*
---
The moment he left, silence fell like dust.
Mia turned slowly from the door, exhaling a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She was alone now—alone in a space that wasn't a cage or a carriage or a cell. For the first time in two years, no chains clinked at her wrists. No collar weighed her neck. And no cruel voice ordered her to crawl, beg, or bleed.
Just the echo of his words:
> "Get to work."
So she did.
---
The king's quarters were vast and cold, as if the very walls had learned to imitate the man who ruled them. Thick shadows sat between corners, silent and unmoving. The air was scented faintly with musk, firewood, and something sharp—like steel.
Mia dropped to her knees and began with the floor.
Her fingers worked with quiet determination, scrubbing the stone tiles, her knuckles turning raw from the pressure. The floor gleamed beneath her touch. She moved from the bare sections to the edges of the black fur rugs, brushing, smoothing, and dusting meticulously until not a single stray hair remained.
Next came the curtains. Black velvet. Heavy. Dust clung to them, though the room had already been cleaned. She stripped them down, dragged them to the servant wash basin outside, and returned with replacements. Still black—but newer, deeper, unwrinkled.
Bedsheets. Changed.
Cushions. Re-fluffed.
Fireplace. Cleaned and relit.
Even the air shifted. The dark room… shunned. Shimmered. Silently praised her touch.
She stood back after three hours of quiet labor, admiring the work with a soft, fleeting smile. It wasn't pride. It was… release.
**For the first time in years, her hands had moved freely.**
She had scrubbed and touched and folded and arranged—not because she was beaten into it, but because she had chosen to follow a command and do it well.
In the auction house, her hands had been bound at the back.
They had fed her like an animal—bowled meat on the ground, stale bread soaked in rot. She had bent forward on her knees, lips to the floor, her fingers useless beside her.
Now she stood upright. Now she made order from chaos.
Now she was… almost human again.
---
Still, she didn't sit. She didn't dare.
The headmaid had warned her before she was brought here:
> "You don't leave the Alpha's quarters unless he says so. You wait. Standing."
So she waited.
Two hours passed. Maybe more. She didn't count.
Her body ached, yes. Her shoulders stiffened. But the pain… was familiar. Almost welcome. It reminded her she was still alive.
And then—softly, silently—the door clicked open.
She didn't even hear the footsteps until it was too late.
She straightened with a start.
The Lycan King stepped in, dressed now in dark pants and a loose shirt unbuttoned at the throat. His robe was gone. His presence wasn't loud or storming—it was quiet, like an omen, like a scent in the wind that warned you to run without knowing why.
He stopped two steps into the room.
His eyes—gray, cold, unreadable—swept across the space.
The curtains. The glinting floors. The fresh linens. The silent fire casting flickers of amber light on the walls.
And then… her.
Standing there. Head bowed. Hands at her sides. Still.
He stared longer than necessary.
He remembered what the room looked like before. Dark, lifeless.
Now, it felt… different.
Not bright, no. He hated brightness. But cleaner. Balanced. Alive.
He studied her from behind.
She'd been standing here, waiting, for two—maybe three—hours straight.
**She wasn't as weak as he thought.**
Without another word, he walked past her. His boots thudded softly on the now-silent floor as he crossed into his study.
"You can leave," he said, his voice low, his back still to her.
"Let the headmaid tell you the hours I have my breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
She bowed deeper.
"Yes, Your Highness."
Then she turned and quietly slipped out the door, closing it behind her with the softest click.
---
Navigating back through the torch-lit corridors was easier now. She retraced her steps, memorizing each door, each bend, each silence. When she reached the servant quarter's main wing, the warm scent of stew and bread reached her nose before she saw the kitchen.
A sharp voice called out.
"You there."
Mia turned. The headmaid stood with her arms crossed, her gaze heavy. She was tall, lean, her silver hair tied in a perfect bun. A lycaness with eyes that had seen too much.
"Go to the counter," she said. "Your food is there."
Mia bowed respectfully, then paused.
"May I ask… what times His Majesty takes his meals?"
The headmaid's expression didn't shift, but her voice softened just slightly.
"Breakfast at five in the morning. Lunch at two. Dinner at eight sharp. You'll be in the kitchen one hour before each."
Mia nodded. "Thank you."
The headmaid watched her quietly as she moved toward the counter.
There, a full plate waited. A generous portion of seasoned meat, boiled roots, spiced broth, and warm bread. A tall glass of clear water stood beside it.
Mia's breath caught in her throat.
**This… was hers?**
She stared for a moment, expecting someone to snatch it away. Expecting a barked order or a blow across the cheek. But no one came.
She sat. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime—she ate.
Not scraps. Not filth.
**Food.**
Hot. Real. Kind.
Her body didn't know how to process it. Her stomach flipped from the richness, but she forced herself to slow down, savor each bite.
She didn't notice the headmaid watching her from the far doorway, a look of sad remembrance on her face.
That woman had once loved a werewolf. Once.
Long ago.
And lost him to war.
---
After the meal, another maid approached.
She was tall, dark-skinned with soft brown eyes, and introduced herself with a smile.
"I'm Luciana. You'll be in our room. Come on, I'll show you."
Mia followed her through a side hallway into a shared dormitory. The room had four beds, neatly arranged. Her bed was made, with fresh linens and folded clothes at the edge—two more maid uniforms, one casual outfit, and a nightgown.
Barbara, a small, sharp-tongued omega werewolf, waved from her bunk.
Sandra, a quiet delta wolf, nodded from the edge of her own bed, brushing her long blonde hair.
Luciana smiled as she showed Mia the space beside the window.
"This one's yours."
Mia touched the edge of the mattress, her fingers running along the seams.
A bed.
Clothes.
Food.
None of this made sense.
She wasn't safe. She knew that. Not truly.
But for a moment… it almost felt like she could breathe.
---
As she sat on the edge of the bed, brushing invisible dust from her nightgown, her mind wandered back.
That tattoo on the King's chest…
And the one beneath hers.
They weren't random.
They weren't coincidence.
She would find out what they meant.
Even if it killed her.
---
**But what she didn't know…**
Was that across the fortress, in his study, the King stood shirtless before a mirror, fingers brushing the edge of his own tattoo, frowning.
> "That mark…"
>
> "Where have I seen it… before?"
---
**To be continued…**