(Sanya's POV)
(Sanya's POV)
No one else stands. Tara doesn't look up. The auburn-haired woman raises an eyebrow. The servants pause mid-step.
Tyron pulls out the chair beside his. Not across from him. Beside him. At the head of the table. The position that says, in every pack I've ever heard of: this is the Luna's seat.
"Sit," he says. And then, quieter, with the edge of something that could be mistaken for tenderness: "This is where you belong."
I sit.
Tara's fork pauses halfway to her mouth.
I can feel her gaze land on the side of my face — heavy, sharp, the gaze of a woman who has been running this house for thirty years and has just watched a chair get pulled for a girl who arrived yesterday with nothing. The pause lasts two seconds. Maybe three. Then the fork continues its path
