The servant quarters reeked of mold and desperation.
I stared at the cracked concrete walls of what had become my new home—a basement room barely large enough for a single bed and a rusted metal dresser. Water stains mapped the ceiling like continents of shame, and the single bare bulb cast everything in harsh, unforgiving light.
Three months ago, I had slept in silk sheets in the Luna's suite. Now I had scratchy wool blankets that smelled like bleach and broken dreams.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor above—pack members going about their daily lives, their voices carrying through the thin floorboards. I caught fragments of conversation, whispers that followed me everywhere I went.
"Can't believe she's back."
"Killian should have banished her permanently."
"Child killer."
The words sliced through me like silver blades, but I kept my expression neutral. Let them think I was broken. Let them believe their whispers could destroy what was left of me.
I had work to do.
A sharp knock rattled my door. "Willow!" Serena's voice dripped with false sweetness. "The kitchen needs cleaning, and I've spilled wine on my dress. Be a dear and take care of it."
I opened the door to find her standing there in all her pregnant glory, one hand resting protectively on her growing belly. The wine stain on her white dress was clearly intentional—too perfectly placed, too conveniently timed.
"Of course," I said, keeping my voice soft and submissive. "Right away."
Serena's smile was razor-sharp. "Good girl. And Willow? Make sure you use cold water. We wouldn't want to set the stain permanently."
The threat was clear. Some stains, she was saying, could never be washed clean.
I spent the next four hours scrubbing floors, washing dishes, and pretending not to notice the way pack members stepped aside when I passed, as if my presence might contaminate them. Every menial task was a deliberate humiliation, every order a reminder of how far I'd fallen.
But while my hands worked, my mind cataloged.
Killian's schedule was predictable. Every Tuesday, he met with the pack's financial advisors. Thursdays were reserved for territory disputes and border negotiations. And every Wednesday and Saturday, after the evening meal, he retreated to his study with a bottle of whiskey.
Wednesdays were different, though. After his meetings with the pack elders, he would drink alone—or so everyone believed. The servants were dismissed early those nights. Even Serena kept her distance, claiming the smell of alcohol made her morning sickness worse.
It was the perfect window.
Wednesday arrived with the weight of anticipation pressing against my ribs. I moved through my tasks with mechanical precision, cleaning Serena's rooms while she lounged in bed, complaining about swollen ankles and the baby's restless kicking.
"You know," she said, watching me dust her vanity mirror, "I sometimes wonder if you ever think about your lost child. Do you dream about what might have been?"
My hand stilled on the glass. In the reflection, I could see her studying my face, searching for cracks in my composure.
"I try not to dwell on the past," I replied carefully.
"Hmm." She shifted on the bed, silk sheets rustling around her. "Killian says guilt can drive a person mad. That's why he's being so generous, letting you stay. He's worried you might hurt yourself."
Or hurt others, her tone implied.
I finished dusting and moved toward the door. "Is there anything else you need?"
"Actually, yes." Serena's voice stopped me at the threshold. "Killian will want tea brought to his study around ten tonight. Earl Grey, no sugar. He's been having trouble sleeping."
My pulse quickened, but I kept my expression neutral. "Of course."
The hours crawled by with agonizing slowness. I prepared dinner, served the pack elders, and cleaned up afterward, all while watching the clock inch toward ten. By nine-thirty, the main house had settled into quiet routine. The elders had departed, Serena had retired to her room, and the servants had been dismissed for the night.
Except for me.
I prepared the tea with trembling hands, my wolf stirring restlessly beneath my skin. She could sense my anticipation, the electric tension that came before a hunt. For months, she'd been dormant, suppressed by grief and silver poisoning. But tonight, she was awake.
At exactly ten o'clock, I knocked softly on Killian's study door.
"Come in."
His voice was already slightly slurred—a good sign. I pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the room that had once been as familiar as my own heartbeat. Rich leather bound books lined the walls, and a fire crackled in the stone hearth. Killian sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a crystal tumbler of whiskey in his hand.
But he wasn't alone.
A holographic projection shimmered above his desk—the translucent figure of a man I didn't recognize. Sharp features, calculating eyes, and the unmistakable bearing of an Alpha.
"Northern Ridge's conditions are simple," the projection was saying. "Blackwood's border patrol routes in exchange for our guarantee not to invade Crimson Moon territory. It's a fair trade."
My blood turned to ice. I set the tea tray down as quietly as possible, praying neither man would notice the way my hands shook.
Killian leaned back in his chair, swirling his whiskey. "And what guarantee do I have that Northern Ridge won't use those routes against us later?"
The projected Alpha smiled coldly. "You don't. But you have my word that we'll honor our agreement as long as you continue to provide useful intelligence."
"Intelligence about what?"
"Crimson Moon's weaknesses. Ryker Kane's strategies. Anything that might be... useful in future negotiations."
I pressed myself against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. Killian wasn't just betraying Blackwood—he was orchestrating a three-way conflict that would pit all the major packs against each other. And somehow, Ryker Kane was at the center of it.
"The next shipment of information will be ready by Friday," Killian said. "Border schedules, patrol patterns, and a detailed map of our defensive positions."
"Excellent." The projection began to fade. "Pleasure doing business with you, Alpha Ashford."
The hologram disappeared, leaving Killian alone with his whiskey and his treachery.
I waited in the shadows, counting my heartbeats. After several minutes, Killian's breathing grew heavy and regular. The empty tumbler slipped from his fingers, and his head lolled back against his chair.
Now.
I crept toward the coat rack by the door, where Killian's leather jacket hung. My fingers found the pocket, and there—cold metal against my fingertips.
The key to his private safe.
I was lifting it carefully from the pocket when strong fingers clamped around my wrist like a steel trap.
"Looking for this?"
Killian's voice was perfectly clear, completely sober. He stood behind me, his grip crushing the delicate bones of my wrist, and I realized with dawning horror that he'd never been drunk at all.
He'd been waiting for me.
