Chapter 3

Cassian's POV

The Southern Alpha's office reeked of cologne and cowardice.

I didn't wait for an invitation. I pulled the chair back, sat, and let the silence do its work. Alpha Thorn shuffled papers behind his desk, rings clicking against wood, pretending the power balance wasn't already decided.

The Southern Pack survived at my sufferance. Every alpha on the continent knew it. Thorn's militia was a joke — half-trained, underequipped, propped up by borrowed prestige and inherited land.

"I need a servant from your household," I said.

He looked up. Rings glinting on every finger — gaudy things, gold-plated at best. "Of course. I can have a list of candidates prepared by morning — we have trained staff, experienced—"

"The girl. Lyra. She'll do."

His expression shut down. The practiced warmth drained from his face, replaced by something cornered and calculating. "Lyra? With all due respect, Alpha Draven, she's hardly our finest. I have maids with twice her experience, housekeepers who—"

"I didn't ask for your finest." I held his gaze. "I asked for her."

His jaw worked. I could see the calculation behind his eyes — not numbers, not money, but something simpler and more primal. Risk. My army was three times the size of his militia. My wolves were better trained, better fed, better armed. One word from me could turn every neighboring pack against him.

"Alpha Draven, surely you understand — handing over a member of my household on request, it looks as though I answer to—"

I stood. "Don't you?"

The words dropped into the room like a stone into still water. His face went white.

Before he could recover, the door slammed open. Arabella swept in trailing gold silk and a cloud of perfume thick enough to chew. She latched onto my arm with both hands, pressing her entire body along my side with zero subtlety.

"Daddy, don't be difficult," she cooed. Her breast dragged deliberately across my bicep, slow enough to be unmistakable. "Whatever Alpha Draven needs, I'm sure we can accommodate."

I pulled free. She followed. Her fingers landed on my chest, nails dragging the fabric.

"Enough." The word came out at a register that made her father's chair creak as he shrank back. "Step away from me. Now."

Her hands froze mid-reach. For one second her face crumpled — wounded, pitiful, a child denied candy. Then something shifted behind her eyes. The hurt drained out and left behind it a look I'd seen on cornered wolves — something sharp and patient and venomous.

"Perhaps," her father said, voice strained, "you might enjoy getting to know my daughter. Arabella is quite accomplished, and—"

"I've been perfectly clear." I looked past Arabella as if she'd turned invisible. "I want Lyra.That is all I'm asking for."

Arabella's face went rigid. Her lips parted. Then her jaw dropped, color flooding ugly and red from her throat to her hairline. "LYRA? You want LYRA?" Something possessive and ugly crawled behind her eyes. "She's MY servant — you can't take what belongs to—"

"She belongs to whoever your father decides." I looked at the old man. "Make your decision. I won't ask again."

Alpha Thorn's jaw worked like he was chewing glass. His ringed fingers drummed the mahogany — once, twice, three times. His gaze moved to the window — toward the north, toward a hundred miles of open border his men couldn't defend. He was an old wolf staring at the simple arithmetic of survival: refuse the northern alpha over a servant girl, or keep his territory for another year.

"...Fine," he said. Like spitting a tooth.

I walked out. Arabella's shriek hit the closed door behind me and died there. I opened the mind-link to Rowan as I strode down the corridor.

Well? His voice came immediately. Any chance we absorb this pack within three years?

Won't even take three. I loosened my collar. The afternoon heat in this southern hellhole was unbearable. They're rotting from the inside.He can't refuse me anything and he knows it. I'm bringing someone back with me. A servant. Lyra.

A servant. You have three hundred staff at the northern estate.

I didn't answer that.

Also — get her a dress. Something clean, something soft. Make sure it fits a woman half her proper weight. Deliver it to the servants' quarters tonight. She's not leaving this estate in their filthy rags.

Cassian, what—

I closed the link before he could press.

My wolf rumbled low behind my ribs. Not agitated. Satisfied. The deep rolling purr of a predator that has spotted what it wants and decided to be patient about claiming it.

I let him have his noise. I didn't examine it. Not yet.

...

Lyra's POV

I dreamed of the road.

In the dream I stood just past the estate gates, holding a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Nothing inside worth stealing — a spare shift, my mother's handkerchief with the bluebell embroidery she'd sewn before I was born. The stitches so small you'd have to hold it to sunlight to see the petals.

But the bundle was warm in my hands and the road stretched out long and open and entirely mine.

Freedom tasted like wet earth after rain.

I lifted my foot to take the first step. Something caught my ankle. Thorns — black, thick, studded with barbs that sank in and drew blood. The pain ripped through my leg and I cried out, dropping to my knees.

Arabella's voice slithered from behind me: You'll never leave. You'll stay here until there's nothing left of you—

"Lyra."

A hand shook my shoulder. Hard.

I gasped awake, jerking upright. Maren's face hovered close in the dark, her eyes wide.

"The head butler came by. He left this." She pointed at the foot of my cot. "Said to put it on and be ready."

Ready for what?

I reached down. The fabric was dove gray and soft — softer than anything I'd touched in years. Nothing like the rough linen servants wore or the scratchy wool of winter uniforms. Small buttons ran up the front, polished like bone, catching the faint moonlight from the window. I pulled it over my head and it fit. Not perfectly: my collarbones pushed too sharply at the neckline, and the waist gapped slightly where a healthy woman's body would have filled it. But someone had estimated my measurements with a care that made my throat tighten.

A gift made no sense. In this house, gifts came before punishments.

I smoothed the skirt over my thighs with trembling fingers. The fabric whispered under my palms. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

I stepped into the corridor.

A row of guards stood waiting.

My heart dropped to my stomach and stayed there.