The Demon Alpha's Fated Seer

Clara's pov "Clara!" Roy's voice came from the back room, loud enough to make me flinch. "Are you planning to scrub that floor all day? We have customers coming soon, and I won't have them walking into a filthy shop." I looked down at the tiles beneath my knees. They were clean enough to reflect the sunlight coming through the front windows, but arguing with Roy about the condition of a floor had never ended well for me. "I'm almost done," I called back. "Then finish it properly. And make sure you don't embarrass me when they arrive." I dipped the brush into the bucket and continued scrubbing without answering. Roy had a remarkable talent for making ordinary tasks feel like punishments, especially when he was in a bad mood. Unfortunately, he was rarely in a good one. He's perpetually moody, nagging and raining abusive words. …And If you're wondering how a girl ends up being sold before lunch, I suppose the story should begin with a bucket. Mine was gray, cracked down one side, and filled with soapy water that had turned the color of a mud. I had been scrubbing the floor of my stepfather's bakery since seven that morning, and by nine, my knees ached so badly that I had started wondering whether I would ever be able to stand straight again. The water smelled so bad, the brush had begun to wear through my palms, and the damp sleeves of my dress clung to my arms. Yet Roy had inspected the floor twice already and declared it insufficiently clean both times. I was twenty-two years old, an omega whose wolf had apparently decided that remaining asleep was the most sensible way to navigate life. I had no remarkable strength, no money to my name, and no useful connections. My father was dead, the bakery he had built was failing, and the people who had taken over his business seemed determined to make me pay for every breath I took beneath their roof. Most mornings, I woke up wondering how much worse things could get. Most evenings, I went to bed with the answer. That morning, I had at least managed to steal a sweet roll from the display. It was still warm when I slipped behind the counter and took a bite, closing my eyes briefly as the sweetness melted on my tongue. For a moment, I was transported back to the days when my father owned the bakery and I could take whatever I wanted without looking over my shoulder. He used to pretend to scold me whenever he caught me sneaking pastries before breakfast, but his eyes always gave him away. Sometimes, he would even wrap an extra one in a paper bag and slip it into my hands when my mother wasn't looking. Those memories had become precious to me because so little of my old life remained. I swallowed the last bite and brushed the crumbs from my fingers. And lest I forget, I was a thief, although I preferred not to think too deeply about what that said about me. I stole food when I was hungry, money when I needed it, and occasionally a wallet from someone careless enough to make it easy…in short, I pick pockets. I move quietly, keep my expression innocent, and disappear before anyone realized something was missing. It wasn't the life I had imagined for myself, but imagining a better one didn't make it happen. My mother sat near the window on her usual wooden stool, holding a glass between her hands. I didn't know what was in it anymore, and I had stopped asking a long time ago. There had been a time when she was the heart of this bakery. She used to hum while kneading dough, filling the shop with little melodies that never seemed to have proper beginnings or endings. My father would join in, deliberately getting the tune wrong until she laughed and threw a handful of flour at him. I remembered those mornings with a clarity that sometimes made it difficult to breathe. Back then, the bakery had been full of customers, the shelves had been stocked, and my mother had smiled so often that I had never considered the possibility of living in a world where she wouldn't. Now, she spent most of her days staring into her glass, barely speaking to anyone. Sometimes I tried to draw her into conversation, asking about old recipes or telling her something funny that had happened in the market, but her responses were usually little more than a nod or a tired murmur. I missed her voice more than I could explain. Even when I was exhausted, even when Roy had spent the entire day criticizing me, I used to find comfort in hearing her sing. These days, the silence in the bakery felt like another person living among us, one that followed me from room to room and reminded me of everything we had lost. The bell above the entrance rang, and I heard the unmistakable sound of several pairs of shoes crossing the tiled floor. I barely looked up. We rarely received important customers anymore. Most people who entered the bakery came looking for discounted bread, asking for credit, or demanding to know when Roy intended to repay the money he had borrowed. Whatever guests he was expecting, I assumed they belonged to one of those categories. Then I heard Roy hurry out of the back room. "Mr. Dane!" His voice changed so suddenly that I looked up despite myself. "What an honor. I wasn't expecting you today." "Yes, you were." The reply was quiet, but there was something in it that made the bakery feel colder. I turned slightly and saw four men standing near the entrance, all dressed in dark suits. The man in front looked to be in his late twenties. He had a handsome face, neatly styled hair, and the sort of expensive appearance that suggested he had never needed to wonder whether he could afford his next meal. His companions stood behind him with the rigid posture of men accustomed to following orders. Roy hurried toward him, wiping his hands on his apron. "Of course, of course. I only meant that I wasn't expecting you quite so early. If I'd known you were coming, I would have made certain everything was ready." Dane glanced around the bakery, taking in the worn shelves, the nearly empty display, and the flour stains on the counter. His expression suggested that he had already formed an opinion about the place and found no reason to change it. "Your lender has been waiting for payment for months, Roy. I believe you've had more than enough time to prepare. Instead, you've offered one excuse after another, and now the people expecting their money are beginning to lose patience." Roy's smile faltered. "Business has been difficult lately. The market has been unpredictable, and we've had fewer customers than usual. I'm doing everything I can to get back on my feet." "Your business difficulties sounds like your problem not mine." Roy fell silent. I lowered my head and resumed scrubbing, hoping the conversation would end without involving me. I knew enough about the bakery's debts to understand that things had become serious, but I had no desire to hear the details. Roy had spent years blaming my father for the business's decline, even though the bakery had been doing well before he took control of it. Listening to him explain his latest financial disaster would only leave me angry and powerless, neither of which was particularly useful when I still had a floor to clean. Unfortunately, trouble had already noticed me. "Who is that?" Dane asked. I felt his attention settle on me before I looked up. Roy followed his gaze and immediately laughed, as though the sight of me on my knees was something worth being amused by. "Her? That's my stepdaughter, Clara. She helps around the shop, although she's not particularly useful for anything beyond cleaning and serving customers." The brush stopped in my hand. I had grown accustomed to Roy speaking about me as though I were an inconvenience he had been forced to tolerate, but hearing him describe me to a stranger still stung. I wanted to remind him that I had been working in the bakery long before he started treating it as his personal property. Instead, I pressed my lips together and waited for the moment to pass. Dane didn't seem interested in the explanation. He walked closer, studying me with a level of attention that made me suddenly conscious of my appearance. My hair was untidy, my dress was old and several sizes too large, and there was a smear of flour near my elbow. I had spent the morning scrubbing floors, not preparing to meet a man who looked as though he belonged on the cover of an expensive magazine. "What's your name?" he asked.