Shattered Bonds A Second Chance Mate (by Yui) novel Chapter 210

Chapter 210

We decided before the sun touched the lip of the hill: we would play the fools.

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Yes, but not the kind that bend their backs for kicks, not the kind that beg a rumor for mercy.

No–our kind of foolishness would be the sort that makes enemies grind their teeth: smiling when they expect snarls, feeding when they come hungry for fear, opening windows when they think smoke will choke

1. us.

We would make a stage of warmth and let the cold shiver outside our circle of light.

Marlow called it camouflage. Alfonso called it narrative control. Audrey called it bait. They will thought that the Lycan became soft or weak.

I just called it a table.

By late afternoon, the square had changed skins.

Banners that had hung limp under the previous Alpha now moved with the wind as if relieved to be seen. Lanterns were strung from balcony to balcony like small moons caught in a net.

Maria had commandeered half the street with trestles and platters: roasted roots glazed in honey, loaves split open to show their steam, cheeses dusted with rosemary, bowls of olives, figs, sliced pears. She smacked hands that reached too early, kissed cheeks that needed it, and barked at anyone who tried to put a knife where a spoon should go.

“Bread first,” she decreed, “then brave speeches.”

The people came.

Not in a rush—that would have meant panic—but in a steady, widening trickle.

Elders first, because they knew the value of a good seat. Children the color of dust and sunshine, noses smeared with jam, darted between legs and under tables. Warriors came with the wary posture of men who have learned not to trust crowds; they eased when they saw the way Francesco stood–visible, yes, but unarmed, his coat open, his hands empty except for mine.

Dignitaries from neighboring packs arrived in twos and threes, eyes bright with curiosity and calculation. And stitched among them, exactly where we expected, were the watchful ones who didn’t belong to anyone but the men who paid them: Dorian’s fragmented brood of ears and eyes.

We didn’t point. We didn’t whisper. We welcomed.

Because the thing about spies is this: they have to stand close to hear.

Yes, let them come within the radius of the lanterns. Let them smell the bread. Let them carry back a story sticky with honey and inconveniently full of laughter.

Francesco and I stood side by side on the low stone steps of the old well.

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Chapter 216

We didn’t dress like a coronation, we dressed like the people we needed to be. His shirt was open at the throat, the top button undone because he had forgotten and because I liked it that way.

I wore no crown, no jewels–just the shawl Maria had knitted in Florence when I was a girl with mourning in my bones and a future I was too frightened to name. I tied it around my shoulders now and felt my old selves

nod.

Audrey posted herself one step back and to my left, her attention nowhere and everywhere.

Alfonso angled himself on the right, ledger in hand, looking like a man taking dictation from the weather.

Marlow drifted, the way a shadow does when it likes a place, smiling with half his mouth at anyone who tried to look past him.

The bell sounded once.

It wasn’t ceremonial.

Julius simply rang it when the crowd looked ready and the bread had stopped vanishing long enough for mouths to be empty of crumbs.

Conversations braided themselves into silence. Faces turned.

I stepped forward.

“Good evening,” I said Loudly to everyone.

No magic in the words, only the decision to say them as if we had every right to.

A murmur moved through the square, that small intake people make when they expect thunder and the sky gives them birds.

“I am Ellaine,” I went on, letting my voice carry. “Your Luna.”

No need to add and I am the White Wolf you whisper about.

Because, they would decide for themselves which name mattered.

“You’ve eaten with us,” I said, lifting a hand toward the tables, “and you’ve seen us open the windows of the old houses. I have asked you to bring your questions, your anger, your fears. We will not answer with swords. We will answer with daylight.”

Francesco’s hand settled at my back, warm as a living oath.

It wasn’t a claim.

It was permission and pride, and the square saw it.

A man near the front–one of the French lieutenants who had hovered at breakfast the day before–raised his chin. “Is it true,” he called, voice pitched to carry, “that the King roared in the ward like a beast and shook the walls?”

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Chapter 210

Marlow’s shoulders twitched,

Audrey’s head tilted, the motion small and predatory,

Alfonso’s quill did not pause.

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1 smiled. “He roars when my bread burns,” I said, light as a ladle. “The walls of this place have held worse.”

A ripple of laughter broke tension like kindling snaps.

The lieutenant tried again, less sure. “It is also said the Luna wept.

“Ah.” I put a hand to my heart as if considering the rumor’s weight. “Yes, I am guilty. Bread and tears–it is how I keep my husband civil.”

The laughter this time was larger, accompanied by a whistle from a table of young warriors.

Maria, across the square, pointed at me with a spoon and nodded vigorously, which made it worse (which made it better).

The lieutenant sat down, flushed and disarmed.

The spy three feet behind him muttered to his elbow.

We let it roll like we didn’t know it, yes, we acting fools.

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