diplomacy, there’s an unspoken tension–a quiet acknowledgment of the history between me and the woman this night seems to orbit around.
Siena.
My eyes find her too easily, drawn like a moth to a flame I know will burn me if I get too close.
She moves through the crowd with effortless grace, her shimmering in the low light, her posture poised yet relaxed. She belongs here in a way I never allowed myself to see before, her presence commanding the respect of everyone she speaks to.
Alaric remains at her side, his presence constant and irritatingly casual.
He watches over her like a silent sentinel, his attention unwavering.
Horace bristles every time he leans in to speak to her, every time she smiles at something he says. It’s a primal reaction, one I have no right to feel but can’t suppress.
I force myself to focus on the conversations around me, nodding at the appropriate moments, offering polite responses. But it’s all a blur, a meaningless backdrop to the way my chest tightens every time Siena laughs, every time she tilts her head toward Alaric with a familiarity I can’t stand to witness.
When the ceremonial dance is announced, the air shifts. The tradition is an old one, a partnered ritual meant to symbolize alliances between packs. It’s formal, elegant, and deeply symbolic–a dance that carries more meaning than the casual revelry that follows.
I see my opening.
Approaching her table feels like walking into a storm, every step charged with the weight of our shared history.
Siena is mid–conversation, her expression open but guarded, the mask of diplomacy firmly in place. When she notices me, her amber eyes flicker with irritation.
“Alpha King,” she greets, her tone polite but distant.
“Luna Siena,” I reply, the formal address slipping from my lips before I can stop it. Something in her expression tightens, but she doesn’t correct me, and for that, I’m grateful.
I glance briefly at Alaric, who watches me with a calm intensity that sets Horace on edge, before turning my full attention to her. “Would you honor Silverfang with this dance?”
The phrasing is deliberate, careful. I’m not asking as her former mate. I’m asking as the Alpha King of Silverfang. acknowledging her independence and the respect she’s earned.
For a moment, she says nothing, her amber eyes searching mine as though trying to decipher my intentions. Then, with a slight nod, she places her hand in mine.
“Of course,” she says, her tone smooth and measured.
Her hand is warm but distant, her touch light as though she’s careful not to let it linger too long.
Alaric doesn’t say a word as we step away, but I feel his eyes on me, a silent warning I choose to ignore.
The music begins, and we move into the intricate steps of the dance. It’s been years since we’ve done this together, but the muscle memory is still there, guiding us through the movements with practiced ease.
Her hand rests lightly on my shoulder, mine at her waist, the space between us carefully maintained despite the closeness of the dance.
For a moment, it feels like stepping back in time, a ghost of the connection we once shared haunting every step. The rhythm of the music, the gentle sway of her body against mine–it’s both familiar and foreign, a bittersweet reminder of what was and what will never be again.
“The territory transfer was unnecessary,” Siena says quietly, her voice breaking the silence that has settled between us. Her eyes remain fixed downward, studying the delicate lines of the tablecloth as though the intricate pattern might somehow offer answers neither of us can articulate.
Then, softly, almost as an afterthought, she adds, “But appreciated.”
The acknowledgment is small–almost perfunctory–but it’s the first crack I’ve noticed in the diplomatic armor she’s so
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*Chapter 81 Raiden
masterfully constructed around herself.
For the first time since her return, there is a flicker of something beyond careful neutrality, something softer, more genuine. It might be slight, easily missed, but I cling desperately to it, even as I know it’s far from enough.
Even as I understand that this small concession doesn’t erase the years of pain, or the countless ways I’ve failed her.
Still, it’s something.
“It was always rightfully Windhowl’s,” I admit at last, ‘my voice pitched low, intended solely for her ears.
Around us, conversations flow gently, punctuated by the clink of glassware and silverware, laughter and murmured. discussions filling the evening air. Yet it feels as though we exist in a separate, fragile bubble, a moment suspended in time.
“My opposition was… personal rather than political.”
The confession costs me more deeply than I could have anticipated.
Admitting my pettiness, admitting my inability to separate emotion from responsibility–it feels like peeling away a carefully maintained facade, exposing wounds I’ve long worked to conceal.
For so many years, pride had blinded me to my own faults, my insecurities cleverly masked behind a veneer of political strategy and stubborn authority.
Now, laid bare before her, I feel vulnerable, exposed in a way that nearly terrifies me.
But Siena deserves the truth, no matter how ugly it is.
She lifts her gaze slowly, studying me with quiet intensity. Her amber eyes, still guarded but softer now, search my face, carefully assessing the sincerity behind my words.
I force myself not to look away, allowing her to scrutinize every flaw, every unspoken regret etched across my features.
“I suspected as much,” she finally murmurs softly, her voice carrying quiet wisdom I once failed to appreciate. “But hearing you admit it is… unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” I repeat gently, a faint, humorless smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I suppose that’s fair. I’ve given you little reason to expect honesty from me.”
She doesn’t contradict me, her silence echoing louder than any words could.
I swallow roughly, feeling the weight of my past mistakes pressing down upon me. The room around us fades into insignificance, the noise and movement becoming little more than a distant hum. All that seems to exist now is Siena–her quiet strength, her carefully maintained composure, and the aching regret I feel so keenly whenever I look at her.
“I was wrong,” I whisper earnestly, the words tumbling out before I can reconsider or stop them.
“Wrong about so many things–about you, about myself. I was blind and arrogant, Siena. Refusing your requests for those territories, dismissing your diplomatic efforts–it was a way of punishing you for being right, for daring to challenge my pride.”
She draws in a slow breath, absorbing my confession silently, her expression carefully neutral once again. Yet beneath that practiced mask, I sense quiet turmoil.
Her fingers tremble slightly against the edge of her wineglass, betraying emotions she’s clearly fighting to suppress.
“I don’t say this to earn your forgiveness,” I continue quietly, voice thick with sincerity. “I know I don’t deserve it. But you deserve this honesty, at least. Perhaps it’s too little, too late–but it’s the truth.”
Siena remains quiet for a long moment, her gaze drifting thoughtfully across the room, observing the guests gathered for Windhowl’s formal farewell dinner.
A range of emotions flickers subtly through her eyes–sadness, regret, perhaps even quiet acceptance. Finally, she turns back toward me, her voice steady but soft as she speaks.
“Honesty is never too late, Raiden,” she murmurs gently, her words unexpectedly generous. “Perhaps it won’t change what’s happened, but it does matter. It matters to me.“.
“I’m grateful,” I reply softly, the words feeling inadequate against the weight of everything between us. “More than you know.” She nods slowly, her gaze briefly softening, allowing me a rare glimpse beneath her carefully constructed barriers.
For just a heartbeat, the distance between us narrows, fragile and tentative. Then she carefully straightens, the diplomatic mask sliding smoothly back into place, signaling an end to our quiet exchange.
But the moment—brief and imperfect as it was–leaves behind a small, hopeful warmth in my chest, a tiny spark amid the darkness.
Her steps falter for the briefest moment, surprise flickering across her features before she regains her composure. The music swells, the final notes signaling the end of the dance.
As we step apart, I know this is my last chance to say what I’ve been rehearsing in my mind for months.
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#Chapter 81. Raiden
“Siena,” I begin, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.
She looks at me, her expression guarded but expectant.
“I know it changes nothing.” I say, the words tumbling out before I lose my nerve. “But I need you to hear this once–I love you, Siena. Not as a political arrangement or a convenient alliance, but for exactly who you are. I’m sorry I realized too late.”
The silence that follows feels endless, her amber eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my chest ache. I don’t wait for her to respond. I can’t.
Instead, I bow formally, a gesture of respect and finality, and walk away before she can say anything that might shatter what little composure I have left.
Horace howls in protest, but I force him down, each step away from her heavier than the last.
I don’t look back.
It’s done. I’ve said my piece.
But the ache in my chest tells me it will never truly be over.
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