The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven novel 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."

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."