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.

I stayed in my room for three days. The heavy oak door remained locked from the outside.

I didn't scream. I didn't pound my fists against the wood. Years of living under Paulina had taught me that making noise only drew the monster's attention. Instead, I sat at my small desk and sewed. I focused on the dusty rose silk. I pinned the lace. I stitched the hem. I let the rhythm of the needle keep me from losing my mind.

On the fourth afternoon, the air in the room changed.

It started as a dull ache right behind my eyes. Then, a heavy pressure settled over my chest. It felt like a massive thunderstorm had just rolled inside the pack house. Even though I didn't have an inner wolf, I was still born into the species. I couldn't hear the specific words of a pack mind-link, but I could feel the psychic static when a broadcast was strong enough.

And this static was violent. It buzzed in my teeth. It made the hairs on my arms stand up.

I set down my scissors and walked to the door. I pressed my ear against the cold wood.

Outside, two guards were pacing. Their voices were low, but the hallway echoed.

"Did you see the projection?" one guard whispered.

"Yeah. Disgusting," the other replied. "Luna Paulina looked half-dead. Bruises all over her neck. She said they kept her in a silver-lined cellar for days."

My breath hitched. Paulina was alive. She had resurfaced.

"I can't believe it," the first guard muttered. "A wolfless Omega. Hiring a pack of rogues to ambush her own Luna? The absolute nerve of that bitch. No wonder the Luna stripped her of her rank."

I froze. My blood turned to ice water.

*Me?*

Paulina had stood before a council and blamed *me*? It was absurd. I was a nobody. I didn't have a dime to my name, let alone the resources to hire rogue mercenaries. But it was brilliant. Paulina needed a scapegoat to cover her tracks. Who better than the invisible, disposable Omega? She got to play the tragic, battered victim.

"The mind-link is going crazy," the second guard said. His voice dripped with disgust. "Every allied pack in the region is broadcasting the Omega's face. They want her head on a spike. They're calling her a traitor."

I squeezed my eyes shut. My knees felt weak, but I forced myself to stay standing. I was being hunted. Paulina wasn't just covering her tracks; she was making sure I would be killed on sight by any wolf outside this room.

I needed to know what Weston and Xavier were going to do.

I backed away from the door. The old pack house was built with cast-iron heating grates in the floors. My room sat directly above Weston's private study. I had noticed the faint sound of voices coming through the grate a few days ago.

I crawled under my bed and pressed my ear to the cold iron mesh.

Down below, Xavier was pacing. His footsteps clicked sharply against the hardwood.

"Her performance was immaculate," Xavier said. His voice was tight. "She even painted the bruises with silver ash so they looked like authentic burns. The regional council ate out of her hand. She named the girl as the mastermind."

"It's reckless," Weston replied. His Alpha tone was a low, vibrating rumble. "She's panicking. She knows we're close to the ledgers, so she's creating a massive distraction. But she's overplaying her hand. This is exactly what the Lycan King's tribunal needs to see. Documentable, erratic behavior."

"The smear campaign is devastating, Weston," Xavier pointed out. "She's using the emergency channels. Cleo's face is being beamed into the minds of thousands of wolves. They all think she's a rogue conspirator. The hatred on the network is thick enough to choke on."

I held my breath. I waited for them to defend me. I waited for the men who brought me silk and shared my midnight meals to say this was unacceptable.

"Let it run," Weston said coldly.

My heart stopped.

"It accelerates our timeline," Weston continued, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "Paulina is using pack resources to broadcast a lie. It's another charge for the tribunal. Let her dig her own grave."

"Should we tell Cleo?" Xavier asked. There was a brief pause. "The broadcast is massive. The static is bleeding past the borders. It's reaching the neutral territories."

*The neutral territories.*

Milani.

My hands started to shake. If the hate-filled broadcast was breaching the sanctuary's wards, Milani would feel it. She was sick. She was fragile. The sheer violent force of thousands of wolves projecting pure hatred at her sister would terrify her.

"No," Weston said firmly. "We do not tell her. If she knows the scale of this, she'll panic. She'll beg to go to the sanctuary to check on her sister. She becomes a flight risk. Keep her isolated. Keep her in the dark until the tribunal files the charges."

"Understood," Xavier murmured.

I pulled away from the grate. I scrambled out from under the bed and sat in the middle of the floor.

The room was spinning. I couldn't breathe.

They knew. They knew my name was being dragged through the mud. They knew a target was painted on my back. They knew the hatred was leaking into the one place my sister was supposed to be safe.

And they didn't care.

To them, my ruined life was just a convenient distraction. It was a strategic advantage. The mate bond they supposedly felt, the gentle smiles, the late-night talks—it was all a mask. I was just a pawn on their chessboard. Acceptable collateral.

An hour later, the lock on my door clicked.

I was sitting at my desk, sewing the bodice of the dusty rose gown. My hands were perfectly steady now. The panic was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow void.

Weston walked in. He carried a silver tray with a bowl of hot soup and fresh bread. He was wearing a soft gray sweater. His Alpha aura was dialed all the way back, trying to project safety and warmth.

"I brought you lunch," he said softly. He set the tray on the edge of my desk.

I didn't look up from my needle. "Thank you."

He lingered. He watched my hands move. "How are you holding up?"

I pushed the needle through the silk. I pulled the silver thread tight. I looked up at him. His dark eyes were filled with manufactured concern. I looked for a micro-expression—a twitch of the jaw, a shift in his gaze. I found it. His shoulders were stiff. He wouldn't look directly into my eyes for more than a second.

He was hiding the world from me.

"I'm fine," I said. My voice was calm and even. "It's quiet in here. I feel very safe."

Weston let out a small, relieved breath. He smiled. It was a handsome, lying smile. "Good. That's what I want. Just focus on your dress, Cleo. We'll handle the rest."

"I know you will," I replied.

He turned and left the room. The door shut. The lock clicked into place again.

I stared at the closed door. The psychic static of the pack network hummed in my ears, heavy and violent. They thought they had me contained. They thought I was just a blind, stupid Omega they could keep in a box until they were done with me.

I picked up my scissors. The metal felt cold and sharp in my hand.

I wasn't playing their game anymore.