Rath.
Billie barged into my dressing room like a storm in a teacup.
"You tried to k!ll her, didn't you, master?" she asked, her tone teetering somewhere between concern and outright scolding.
"Whatever I choose to do with the human girl is none of your concern," I muttered, wrestling with the buttons on my shirt as if they were conspiring against me.
"I'm not backing down, sir. You mustn't k!ll her," Billie pressed on, her voice gentler now, like she was reasoning with a particularly stu.bborn toddler. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my schedule, pretending she didn't exist.
"You've gained the powers of the Lycan King," she began, launching into what I could only assume was Lycan 101. "But you can't fully harness them unless you possess a pure soul. Dahlia is a pure-bl00d soul—I can practically see her glowing. If you k!ll her, you'll lose everything you fought so hard to gain. It will all be for nothing, sir. Nothing!"
I tucked my phone away, giving her my best "are we done yet?" glare. Billie wasn't just my butler; she was a walking, talking conscience I hadn't asked for. Still, the decisions were mine, and I had every intention of ensuring that human girl wouldn't be around to ruin next week's meal prep schedule. Maybe something subtle—like slipping ar$enic into her morning smoothie.
"What difference does it make?" I snapped, hands shoved in my pockets. "If I k!ll her, I'll gain her soul and whatever poi.ntless purity she's lugging around."
Billie sighed, her expression the epitome of "oh dear, here we go again." "It doesn't work like that, sir. She must willingly give you her soul. And trust me, she's no pushover. I've done my homework. She's sharp—reads lips, picks up on every little movement. She's basically a human polygraph machine. You unde.restimate her at your p.eril."
I chuckled, grabbing my laptop briefcase. "She's just a human, Billie. A very squishy one. Fine, I'll spa.re her—for now. But you better hope she's as pure as you claim, or I'm throwing her into next week's compost bin."
"Yes, sir," Billie said with a calm nod, though the faint twitch of her eye told me she was this close to sm.acking me with the nearest lamp.
~~~~~~~
Dhalia.
I decided to stretch my legs and explore my new home—or more accurately, the labyrinth disguised as a house. The manor was enormous, like someone had taken a regular mansion and thought, Let's make it unnecessarily extra. After a nap so good it felt like I'd been hit by a tranquilizer, I wandered outside in a blue sundress someone had thoughtfully left by my bed. Points for cre.epy yet considerate hospitality.
The maid with glasses must've been responsible for the dress. A nice touch, though the place had "ominous rich villain vibes." I headed toward the lawn, which was so flawless it probably had its own skincare routine. The trees were trimmed to military precision, and if whoever maintained this place wasn't paid in gold bars, it was a cr.ime.
Behind me, the manor loomed like it wanted to remind me who was boss, but I ignored it and ventured toward a smaller gate leading to a garden. Spo.iler alert: the garden had clearly been abandoned faster than a New Year's resolution.
The grass was doing its best impression of a jungle, vines dangled like the set of a low-budget ho.rror movie, and weeds strutted around like they owned the place. It was the lawn's reb.ellious cousin who never showed up to family reunions.
Curious, I pushed aside some vines, only to be att.acked by a bla.de of grass determined to trip me. The garden looked like it had once been a fruit-and-vegetable paradise, but now it was more "Pinterest fail." Blackjack seeds clung to my dress like des.perate party guests who wouldn't leave.
Realizing I should head back before the maid thought I was plotting my escape—or worse, playing horticulturist—I turned around. Let's be real: I wasn't about to ri.sk sne.aking off. Wolf territory wasn't exactly Airbnb-friendly, and the wolves didn't strike me as the "let's talk it out" type.
Back at the manor, I wandered into the kitchen and nearly gasped. This wasn't a kitchen; it was a culinary cathedral. Everything was sleek, shiny, and probably more expensive than my entire wardrobe. The fridge was so well-stocked it could feed a small country, and the four-eyed maid was busy cooking something that smelled heavenly.
"Lovely to see you. I'm making something for you," she signed, her hands moving gracefully. Wait—she learned sign language overnight?
"I took the time to learn," she signed, as if it were no big deal. "I need to communicate with you. This is your home. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Once again, welcome."
My heart practically melted. "Thank you," I signed back, trying not to cry over this rare act of kindness.
She nodded and smiled warmly. "Can I ask you something?" I ventured.
She covered the pot she was cooking and turned to me. I noticed her gloves—white and pristine. But when she'd helped me out of the bathtub, I'd seen her right hand without a glove: pale, with nails painted black.
"Ask away," she said, her calm demeanor not giving anything away.
I hesitated, unsure how to word my question. On my second day here, I didn't want to sound like a total we.irdo for po.king around. Or, worse, like I was auditioning for the role of "Suspicious Human #1" in a hor.ror movie.
"You want to know about the garden, right?" she asked, her tone as casual as if I'd just been caught sneaking an extra cookie.
I blinked. How did she know?
She pointed at my dress, smirking. "The blackjack seeds were a de.ad giv.eaway. Unless you've been rolling in weeds for fun, I figured you'd been snooping."
I glanced down at my dress, flushing as I brushed off the clingy little cu.lprits. "It belonged to someone," she said, her voice softening.
I decided not to dig too deeply—I didn't want her labeling me as the house gossip on day two. "Could you give me a tour of the house? If you're not busy, of course," I asked, aiming for polite curiosity instead of full-blown interrogation.
She nodded, switched off the stove with a practiced flick of her wrist, and gestured for me to follow. What came next felt like stepping into a lifestyle magazine spread. She led me through the living room, with its ridic.ulously perfect symmetry, then the library, which smelled like old books and intellectual superiority, and finally the piano room, a space so grand it looked like Beethoven himself might drop by to release a ban.ger
"This is Master—your husband's—bedroom," she said, gesturing to a closed door. As soon as she pointed, the into.xicating scent of his cologne practically ta.ckled me, making my knees wobble like a cliché romance novel heroine.
As we moved on, I noticed her walk right past a purple door as if it didn't exist. Sus.picious much? Before I could ask, she announced, "That's all. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask."
I decided to test the waters. "No bodyguards?" I signed, raising an eyebrow. Surely a manor this grand came with a fleet of tough guys in suits and sunglasses?
Her lips curled into a knowing smirk, her expression practically scre.aming, Oh, you sweet summer child. "The house is very secure. You don't have to worry about that," she signed confidently.
Her assurance was convincing, though it felt less like a comforting lullaby and more like a this-house-has-hidden-la.ser-security-systems-you-won't-see-until-it's-too-late vibe. I nodded anyway, trying to su.ppress my overactive imagination and focus on not tripping over my own feet.
---
The day had been a success—or at least I hadn't di.ed, which counted as a win in my book. As the evening crept in, I slipped into a silk, see-through red nightdress that clung to me like an overzealous hug. The fabric whispered against my skin as I brushed my impossibly long black hair, which cascaded all the way to my thighs like a curtain of dramatic flair. I'd never cut it—cult rules. Back then, they said no trimming until after you'd lost your v1rg1n1ty, and while the cult had long since disbanded (thank God), the rule stuck around like an aw.kward guest who didn't know the party was over.
I stared at myself in the mirror, a mix of nostalgia and mild exasperation. As if on cue, a random vision of a crystal flashed through my mind. Great, I thought. First cult tra.ditions, now I'm channeling crystal energy. What's next, summoning moon spirits?
Then I caught sight of his car pulling into the driveway, and my heart did a nervous tap dance in my chest. My husband—undeniably gorgeous but with all the warmth of a glacier—was home.
Panic hit like a freight train. My survival instincts kicked in, and I did the only logical thing: barricaded the door. I shoved the sofa against it with the strength of someone who'd watched way too many hor.ror movies, then snatched a blanket from the bed and claimed the soft carpet as my new sanctuary. Hiding under the bed felt safer than lying on top of it, like playing an ad.ult version of hide-and-seek where the stakes were don't get emotionally anni.hilated.
Curled up beneath the bed frame, I reminded myself of my heightened senses. I couldn't hear, but I could feel the vibr.ations of footsteps and smell the cologne that was probably more expensive than my entire room. If that handsome lun.atic dared to come in, I'd sense him before he even thought about crossing the threshold.
For now, I clung to that fragile illusion of safety, my heartbeat refusing to settle. One day at a time, I thought, though tonight felt more like one second at a time as I stared into the darkness, hoping the night would stay mercifully uneventful.