The first three days in the Black Iron pack house passed in a blur of stone walls and silence.

They gave me a room on the second floor. It was nicer than anything I'd ever had in Thornveil — a real bed with clean sheets, a window that looked out over a courtyard lined with training posts. There was even a small desk and a lamp that didn't flicker. But the door had a lock on the outside, and Silas checked on me every four hours like clockwork. So it was still a cage. Just one with better lighting.

I kept my head down. I answered their questions about Paulina in small, careful pieces — a name here, a date there, never enough to put Milani at risk if word got back. Weston accepted this with a tight jaw. Xavier accepted it with a smile. Neither pushed too hard. Not yet.

It was Xavier who found my sketches.

I'd hidden them inside the folded blanket at the foot of the bed — a habit from Thornveil, where Paulina would destroy anything I owned that wasn't directly useful to her. They were just loose pages torn from a notebook I'd stolen from the pack house supply closet months ago. Pencil drawings of gowns. Luna coronation dresses, mostly. Fitted bodices with structured boning, skirts that moved like water, necklines designed to frame the marking bite without hiding it. I'd been drawing them since I was sixteen. It was the one thing that was mine.

I came back from the bathroom one morning and found Xavier sitting on the edge of my bed, holding one of the pages up to the light from the window.

My stomach dropped to the floor.

"These are yours," he said. It wasn't a question.

I stood frozen in the doorway, my wet hair dripping onto my shoulders. "Put that down."

He didn't. He tilted the page, studying the pencil lines of a mermaid-cut gown with hand-stitched lace overlay. His expression wasn't mocking. That was the dangerous part. He looked genuinely interested.

"The seaming here," he said, tracing a finger along the sketch without touching the graphite. "You've drawn princess seams, but the way you've angled them — this would create a longer torso line. Most ceremonial designers don't think about that."

I blinked. No Alpha I had ever met knew what a princess seam was.

"How do you —"

"My mother commissioned gowns from a couturier in Montreal," he said, setting the page down carefully. "I used to watch the fittings when I was young. You pick things up."

He stood and walked past me toward the door, pausing just close enough that I caught his scent — something sharp and clean, like winter pine over warm stone. "You're talented, Cleo. It's a waste, hiding these in a blanket."

Then he was gone.

I told myself it meant nothing. Alphas noticed things because noticing things gave them leverage. That was all.

But two days later, a package appeared on my desk.

It was wrapped in plain brown paper, no note. I opened it with shaking hands and found three bolts of fabric. The first was a duchess satin in ivory, heavy and luminous, the kind that holds structure without interfering. The second was a French Chantilly lace so fine I could see my fingers through it, the floral pattern hand-embroidered with silk thread. The third made me sit down on the bed.

It was a silk organza in the exact shade of dusty rose that Milani loved.

I pressed the organza to my face and breathed in. It smelled like nothing — clean, untouched, perfect. My hands were trembling. Not from fear. From something worse. From wanting.

These weren't fabrics an Omega could buy. These weren't fabrics most Lunas could buy. The Chantilly alone was worth more than everything I'd earned in five years of servitude under Paulina. And Xavier had left them on my desk like they were nothing. Like dropping off a cup of coffee.

I knew I should refuse. I knew this was a transaction dressed up as a gift. But I held the organza up to the window and watched the light pass through it, turning it the color of a sunset, and I thought of Milani's face. I thought of the gown I'd been sketching for three years — the Luna coronation dress I was designing for a ceremony that would never happen, for a sister who would never wear it, drawn on stolen paper with a dull pencil because that was all I had.

Now I had duchess satin. I had Chantilly lace. I had Milani's color in silk organza, and it was perfect.

I couldn't refuse. God help me, I couldn't.

That night, I started cutting.

I didn't have proper shears — just a pair of kitchen scissors I'd asked Silas for, claiming I needed to trim a loose thread on my jacket. But my hands knew what to do. They always had. I laid the organza on the desk, smoothed it flat, and began cutting the bodice panels from the pattern I'd been carrying in my head for years. The scissors weren't sharp enough, so I had to go slow, following the grain of the fabric with small, precise snips. It took me two hours to cut four panels. My fingers ached. I didn't care.

For the first time since they dragged me out of the woods, I felt like myself.

I worked on the gown every night after that. Xavier never mentioned the fabrics again, but more appeared — a spool of silk thread in the exact weight I needed, a packet of hand-sewing needles, a small pair of embroidery scissors that were sharp enough to cut through the Chantilly without fraying the edges. Each delivery was silent, unsigned, and precisely what I needed before I knew I needed it.

He was watching me. Studying the way I worked the way a hunter studies a trail. And I let him, because the gown was growing under my hands and it was beautiful, and I was too hungry for this one thing to count the cost.

The kitchen happened by accident.

It was past one in the morning, almost a week into my stay. I couldn't sleep. My hands were cramped from sewing, and my mind kept circling back to Milani — whether the independent fund Weston promised had actually reached the sanctuary, whether Dara Finch had confirmed the payments, whether Paulina had noticed I was gone yet. The anxiety sat in my chest like a stone.

So I went downstairs to cook.

The Black Iron pack house kitchen was enormous — industrial stainless steel, a six-burner range, a walk-in pantry stocked with things I'd never been allowed to touch in Thornveil. But I wasn't looking for anything fancy. I found rice, fresh ginger, a few scallions, and a jar of sesame oil. That was enough.

I filled a heavy pot with water, rinsed the rice three times, and set it on the stove at a low simmer. Then I peeled the ginger with the back of a spoon and sliced it thin. The rhythm of it — the quiet scrape of the spoon, the soft hiss of the burner, the steam rising from the pot — loosened something in my chest. Cooking was like sewing. It required patience, not power. You couldn't rush rice porridge. You just had to stay with it.

I was stirring the pot when I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned and found Weston standing in the kitchen doorway. He was barefoot, wearing a plain black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, like he'd been lying in bed without sleeping. Without his tailored clothes and his Alpha posture, he looked almost ordinary. Almost human.

I tensed immediately. "I'm sorry. I didn't think anyone would be —"

"You're fine," he said quietly.

He walked to the table and sat down. Just sat. No orders, no questions about Paulina, no Alpha tone. He rested his forearms on the wooden surface and watched me with an expression I couldn't read.

The silence stretched. I turned back to the stove because I didn't know what else to do. The porridge was thickening, so I lowered the flame and stirred in the ginger slices. The kitchen filled with a warm, clean smell.

"What is that?" Weston asked.

"Rice porridge," I said without turning around. "Congee. It's nothing special."

"It smells good."

I didn't answer. I ladled the porridge into two bowls before I realized what I was doing — I'd made two portions out of habit, the way I always cooked for Milani and me. I stared at the second bowl. Then I set it on the table in front of him.

He looked at it. Looked at me. Something shifted in his face — a crack in the stone, so brief I almost missed it.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was stripped of everything. No authority. No command. Just two words, spoken low and rough, like they cost him something.

I sat across from him with my own bowl. We ate in silence. The only sounds were the clink of spoons and the hum of the refrigerator. His Alpha aura, which normally filled every room he entered like a pressure change, was pulled so far back I could barely feel it. Sitting across from him felt like sitting across from anyone. Like he was just a man eating porridge at one in the morning because he couldn't sleep either.

It was the most dangerous thing he could have done to me.

Because I had spent my entire adult life being invisible. Being useful. Being the Omega who scrubbed and fetched and bowed and disappeared. No one had ever just sat with me. No one had ever eaten something I made and said thank you like it mattered.

When I went back upstairs, I sat on the edge of my bed in the dark and pressed my hands flat against my thighs to stop them from shaking. The organza panels for Milani's gown were pinned to the desk, catching the faint light from the courtyard.

I told myself this was strategy. I told myself they wanted something from me and this was how Alphas got it — not with force, but with the careful, patient construction of a debt you didn't realize you were accumulating until it was too late.

I told myself not to go back to the kitchen tomorrow night.

But I already knew I would.

The first time I went back to the kitchen, I told myself it was just for a glass of water. But the next night, it was for the quiet. Soon, it became a routine.

Weeks slipped by in a strange, suspended reality. Every night at midnight, the massive Black Iron pack house fell dead silent. I would slip out of my room and pad downstairs to the industrial kitchen. Weston was always there.

Sometimes he wore faded sweatpants. Sometimes a wrinkled button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He never used his Alpha tone. He never stood over me. He just sat at the wooden table and watched me cook.

I made simple things. Chicken broth with ginger. Hand-rolled dumplings. Food that took time and patience.

"Tell me about Milani," he said one night. I was chopping scallions on the wooden board. The knife paused. I looked over my shoulder. He was leaning forward, his elbows on the table, looking genuinely curious.

"What do you want to know?" I asked cautiously.

"Everything. What is her illness like? What does she like to do?"

I turned back to the cutting board, keeping my eyes on the bright green stalks. "It's in her blood. Her lungs get weak. She needs the sanctuary's pure air and the healers' herbs just to breathe without pain. She spends most of her days reading by the window."

"And the gown you're making?" he asked softly. "The pink one."

"Dusty rose," I corrected him. A small, sad smile touched my lips. "It's her favorite color. She always dreamed of seeing me in a Luna coronation gown. Since that will never happen, I decided to make one for her instead. Just so she can see it."

Weston went quiet. I scooped the scallions into the simmering broth. When I brought the bowls to the table and sat across from him, he was tracing the rim of his spoon.

"It must be heavy," he murmured, his dark eyes meeting mine. "Carrying someone else's life on your shoulders."

"You do it every day," I pointed out. "You carry an entire pack."

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly very tired. "It's different. A pack is a machine. You grease the wheels, you make the hard calls, and you live with the silence afterward. It's lonely at the top, Cleo. You sit at the head of the table, and everyone looks at you for answers. No one ever asks if you're tired. No one cooks for you just to make sure you eat."

He looked down at the bowl of soup. Then he looked at me. His Alpha aura was completely tucked away. He was just a man sitting in a quiet kitchen, sharing a burden.

I stared at him. I was an Omega. I was used to being invisible, treated like dirt on Paulina's expensive shoes. But in this kitchen, I was feeding an Alpha, and he was looking at me like I mattered. I knew I shouldn't trust it. I knew it was a dangerous illusion. But I had been starved of tenderness my entire adult life. I was freezing, and the fire was right there. I leaned into the warmth, and I cooked for him the way I would cook for someone I genuinely cared about.

During the day, the transaction shifted to Xavier.

He would knock lightly on my door, always bringing a gift. A spool of silver thread. A yard of fine tulle. He would sit on the edge of my desk, his charismatic smile in place, and watch my hands as I sewed.

"This velvet ribbon is from Italy," he said one Tuesday, trailing the dark blue fabric across my table. "Speaking of imports, did Paulina ever receive shipments that weren't on the official pack ledger?"

I didn't stop sewing. My needle dipped in and out of the silk. "Yes. Once a month. A gray truck would come to the back entrance. She made me file those receipts in a separate red folder in her private safe."

"A red folder," Xavier repeated softly. "And who visited her on Thursdays?"

"The Beta from the Pine Ridge pack. He always brought a black briefcase."

I answered their questions in fragments. A name here, a folder color there. I thought I was just paying for my keep. I thought I was trading a dirty secret for a piece of French lace. I didn't know what they were doing with the answers. I had no idea they were feeding every single word I said into a massive, coordinated case for the Lycan King's tribunal. I didn't know I was handing them the matches they would use to burn Thornveil down.

I just wanted to finish the gown.

Then came the night the illusion almost cracked.

It was raining outside, a heavy downpour that lashed against my window. I was sitting at my desk. The dusty rose organza was draped entirely across my lap. I had just finished attaching the bodice to the skirt. I held it up by the shoulders, letting the silk flow down over my knees.

It was beautiful. It was exactly how I had pictured it in my head for years.

I imagined Milani's face when she finally saw it. I imagined her touching the soft fabric. Without realizing it, a genuine, wide smile broke across my face. It felt strange on my muscles. I hadn't smiled like that in so long. I was completely unguarded, completely at peace.

Then the air in the room shifted.

I didn't hear footsteps, but a heavy, electric tension suddenly filled the space. The scent of winter pine and warm stone rolled over me.

I looked up. The door was cracked open. Weston stood in the hallway.

He didn't say a word. He just stood there in the gap of the doorway, staring at me. The shadows from the hall hid half his face, but his eyes were pitch black. His chest heaved with ragged, uneven breaths. I could see his hands gripping the doorframe. His knuckles were bone-white.

He looked like he was in physical agony. He looked like a man fighting a war inside his own skin, like his inner wolf was clawing at his ribs, desperate to tear through his chest and bridge the distance between us.

My breath caught in my throat. My smile faded into a look of shock. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I waited for him to push the door open. I waited for him to use that commanding Alpha tone.

But he didn't.

He stared at my face for one long, agonizing moment. His jaw ticked. Then he let go of the doorframe, turned on his heel, and walked away into the dark hallway.

He didn't speak to me. And later, I knew he didn't tell Xavier what he saw. It remained a secret, heavy and unspoken in the air of the pack house. But as I picked up my needle again, my hands were shaking so badly I pricked my finger. A single drop of blood welled up, bright red against the dusty rose silk.

This cage was starting to feel too much like a home. And the way Weston had just looked at me—like I was something he was starving for but refused to eat—terrified me more than Paulina ever could.

Xavier knocked on my door right after lunch. He didn't wait for me to answer before pushing it open. He carried a long, flat box wrapped in matte black paper.

"I have something for you," he said. His charismatic smile was perfectly in place.

I set down my needle and stood up. I didn't say anything as he placed the box on my small desk. He lifted the lid and pulled back the crisp white tissue paper.

My breath hitched in my throat.

It was a bolt of hand-dyed silk. But it wasn't just any silk. It was the exact, highly specific shade of dusty rose. Milani's favorite color.

I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly. The fabric was like water. It was the highest quality I had ever seen. But as I touched it, a sudden chill ran down my spine.

I stared at the pink silk. Then I looked up at Xavier.

I had never told Xavier about this color. I had only mentioned it once, late at night, in the kitchen with Weston.

They talked about me. They traded my words like currency. Weston had taken my quiet, vulnerable confession about my sister's dream and handed it to Xavier to use as a token.

I looked at Xavier's face. He was watching me closely, waiting for a reaction. I gave him a look that hovered right between gratitude and deep, cold suspicion. I didn't smile. I didn't cry.

"Thank you," I said softly. I kept my face blank.

"Only the best for your work, Cleo," he replied smoothly. But his eyes narrowed just a fraction. He knew I had caught the slip. He just didn't care.

When he left, I locked the door. I took the scissors and laid the dusty rose silk flat on my desk. My hands felt numb. Every cut of the fabric felt like a betrayal, but I did it anyway. I cut the panels for the bodice that very night. I needed the gown for Milani. Even if the thread binding it was made of lies, I would finish it.

Two nights later, the illusion shattered completely.

I woke up parched. The water pitcher in my room was empty, so I slipped out into the dark hallway to head down to the kitchen. The pack house was dead quiet.

As I passed Weston's study, I heard a low voice. The door was cracked open just an inch. A sliver of yellow light spilled onto the floorboards.

"The timeline is accelerating," a man said. It was Silas Vane, Weston's Beta. His voice was tight and urgent. "The Lycan King's tribunal isn't waiting. We have weeks, maybe less, before they want the case filed."

I froze. I pressed my back against the cold stone wall and held my breath.

"Is the evidence chain secure?" Weston asked. His Alpha tone was heavy, vibrating through the wood of the door.

"Yes," Silas replied. "But only if Paulina doesn't catch wind of the operation before we file. If she finds out we're building a case on her tribute ledgers, she'll burn the evidence and run."

There was a pause. Then Xavier spoke up. His voice lacked all its usual warmth. It was pure, calculating ice.

"Then we make sure she doesn't find out," Xavier said. "And we keep the girl happy. She doesn't leave this house. Give her whatever she wants. Her cooperation is the only thing tying Paulina directly to the private safe. We cannot lose our witness now. Keep her compliant at all costs."

*Keep the girl happy. Keep her compliant.*

I closed my eyes. The words hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. The late-night kitchen meals. The soft tone. The expensive fabrics. The dusty rose silk.

It was all a strategy. I wasn't a guest. I wasn't a girl they cared about. I was a tool. An evidence chain. A witness they needed to keep docile until they got what they wanted.

I didn't go to the kitchen. I turned around and walked silently back to my room. I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. I didn't cry. Tears were for people who had hope. I just stared at the ceiling, my heart turning into a hard, cold stone. I would play their game. I would smile and take their silk, because I needed Paulina gone to keep Milani safe. But I would never, ever trust them again.

By the end of the week, the tension in the pack house snapped.

It happened on a Thursday afternoon. I was sewing the lace overlay onto the bodice when I heard shouting downstairs. Heavy boots pounded against the floorboards. The air in the house grew thick with static. I couldn't hear the pack mind-link, but I could feel the violent shift in the Alpha auras around me.

My door flew open.

Weston and Xavier stepped inside. Silas was right behind them, his face pale. Weston's jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.

"What's wrong?" I asked, standing up and dropping my needle.

"Paulina is gone," Weston said grimly.

My blood ran ice cold. "Gone? What do you mean gone?"

"An allied Beta from the Pine Ridge pack found discrepancies in the tribute ledgers," Xavier explained quickly. He ran a hand through his hair, looking stressed. "He raised the issue at the regional council meeting this morning. Paulina sensed the trap. She vanished from Thornveil territory two hours ago."

Panic flared in my chest. If Paulina was on the run, she was dangerous. "What about Milani? Is the sanctuary safe?"

"The neutral territory is secure," Weston said, stepping closer to me. His dark eyes locked onto mine. His aura flared, heavy and commanding. "But you are in danger. If she figures out you're here, she will try to silence you."

"You are not to leave this room," Xavier added smoothly. He stepped up beside Weston, forming a solid wall of muscle between me and the open door. "Silas is posting guards at the end of the hall. The windows stay locked."

I looked back and forth between the two Alphas. They looked fierce. They looked protective.

But I remembered the whisper in the dark study.

*We cannot lose our witness now.*

They weren't just protecting me from Paulina. They were locking me in a vault because I was their most valuable asset.

"To keep me safe?" I asked softly. I kept my voice perfectly flat.

Weston's eyes flickered. He stepped even closer, his chest almost touching me. I could smell the winter pine and warm stone. "To keep you safe, Cleo," he murmured.

He sounded so sincere. It almost broke my heart.

"Okay," I whispered.

They backed away. They walked out into the hall. The heavy oak door swung shut.

*Click.*

I stared at the brass handle. The lock had been turned from the outside. The cage was finally sealed, and the monsters keeping me inside had the faces of saviors.