Nixon’s POV
"You are late," I said.
The words were sharp and flat. I did not raise my voice, but the omega flinched as if I had struck her. It was six fifty-three in the evening. She was eight minutes behind schedule. I stood in the dim corridor outside my mother's rooms, watching the girl struggle with the heavy metal dinner tray. Her hair was a mess, falling out of its pins, and sweat beaded on her upper lip.
She did not offer an excuse. Instead, she let go of the tray and dropped to her knees. Her forehead hit the cold marble floor with a dull thud.
"I am sorry, Alpha," she whispered. Her voice shook. "Please. It will not happen again. I apologize."
"I told you six fifty-five," I said. I looked down at her. I had no room for pity. Pity did not keep a pack running, and it certainly
