Chapter 6
705words
I avoid Lucas's wing and Melissa, heeding Kayden's warning despite her invitation. I keep my pendant hidden and focus on surviving.
Mrs. Winters, impressed with my work, assigns me to arrange flowers in the formal dining room—a task normally given to experienced servants.
"You have an eye for beauty," she tells me as she demonstrates the proper technique. "Don't disappoint me."
I'm alone in the vast dining room, carefully positioning lilies and roses in crystal vases, when I hear footsteps approaching. Thinking it's Mrs. Winters checking my progress, I don't look up until a shadow falls across the table.
"Working hard, I see." Ashley stands before me, impeccably dressed in a blue gown that matches her cold eyes.
I set down the stem I'm holding and bow my head. "My lady."
"Don't pretend to know your place now." She circles the table. "I've been watching you—looking directly at werewolves, speaking as if you have rights."
I remain silent, eyes downcast.
"Kayden's absence has revealed much. He's not here to protect you, yet you act privileged." She stops across from me. "I wonder why he shows you such special treatment."
"I'm just a servant," I say quietly.
"Are you?" She leans forward. "Lucas doesn't think so. He believes there's something unusual about you." Her smile is all teeth. "I'm looking forward to him finding the answer."
My blood runs cold. "What do you mean?"
"As future Luna, I have authority over who approaches Kayden's possessions." She straightens. "Consider this a warning. Don't think that pendant will protect you forever."
After she leaves, my hands tremble so badly I drop the pruning shears. They clatter against the marble floor, the sound echoing in the empty room.
That evening, I clean the west corridor’s rarely used guest chambers. The hallway is dimly lit and eerily quiet. I work quickly, eager to return to the safety of Kayden’s quarters.
As I'm gathering my cleaning supplies, a sound stops me—a soft whimper, followed by labored breathing. I pause, listening. The sound comes again, from around the corner.
Every instinct tells me to walk away, to mind my own business. But the whimper turns into a choked sob that sounds disturbingly familiar.
I set down my bucket and move cautiously toward the sound. Turning the corner, I freeze at the sight before me.
Melissa lies crumpled against the wall, her fine dress torn. Her face is barely recognizable—swollen eye, split lip, dark bruises across her cheek. She cradles one arm, breathing shallow and pained.
"Melissa?" I whisper, rushing to her side.
Her good eye widens in fear, then recognition. "Freya," she gasps. "Help me."
Despite everything—her smugness, her betrayal of our family—she's still the girl I grew up with. I can't leave her like this.
"What happened?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Lucas," she whispers. "I spilled wine on his favorite jacket. He said—" she winces, "—he said he needed to teach me a lesson."
I examine her injuries as gently as possible. Nothing appears life-threatening, but she needs care. "Can you walk? I'll take you to my room."
She shakes her head weakly. "He'll find me there. He always finds me."
"Then I'll get help—"
"No!" Her hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength. "Please. Just help me stand. I need to clean up before he sees me like this."
I help her to her feet. She leans heavily against me, her body trembling.
We move slowly down the corridor, Melissa's weight making our progress painfully slow. Each step seems to cause her fresh pain, but she bites her lip to keep from crying out.
"Why do you stay with him?" I ask quietly.
She gives a bitter laugh that turns into a cough. "Where else could I go? Lucas has power, he can give me what I want… at least I matter to him."
"This isn't mattering, Melissa. This is suffering."
"You don't understand," she murmurs. "The good times make the bad times worth it."
Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the dim hallway.
"What an interesting scene."
