Amy's POV
The mansion wasn't a home. It was a fortress.
Perched on a cliff overlooking the Amalfi Coast, all white stone and bulletproof glass and security cameras everywhere. I counted fifteen guards on the perimeter before we even reached the gate.
The driver opened my door without a word, and I stepped out into a world that smelled like salt air and money and danger.
Lorenzo waited at the entrance, wearing a casual shirt and slacks that probably cost more than my entire pack's monthly food budget.
His eyes tracked me like a predator watching prey.
"Welcome," he said. "I'll show you to your quarters."
My quarters were in the servant wing, a small but pristine room with a bed, closet, and window overlooking the ocean. It was bigger and cleaner than anywhere I had ever slept.
It felt like a cell.
"The kitchen is downstairs," Lorenzo continued. "You'll prepare three meals daily for me, plus any dinners for guests. The main house is off-limits unless I specifically summon you."
"Am I a chef or a prisoner?" I asked.
"You're both." He said it without hesitation. "Until I'm sure you won't run. Until I trust you won't expose what we are."
"You're the one who offered this deal…"
"And you're the one who accepted it." He stepped closer. "I'm not your savior, Amy. I'm an alpha who's survived ten years by being ruthless. Don't mistake my interest for kindness."
"Then what should I mistake it for?"
"Necessity." His smile was cold. "Dinner is at eight. Five courses. I'm having three investors over. Impress them, and your sister's surgery gets scheduled immediately. Fail…" He let the threat hang.
Then he left, locking the door behind him.
The click of the lock echoed in the silence.
I sat on the bed and pulled out the burner phone, texting Nico: Sofia safe?
His response came minutes later: Ambulance took her. They said Villa Medica. Best hospital in Naples. How did you do this?
I didn't answer. Because the truth that I had sold myself to an alpha who looked at me like I was a possession he had purchased was too painful and embarrassing to type.
Instead, I went downstairs to cook.
The kitchen was a dream.
Professional-grade everything. Ingredients I had only read about. A pantry that could feed hundreds.
And a contract that said I belonged to the man who owned it all.
I forced myself to focus. Five courses. Impressive but not flashy.
Flavors that would show skill without being pretentious.
Amuse-bouche: Pan-seared scallops with citrus foam. First course: Butternut squash soup with brown butter and sage. Main: Duck breast with cherry reduction and roasted root vegetables. Palate cleanser: Lemon sorbet. Dessert: Dark chocolate torte with espresso cream.
My hands moved with muscle memory, but my mind was screaming warnings.
Because I was cooking with passion again. And if the dishes glowed, if Lorenzo's guests saw it, they will be suspicious.
At precisely 8 p.m., Lorenzo appeared with three men in expensive suits. They spoke rapid Italian, laughing about business deals I didn't understand.
I served the amuse-bouche, hands steady despite my terror.
One of the men tasted it, and his eyes widened. "Incredible," he said in English, probably for my benefit. "Lorenzo, where did you find your new chef?"
"She found me," Lorenzo replied smoothly. "A recent discovery. Quite talented."
The meal continued. Each course was met with praise. The duck was perfectly medium-rare. The torte was rich without being heavy.
I should have been proud.
Instead, I felt sick.
Because I could see Lorenzo watching me with those predatory eyes. Could see him calculating. Planning.
When the investors left at midnight, Lorenzo found me in the kitchen, cleaning.
"You did exceptionally well," he said. "The Moretti deal is secured. Three million euros, thanks to your cooking."
"So Sofia gets her surgery?"
"She's already in pre-op. They'll remove the silver tomorrow morning." He moved closer. "But there's still the matter of payment."
Ice flooded my veins. "Payment? I thought…"
"You cooked dinner. That's your job. But there's a contract, Amy. One year of service. And service means more than just cooking."
"No." I backed toward the counter. "That's not what I agreed to…"
"Read clause seven again. Personal services as required. He pulled out his phone, showing me the contract. "I require this."
"I won't…"
"You will." His voice dropped to something dangerous. "Because if you don't, one phone call and Sofia's surgery gets cancelled. She goes back to that forest with silver still in her spine. Is that what you want?"
Tears burned my eyes. "You said you'd help her."
"I am helping her. As long as you cooperate." He moved closer, backing me against the counter. "I'm not asking for love. I'm not even asking you to enjoy it. I'm asking you to fulfill our contract."
"This is rape," I whispered.
"This is business." He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. "Now pay your debt, omega. Or your sister pays for it instead."
I didn't remember most of that night.
My mind went somewhere else. Somewhere safe. While my body stayed in that kitchen, paying a price I hadn't known I had agreed to.
When it was over, Lorenzo handed me a towel and pointed to the bathroom.
"Clean yourself up. Breakfast prep is at six."
I locked the bathroom door and collapsed on the floor, silent sobs wracking my body.
This was my life now.
Contract. Cage. Payment.
Until the year was done.
If I survived that long.
In the morning, I received a text from Nico: Sofia's out of surgery. Silver removed. Doctors say she'll walk again. What did you do?
I stared at the message, at proof that my sacrifice had meant something.
And I texted back: Whatever I had to.
Then I went downstairs to cook breakfast for the man who owned me.
Because that's what survivors did.
They endured.
Even when endurance meant breaking into pieces.
Even when the cage was gilded.
Even when the alpha looked at you like you were a possession and not a person.
I cracked eggs into a pan, my hands moving automatically, and wondered how many more pieces of myself I would have to give before the year was over.
The answer, I knew, was all of them.
Every single piece.
Until there was nothing left but the cooking.