The transition from a legendary White Wolf to a kitchen maid was a jagged pill that caught in my throat every time I tried to swallow. One moment, I had been a goddess of the moon, feeling the very rotation of the earth through my paws; the next, I was staring at a mountain of mud-caked potatoes in the damp, stone-walled underbelly of the Nightshade Citadel.
"Move it, runt! Those aren't going to peel themselves. I don't care who brought you in; in my kitchen, you work or you starve."
The voice belonged to Marda, a Beta woman with a face like cracked leather and a heart forged from flint. She carried an iron ladle like a scepter and clearly didn't give a damn that I was the personal "guest" of her Alpha. To her, I was just another mouth to feed and another set of hands to break.
I kept my head down, my fingers raw and aching from the ice-cold water. The oversized servant's tunic I'd been given felt like a burlap sack, but it served its purpose: the heavy fabric hid the jagged scars of the rejection bond that still pulsed faintly against my collarbone—a ghostly reminder of the man who had tried to erase me.
"I've seen rogues with more fire in them than you," Marda muttered, passing by and deliberately slamming her shoulder into mine.
I stumbled, my grip slipping on the wet paring knife. The blade bit deep into my thumb. I didn't hiss. I didn't cry out. After the agony of a soul-bond snapping, a physical cut felt like a mosquito bite. But as a bead of dark red blood welled up, the frantic noise of the kitchen died a sudden, unnatural death.
In the Silver Moon Pack, my blood had always smelled like wilted wildflowers—weak, faint, and forgettable. But here, in the cold air of the North, it had transformed. It smelled of copper and ozone, a metallic scent that hummed with a hidden, electric power.
"Well, well. What do we have hiding in the steam?"
The voice was melodic, dripping with an artificial sweetness that made the hair on my arms stand up. I looked up. Standing in the doorway was a woman who looked like she had walked straight out of a dark fairytale.
She was tall, her hair the color of spilled ink and eyes that shifted restlessly between amber and a predatory green. Her dress was emerald silk, hugging every curve with an arrogance that mocked the soot-stained aprons around her. This was Lady Vane, the daughter of the Head Elder. The woman the pack gossip said was already measuring the windows for her reign as Silas's Luna.
"Lady Vane," Marda stammered, dropping into a bow so deep her ladle hit the floor. "We didn't expect you in the lower levels, my lady."
Vane didn't even acknowledge the cook. Her eyes were locked on my thumb, her nostrils flaring as she caught the scent of my blood. She walked toward me, the click of her heels against the stone sounding like a countdown to an explosion.
"Silas brought home a stray," Vane whispered, leaning over the table until I was suffocated by her perfume—cloyingly sweet lilies and rot. "He claims you're a 'refugee' from the South. But I've never seen a refugee with skin like porcelain or a scent that carries the hum of a thunderstorm."
I tightened my grip on the knife. Deep in the back of my mind, my wolf, Elara, bared her teeth. She is a snake, Sera. Let me bite her head off.
"I'm just a maid, My Lady," I said, my voice flat, trying to keep the Lunar Spark from flaring in my eyes. I remembered Silas's warning: Keep the spies off your scent.
Vane reached out, her long, manicured nails plucking the knife from my hand as if I were a child. She held it up to the torchlight, inspecting the crimson smear on the blade. "A maid? Perhaps. But Silas doesn't put maids in his private study. He doesn't wrap them in his own cashmere robes to keep them warm."
The kitchen staff gasped. Marda's eyes widened, her gaze shifting from Vane to me with a new, sharp suspicion.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, though I could feel the heat of a blush crawling up my neck.
Vane laughed, a cold, tinkling sound that didn't reach her eyes. Suddenly, she lunged, grabbing my wrist in a grip that felt like a steel trap. She twisted my arm, exposing the bare, unbranded skin of my neck.
"No mating mark. No pack tattoo. You really are a nothing," she sneered, her eyes flashing amber as her wolf surfaced. "Listen to me, little mouse. Silas is a man of dark, hungry appetites. He collects broken things like you, but he always throws them in the trash when the novelty wears off. Don't think for a second that your 'special' status will protect you from me."
She squeezed harder, her claws puncturing my skin. "If I find out you're trying to crawl into his bed, I won't just exile you. I'll make sure your next shift is the last thing you ever feel."
"That's enough, Vane."
The shadows in the corner of the room seemed to bleed together, solidifying into a man. Silas stood there, leaning against a stone pillar, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked bored, but the air in the kitchen suddenly felt like it was charged with ten thousand volts of electricity.
Vane dropped my wrist instantly, her predatory sneer melting into a seductive, shimmering smile. "Silas! I was just... welcoming your new ward."
"You've welcomed her," Silas said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Now, get out. I believe your father is waiting for you in the war room to discuss the Southern borders. Don't keep him waiting."
Vane lingered for a second, her gaze darting between Silas and me, a simmering, toxic hatred burning in her eyes. She leaned in one last time, whispering so only I could hear: "The Shadow Alpha doesn't love, Seraphina. He only consumes. Remember that when he's finished with you."
She swept out of the room, her emerald skirts hissing against the stone like a serpent.
Silas walked over to the table, ignoring the terrified kitchen staff who were now frantically scrubbing pots as if their lives depended on it. He looked at my bleeding thumb, then at the pile of half-peeled potatoes.
"You're terrible at this," he remarked, his voice devoid of pity.
"I'm an Omega, remember? I'm supposed to be a natural at domestic service," I snapped, the adrenaline from the confrontation making me bolder than was safe.
Silas stepped closer, his large frame shielding me from the eyes of the room. He took my hand, his touch surprisingly gentle as he wiped the blood away with his thumb. The wound closed instantly, the skin knitting back together as if time were reversing. The "Shadow Healing"—it was a gift I hadn't expected him to waste on me.
"You aren't an Omega, and you aren't a maid," he whispered, his silver eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made my knees weak. "You are a weapon in hiding. Tonight, we go to the clearing beyond the falls. It's time you learned how to use those claws for something other than vegetables."
He left as quickly as he had appeared, leaving me standing in the steam and the lingering scent of sandalwood. I looked at my thumb—the skin was flawless, as if I'd never been cut.
Vane wanted a war? She had no idea who she was dealing with. I wasn't just a stray. I was the storm she didn't see coming, and I was finally learning how to thunder.