Nixon’s POV
"You need to eat something, Alpha, before the meetings start," the senior house maid said, her eyes fixed entirely on the polished floorboards.
I did not answer her. I kept my seat behind the massive oak desk, staring at the stack of leather-bound ledgers until the black ink numbers ran together into useless lines. My mind refused to focus on the numbers or the trade agreements. It kept dragging me back to that basement hallway, to the foul smell of damp wood, and the sight of raw red welts climbing up Scout’s pale arms.
Why did I step in?
The question felt like a physical weight pressing directly into my ribs. It was heavy and cold. I should have walked away and let the household staff manage their own cruel games. It was not my job to oversee every small argument or punis
