The Luna they buried

Chapter6

Chapter 6: Smiles and Poison

"You should smile more, Selena."

Vivian's voice floated through the crowd as she slipped gracefully to my side, her presence as soft and practiced as silk drawn across a blade. I nearly laughed — not because the comment was amusing, but because six years ago, I would have smiled immediately. I would have apologized for being distracted, linked my arm through hers, and thanked her warmly for worrying about me. I would have believed every word.

Now, all I heard was poison. Carefully disguised. Beautifully packaged. Deadly.

The Summer Moon Ceremony filled the pack grounds with music and laughter. Lanterns swayed from silver poles strung between ancient oaks, their warm light casting everything in gold. Children raced through the gathering while warriors shared drinks and stories around long wooden tables groaning beneath platters of food. To everyone else, it looked like a celebration — the kind of evening that existed only to be remembered fondly.

To me, it looked like a battlefield.

Because this was where it had all started. Not the accusations, not the trial, not the cold iron of the execution grounds — but here. In the laughter and the lantern light and the small, seemingly harmless moments that Vivian had used so expertly as the foundation of my destruction. The manipulation had begun long before I recognized it for what it was.

The slow, methodical dismantling of my life had looked, at first, like friendship. Like love.

Back then, I had missed every warning sign. This time, I intended to find them all.

"I am smiling," I said, and lifted the corner of my mouth just enough to qualify as proof.

Vivian studied me. The smile on her own face faltered for half a second — barely perceptible, the kind of c***k that vanished before anyone else could see it. But I saw it. I had learned to watch for exactly that.

She was noticing the difference. The distance. The fact that I no longer looked at her with blind, unquestioning trust. The realization seemed to unsettle her, and I allowed myself a quiet satisfaction I was careful not to show.

Good. Let her be unsettled, for once.

"You're acting strange today," she said, and her tone was light, almost casual. But nothing Vivian said was casual. Everything she offered was a probe, a small instrument designed to measure the depth of a wound she hadn't yet decided to make.

"Am I?" I kept my expression neutral, my voice even.

"You seem distracted."

I turned toward the dancers gathered near the center of the grounds, watching them spin beneath the swaying lanterns. "I didn't sleep well." The lie slipped out effortlessly. Years ago, I would have hated myself for it. The old Selena had always preferred honesty, had believed in it with the kind of devotion most people reserved for faith. Unfortunately, honesty had gotten her killed.

Vivian's gaze lingered on me — searching, measuring, calculating. I could practically hear the machinery turning behind her eyes as she tried to understand what had changed, tried to determine whether she should be concerned. The answer was yes. She should have been terrified.

A burst of laughter erupted nearby, and my attention shifted. Damon stood among several warriors near the training field, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. Even surrounded by other strong men, his presence dominated the space around him — tall, powerful, confident in that particular way that came not from arrogance alone but from the bone-deep certainty of someone who had never been made to doubt himself. The future Alpha of Silver Moon Pack. The man who would one day reject me before an entire kingdom.

The memory hit without warning. Rain. Chains. The particular quality of heartbreak that came from being destroyed by someone you had loved completely. I looked away immediately, forcing the image back into the dark place where I kept all the things I could not afford to feel.

I hated that he still affected me. I hated that some stubborn, foolish part of me still remembered the boy who used to sneak pastries into my room, who had once promised with absolute sincerity that he would always protect me. That boy had disappeared long before the execution grounds — or perhaps, I was beginning to think, he had never existed at all.

"He's watching you," Vivian said.

I stiffened, then turned slowly. Damon was looking directly at me, and when our eyes met, the noise of the celebration seemed to dim at its edges. Confusion crossed his features, followed closely by curiosity — the same look I had noticed the day before, as though he sensed something different about me but couldn't name it, couldn't understand why everything felt slightly off-center.

I broke eye contact first.

The bond between us felt normal — at least for now, nothing like the agonizing connection I remembered from the execution grounds. But a strange feeling lingered anyway, a sense that fate was beginning to shift beneath my feet like ground softening before a flood. Things were already changing. I wasn't entirely sure yet whether that was a mercy or a new kind of danger.

Vivian followed my gaze, and when she noticed Damon still watching us, something dark flickered through her eyes. Jealousy, hot and immediate, before it vanished behind her practiced composure. But not before I saw it. Not before I recognized it for what it had always been.

The sight sent a chill through me, because that jealousy had always been there. I simply had been too blind, too trusting, too thoroughly convinced of her love for me to ever notice.

"You and Damon seem distant lately," she said, her tone shaped into something that sounded like gentle concern.

It wasn't. I recognized the trap immediately — the question wrapped in softness, designed to make me reach for it without thinking. Six years ago, I would have answered honestly. I would have poured out every disagreement, every worry, every small insecurity. Then she would have quietly, patiently used all of it against me.

"We're fine," I said.

The disappointment that flickered through her eyes was brief but unmistakable, and my pulse quickened at the sight of it. She had wanted information. She wanted it desperately, which meant the conspiracy was already taking shape, already being assembled in whatever dark corners Vivian conducted her work.

A servant approached carrying silver goblets filled with wine, and Vivian accepted one immediately, the gesture as natural and graceful as everything she did. I reached for another. Then froze.

The memory arrived suddenly — sharp and violent and completely unexpected. A banquet. A silver goblet. A bitter taste underneath the sweetness. The room beginning to spin in slow, nauseating circles. Vivian's hand at my elbow, her voice gentle and insistent, telling me she would take me home.

My pulse skyrocketed.

"Lady Selena?" the servant asked, shifting nervously.

Slowly, I lowered my hand. "I've changed my mind."

Vivian blinked. "But you love the moonwine."

"I don't feel like drinking tonight."

The smile on her face tightened, just slightly, just enough for me to catch if I was watching — and I was always watching now. Something cold crawled down my spine. Six years ago, I would have accepted that goblet without a moment's hesitation. Without suspicion. Without ever understanding that what followed might have mattered more than I realized.

The memory remained fragmented, incomplete, but the weight of it felt important in a way I couldn't dismiss. Dangerously important.

A loud cheer erupted near the training field as the annual combat exhibition began, and the crowd surged forward in a wave of excitement. In the confusion, someone slammed hard into my shoulder. I stumbled backward — and then a hand closed around my wrist. Strong. Steady. Familiar in a way that bypassed thought entirely.

Heat shot through my body before I could stop it.

I looked up, already knowing what I would find. Damon. His fingers remained wrapped around my wrist, firm enough to keep me from falling, careful enough not to leave a mark. For a moment neither of us spoke, and the world felt strangely quiet.

A memory flashed through me without mercy — the execution grounds, his hand on my shoulders, his voice rough and desperate, begging me to stay. The image struck so hard I nearly flinched visibly.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and the question sounded genuine in a way that made my throat tighten.

I hated that. Hated hearing concern in his voice when I knew, with perfect and terrible certainty, what that voice would one day say about me.

"I am." I pulled my arm free, and the movement startled him. A small crease appeared between his brows.

"Selena—"

"Enjoy the ceremony, Damon."

I walked away before he could respond, my heart hammering in my chest — not from attraction, not anymore, but from the specific fear of someone who knows exactly where a road ends and refuses to walk it again.