THE ALPHA'S KILLER TURN LOVER

Chapter 5

Zara

I burst through the narrow door of my room in the servants’ quarters and slammed it behind me, my back pressed to the wood as if to keep anyone else out.

My chest is heaving, my breath coming out in short, anxious bursts. I have minutes—maybe less—before they connect the knife to me. I can’t stay.

If they catch me, it’s over: dungeons, trial, then execution. The other man, his beta I guess, said they have partial prints. It can't be my prints but even then . . .

I drag my old duffel from under the bed and start throwing things in: two worn shirts, a pair of boots, the small pouch of coins I’ve saved, the hidden vial of nightshade I keep for emergencies.

My hands shake so badly a sock misses the bag completely.

Then I see in the corner, a folded piece of paper sticking out from beneath my pillow. No one comes in here but me. I snatch it up.

There's a single line of message written in the Loveless Cult’s coded script: Why does the Alpha still breathe?

Cold water slides down my back. They don’t know Dante Dominic is dead? They think I failed, or worse, that I refused?

Mabel Loveless’s voice echoes in my head: “Blood for blood, child. Only the Alpha’s heart in your hand will silence the screams.”

But it isn’t the same Alpha. Zain didn’t order my parents’ slaughter. He was barely older than me when it happened. And he’s . . . kind.

He sat in the dirt with me.

He smiled like I mattered.

I crumple the note and shove it deep into my pocket. I have to disappear this minute. They'll not miss me, they'll just hire someone else to fill my spot.

Alpha Zain will not miss me too. I'm just a poor girl in his father's farm. Wait until he even discovers I'm a rogue wolf. Huh?

I sigh.

A heavy knock rattles the door and I freeze, my hand automatically already on the small dagger strapped to my thigh.

“Miss Zara?” a deep voice calls. “The Alpha requests your presence.”

My heart leaps into my throat and I begin to tremble a little with adrenaline. Two guards fill the doorway when I open it. They're big, armed, and impassive.

I slide into fight stance inside my skin, mapping weak points: throat, knee, groin. I can drop them both if I’m fast enough. Run. Vanish into the forest.

But the taller one adds, “He’d like to speak with you. Now.”

“Am I under arrest?”

They exchange a baffled glance. “No, miss. He just . . . requested to speak with you, that's all.”

He requested. He's not arresting. Yet.

I let them escort me across the estate grounds, past glowing windows and curious stares from afternoon-shift workers. Every step feels like walking deeper into a trap, but my traitorous body hums with sweet anticipation to see the alpha again. Dear lord. Why do I want to see him when I should be running from him, or kill him?

My hands are sweaty, my feet pumping with excitement.

They lead me into the Alpha house, up a wide staircase, and into a private sitting room with an airy balcony.

Alpha Zain is there, sitting on a chair, a table with a decanter in front of him.

He’s changed into a white shirt, open at the collar, revealing smooth skin over firm muscles. Sunlight catches on the shadow of stubble along his jaw, and I have the insane thought that it would feel soft under my fingertips. I've never held a man before. And now all of me wants to hold him close, to feel his body against mine.

He turns when I enter, and his whole face lights up with pleasure. I stop breathing. No man should be this fine and appealing.

“Zara.” He rises fully, polite and old-fashioned, and gestures to a plush chair opposite his. “Please, sit.”

The guards retreat at his nod, pulling the door closed behind them. We’re alone.

He lifts the crystal decanter.

“Wine?”

I blink, my cheeks on fire, the space between my thighs ablaze with pleasurable to tingling. I’ve spent too many stolen moments today imagining the shape of his mouth; now it’s inches away, smiling at me.

“I—wine?” I mumble.

“Unless you’d prefer something else.”

He’s already pouring deep red liquid into two glasses, the scent of black cherry and oak drifting across the balcony.

I sit, mostly because my legs threaten to betray me. This is wrong. The Cult expects me to kill him—his father’s sins passed down like a crown. Only his blood, Mabel whispered, will let you sleep without nightmares. And she’s right; the dreams still come, vivid and bloody. But looking at him now, I can’t picture driving a knife into that chest.

He hands me a glass. Our fingers brush, and a spark shoots straight to my core.

I take a small sip to hide my shaking. The wine is exquisite, smooth, with notes of blackcurrant and violet.

“This is a 1998 Château Margaux,” I say before I can stop myself. “Premier Grand Cru from Bordeaux. Exceptional vintage—the drought concentrated the tannins beautifully.”

His eyebrows lift, deep fascination lighting his eyes. He even colors slightly, and I don't know why. He stares at me for a long time.

“You know wine.”

I shrug, embarrassed. “I’ve been around many famous vineyards. I grew up among the barrels.”

This was before this pack, ruled by his father, seized my father's lands. Before Dante burned half the vines to punish rebellion. And killed my parents. I place the glass back on the table and begin to rise.

Zain leans forward. “Stay a moment longer?”

“I should get back—”

“Wait.” He sets his glass down too. “I have a proposition.”

My body goes tense and I hold my breath, my eyes a little wary. What does he want now? If he only knows how close he is to being dead now?

“I want you to be my valet.”

The absurdity of what he just said eludes me at first. Then it begins to sink home slowly, and as it does, my eyes widen.

“What?”

“My personal valet,” he repeats, completely serious. “You’d live in the main house. Better quarters, better pay. You’d handle my schedule, my clothes, travel with me when I leave the estate.”

A small, almost shy smile tugs at his mouth. “I find I like having you nearby.”

My brain has stopped working by the time he finshes. The Alpha of the entire pack wants me, a farmhand, his would-be assassin, daughter of executed traitors, as his personal attendant.

Close enough to dress him. Close enough to kill him in a hundred quiet ways. Close enough to be discovered at any moment.

I stare at him, my mouth open, my heart fit to burst through my chest.

This is either salvation or the perfect trap.

And the worst part—the part that terrifies me most—is how desperately some hidden piece of me wants to say yes.