The Bloodline Of Betrayal

Whispers In The Kitchen

By the second day, the compound had settled into an uneasy quiet, the kind that made everyone jumpier than open conflict would have.

Serah spent it back in the kitchens, elbow-deep in work, trying to lose herself in the rhythm of it the way she used to lose herself in training drills, motion instead of thought. It almost worked, until Talia set a knife down harder than necessary beside her.

"You're popular these days," Talia said, not quite looking up. "First the gate, now guards talking about how the heir himself came looking for you last night."

"He wasn't looking for me. He was asking about the attack."

"Mm." Talia's mouth curved, thin and unkind. "That's not what it sounded like to the men on watch. Said the heir asked for you by name, twice."

Serah kept her hands moving, kept her voice light, though something uneasy coiled low in her stomach. "I don't know what you want me to say to that."

"I don't want you to say anything." Talia finally looked at her, and there was nothing friendly left in her expression at all. "I want you to remember you've been here a week. Some of us have scrubbed these floors for years and never once had him cross a room to speak to us. You show up out of nowhere, and suddenly you're worth his attention." Her voice dropped, sharper. "Careful, new girl. People who get noticed too fast in this house don't always stay noticed for good reasons."

Before Serah could answer, another girl "accidentally" bumped the tray from her hands, sending a stack of clean linens sprawling across the floor.

"Oops," the girl said, not sorry at all. "Guess you'll want to fix that before anyone important sees the mess you made."

Serah crouched to gather the linens, jaw tight, old training screaming at her to stay small, stay unnoticed, don't give them a reason to look closer. It was almost funny, in a bitter way. She'd infiltrated a den of werewolves without flinching, and this, petty jealousy over a man she wasn't even supposed to want, was what nearly cracked her composure.

"Leave her be." The voice cut through the kitchen, low and unimpressed, and every head turned.

A broad-shouldered man leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a faint scar cutting through one eyebrow that gave him a permanently skeptical look. Garrick, she'd heard the others call him once, Ezra's second. She hadn't expected him to know her name existed, let alone step in on her behalf.

"She's got enough to deal with," he added, when no one moved, "without you lot circling like she stole something from you."

The girls dispersed quickly, muttering, and Talia shot Serah one last look, equal parts warning and resentment, before disappearing back to her station.

"You didn't have to do that," Serah said quietly, once they were mostly alone.

"No," Garrick agreed, straightening off the doorframe. "I didn't." He studied her for a long moment, something measuring in his gaze, not unkind, but not entirely trusting either. "But Ezra would have my head if I let his new favorite get run out of the kitchens by jealousy before he's done deciding what to do with you."

The words landed strange, half amusement, half warning.

"I'm not his favorite anything."

"Could've fooled me." Garrick's mouth curved, faint and knowing, though the sharpness underneath it didn't fully fade. "Word around here is you're his new favorite plaything."

He left before she could respond, and Serah stood alone amid the scattered linens, unsettled by how much she'd just been seen, by a man who clearly didn't trust her and clearly wasn't going to pretend otherwise, and strangely grateful for it anyway.