KARIS ROMERO POV:

The moment the sound of his footsteps vanished, the tension that had held my body rigid for hours finally snapped. Exhaustion hit me like a physical blow, and I collapsed into a fitful, shallow sleep.

It was no escape.

I was immediately plunged into the nightmare.

The same one that had haunted me for months. The night my world ended. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and the choking smoke of burning homes. The screams of my pack, my family, echoed in my ears, a symphony of agony.

I saw my father, the strong and proud Alpha of the Romero pack, on his knees. His silver-streaked hair was matted with blood, his eyes wide with a disbelief that mirrored my own.

And standing over him was Holland Berger.

My Holland. My fiancé.

His golden hair, which I had loved to run my fingers through, looked like a demonic halo in the flickering firelight. His handsome face, which had always looked at me with such warmth, was a mask of cold, triumphant ambition.

In the dream, Holland raised a silver dagger, its blade dripping with the blood of my people. He looked directly at me, across the field of slaughter, and his lips curved into a smile. It was a slow, deliberate, and utterly monstrous smile.

"Karis," he mouthed, the name a silent curse.

I woke up with a strangled scream caught in my throat, gasping for air. My body was slick with cold sweat. The sheets were tangled around my legs.

Faint gray light filtered through the window. A new day. But for me, it was still the dead of night.

Tears streamed down my face, hot against my cold skin. I scrubbed them away with the back of my hand, my breath coming in harsh sobs. Crying was a weakness. Sentiment was a poison. I couldn't afford either.

I forced myself out of the opulent bed and mechanically made it, smoothing every wrinkle, erasing any sign that I had been there. A ghost in the king's chambers. Then, I slipped out of the room and padded silently down the long, empty corridors.

The contrast between the upper floors and the servants' quarters was jarring. Here, the halls were narrow, the air was stuffy, and the quiet opulence was replaced by the low hum of a castle waking up.

I began my chores. I scrubbed floors until my knees were raw. I helped prepare breakfast in the cavernous, steaming kitchens. I moved like an automaton, a perfect Omega servant, using the mindless physical labor to numb the raging inferno of grief and hatred in my soul.

Around mid-morning, Beatrice Foster found me polishing silverware in the pantry. Her face was set in its usual stern lines.

She thrust a small, rough-spun cloth bag into my hand. It was filled with dried, brittle leaves that gave off a pungent, earthy smell.

"Contraceptive herbs," she said, her voice as crisp and cold as a winter morning. "Boil them and drink it. The Alpha King does not want any accidents."

I took the bag, my fingers closing around the fragile herbs. "Yes, Matron," I murmured, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor.

Of course I didn't want the tyrant's child. But the order, the herbs themselves, were another brand of humiliation. A declaration that my body was not my own, that even my ability to bear life was something to be controlled and nullified by him.

Beatrice's sharp eyes scanned my face, a flicker of something analytical in their depths. "Did you displease the Alpha King last night?" she asked, her tone casual, but the question was a probe.

My heart gave a painful lurch. "No, Matron," I lied smoothly, my face a mask of placid obedience.

She didn't press, but her gaze lingered for a moment too long. "Do your duty, Anitra," she warned, her voice dropping lower. "Just do what you're told. It's the only way you'll survive here."

She turned and swept out of the pantry, leaving me alone with the scent of bitter herbs.

I clutched the small bag in my fist. The acrid smell mixed with the phantom scent of blood and smoke from my nightmare, and my stomach churned violently.

Holland's handsome, treacherous face swam before my eyes. He had promised me a life together, promised to make me the happiest Luna in the world. Instead, he had orchestrated the murder of my entire family, my entire world, all for power. All to climb higher by aligning with the Sinclairs.

The raw, burning hatred that surged through me was a powerful antidote to fear. It burned away the last vestiges of the scared girl in the King's bed. It cauterized the weeping wound of my grief.

I would survive. I would do more than survive.

I would become stronger. I would learn every secret of this castle. I would wait, and I would watch. And one day, I would be the one holding a silver dagger, and I would personally carve that smile off Holland Berger's face.