Chapter 3
Apr 30, 2025
Lyra’s POV
I walked back through the hall like nothing had happened.
Like Alpha Magnus hadn’t just told me he was sick. Like Lucien hadn’t growled at me like I was some stray dog begging for scraps. Like my heart hadn’t clenched so tight, I almost forgot how to breathe.
I gripped my cleaning rag tighter, kept my eyes on the marble floor, and swallowed everything else down.
Again. Just like always. The door to Lucien’s quarters was cracked open. My steps slowed.
I heard laughter inside. High. Sweet. Familiar. My stomach dropped before I even pushed the door open the rest of the way.
And there she was.
Strutting out of Lucien’s bedroom like she owned the entire estate.
She wore one of his shirts—only his shirt—barely long enough to cover anything. Her lipstick was smudged. Her hair was perfectly messy, like she spent hours making it look like it hadn’t taken any effort. She was the kind of girl wolves howled for.
She spotted me, and her smirk spread like poison.
“Oh,” she said, voice thick with mock sweetness. “Didn’t know he already sent you in.”
She took one look at my plain dress and ragged apron, then laughed under her breath.
“Oops. Guess that’s your cue, servant.”
She brushed past me, slow on purpose, the scent of roses and sex trailing behind her like a slap in the face.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t flinch. I just bowed my head and walked inside. The place was a mess. Again.
The bed sheets were half on the floor, twisted and stained. A glass had shattered near the desk. Lip gloss smeared the rim of Lucien’s whiskey glass. The air was thick with heat and something else I didn’t want to name.
I started with the sheets. Pulled them off. Replaced them with fresh ones from the linen cart. I picked up every broken piece of glass with my bare hands, wincing when one sliced my finger open. I didn’t stop.
Lucien was sitting on the couch in nothing but black sweatpants. His hair was still damp from a shower he just took. His chest gleamed in the low light. He didn’t even glance at me as he sipped his drink and rattled off a list.
“Clean the windows. Restock the liquor tray. Fix the curtain rods—again. Find the black folder for tomorrow’s pack summit. Bring more ice. And don’t forget the desk drawer’s jammed. I want it fixed before sundown.”
I nodded once and grabbed the notebook from my apron pocket. I wrote every task down, my handwriting small and neat. By the time he finished his drink, I’d already set the list down on the corner of the desk.
Then I turned and reached for the folder sitting under the whiskey tray.
He paused. His brow lifted. “How did you—?”
I didn’t look at him. “You always leave it under the whiskey tray,” I said quietly.
I felt his eyes on me. Not with disgust. Not with pity. Just… watching. Like I was something he didn’t quite understand.
Or maybe didn’t want to.
***
In the kitchen, the air was hot with steam and oil. I carried the used linens to the laundry cart and moved toward the sink to wash the blood off my finger.
But before I reached it, someone stepped in my way.
Her. Again.
The same girl from Lucien’s room. She had changed into silk now. Pale blue. Expensive. Her eyes locked on mine with fire.
“Didn’t I tell you your cue was over?” she sneered.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t breathe. I just tried to step around her. She moved faster. Snatched the kettle off the stove—boiling water sloshed from the rim—and swung it close to my face.
Scalding heat kissed my skin, just inches away.
“Stay in your place, rogue,” she hissed.
