My eyes peel open slowly and I take in my environment. White walls... purple curtains...really high ceiling with a cute butterfly chandelier hanging over head, and the faint smell of vanilla...where am I?
For a split second, I think I've been kidnapped—again. But then, the memory hits me. Cassidy's house. I'm in Cassidy's bed.
She's lying beside me, her breathing slow and even. Her hair fans across the pillow, catching the faint light from the digital clock on the bedside table.
It's a few minutes to six, and the sky outside is still cloaked in darkness.
Careful not to disturb her, I climb out of the bed, the floor cool beneath my bare feet. I scribble a quick note, leaving it on the pillow next to her: Gone for my duties. Thanks for everything.
As I tiptoe out of the room, the creak of the wooden floorboards feels louder than it should. I pause at the door, glancing back to make sure she's still asleep. She doesn't stir.
Downstairs, the scent of coffee brewing greets me. The kitchen light is on, and a woman stands by the counter, humming softly as she stirs something in a pot.
She's plain-looking, her brown hair pulled into a loose bun, but her eyes are striking—bright green, just like Cassidy's.
She notices me immediately. Her gaze drops to my face, and her brows furrow. "Oh, dear. Your face…"
I freeze, unsure what she means until she gestures toward her own cheek. "The side of your face—it's red and swollen. Did you hurt yourself?"
The memory of last night rushes back: Eden's slap, the sting of humiliation. I instinctively touch my cheek.
It's numb now, but the skin feels tender under my fingers. "Oh, it's nothing," I say quickly.
She doesn't look convinced. "Hold on," she says, walking to the freezer. She wraps a handful of ice in a kitchen towel and hands it to me. "Here, press this against it. It'll help with the swelling."
I take the makeshift ice pack, pressing it to my cheek. The cold is a welcome relief. "Thank you," I mumble.
She smiles warmly, leaning against the counter. "You're one of Cassidy's friends, aren't you? The new omega girl.
"Yes I..." I reply, unsure of how to explain my situation. "I'm… helping out at the pack house..."
Her expression softens. "You poor thing. It must be tough work."
I shrug, unsure of what to say. She doesn't press further, instead asking, "So, how did you end up here? With our prince, no less?"
The question catches me off guard. I don't think anyone has asked me that so directly before. "It's… a long story," I say carefully. "The day I left my pack, he found me. Took me in."
She nods slowly, her green eyes studying me with a mix of curiosity and compassion. "Well, you must have made quite an impression. He doesn't just give anyone the chance to stay in his pack."
I don't know how to respond to that, so I change the subject. "You're up early."
She laughs softly. "Always. My mate likes breakfast ready by seven, and old habits die hard. But I don't mind. Cooking is my peace."
Her warmth reminds me of Cassidy—sweet and approachable, yet somehow commanding respect.
She offers me a plate of biscuits and a glass of milk. "Here, you'll need your strength for the day."
I'm too polite to refuse. As I eat, she continues chatting, her voice soft and melodic.
She tells me stories about Cassidy's childhood, how she used to climb the garden walls and sneak off to the pack house no matter how many times they've warned against sneaking out.
"You're welcome here anytime," she says as I finish the last biscuit. "Don't be a stranger."
Her kindness stirs something in me—a mix of gratitude and longing. "Thank you," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
The walk back to the pack house is long, the early morning air crisp against my skin. By the time I arrive, the estate is waking up, the faint sounds of life filtering through the quiet.
I head straight to the kitchen and prepare Caspian's breakfast, my hands working on autopilot. When the tray is ready, I carry it to his room, balancing it carefully as I knock on the door.
"Come in," a gruff voice calls from the other side.
Pushing the door open, I step inside—and immediately regret it.
He's standing by the window, a towel slung low around his waist. Droplets of water trail down his broad shoulders and chiseled chest, catching the morning light.
His hair is damp, strands sticking to his forehead, and I can see now that it's grown longer, brushing the nape of his neck.
The scent of roses is intense, almost too intoxicating in the air.
Heat rushes to my face, and I quickly lower my gaze, focusing on the tray in my hands. "Your breakfast," I mumble, setting it down on the table.
Before I can make my escape, he speaks. "What happened to your face?"
I freeze, my eyes darting to the mirror on the wall. The reflection confirms it—my cheek is red and swollen, a stark reminder of last night.
"It's nothing," I say casually, hoping he'll let it go.
He doesn't. "Nothing doesn't leave a mark like that."
I sigh, my fingers brushing the edge of the tray. "I got into some minor trouble. It's no big deal."
His gaze sharpens, and for a moment, I think he's going to press further. But then he nods, his expression unreadable.
"Is that all?" I ask, desperate to leave.
He waves me off, and I don't need to be told twice. I practically bolt for the door, my heart pounding in my chest.
Outside, I lean against the wall, taking deep breaths to calm myself. The image of him, all water and muscle and intensity, is seared into my mind. I shake my head, trying to push it away.
This is going to be a long day.