The Alpha's Secret Mate

chapter 20

It felt wrong—deeply wrong—to use Kyle’s name in a situation like this. But I had no choice. The weak rarely had the luxury of choice, and I was hardly anyone of importance.now , I could fully understand Carter’s obsession with power and status. They gave you authority, yes—but they also stripped away your freedom.

Glory opened her mouth to speak, but before a single word could leave her lips, Hannah stepped in. Her hand came to rest firmly on her shoulder, her grip steady, her presence commanding.

“Let’s not provoke the Alpha,” she said coolly.

There was a sharp edge beneath her calm tone, a warning cloaked in politeness. “He has quite the temper,” she added, her gaze flicking toward her. “And I’d hate for him to take it out on Joanne… because of you.”

Her words lingered in the air like a threat.

I met her eyes, forcing myself into a composed expression despite the tension tightening in my chest. “Very well,” she said evenly. “I trust you’ll find your stay here… enjoyable, my lady.”

Her lips curled into something that resembled a smile, but it held no warmth. She dropped the whip as though it no longer interested her, and without another word, she turned and left. The others followed in silence.

The moment they disappeared down the hallway, the weight pressing on my chest loosened. I exhaled shakily and dropped to my knees beside the girl.

“Are you alright?” I asked gently.

“Yes… my lady,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

She was shaking—her entire body fragile with fear—and the sight sent a sharp ache through me. I remembered that same helplessness, that same pain. I had been there once.

I reached out, placing a careful hand on her shoulder.

She flinched instantly, her eyes widening in alarm. “You shouldn’t touch an omega like me,” she said quickly, recoiling. “It could harm your reputation.”

A faint smile touched my lips, soft and reassuring. “Rank and reputation don’t concern me,” I replied. “Come, let me help you.”

I slipped an arm around her and helped her to her feet. She winced with every step, her body stiff with pain. The bruises on her back must have been worse than they looked.

We moved slowly down the corridor toward her room, the silence between us heavy but not uncomfortable.

Then—

Something shifted.

A shadow flickered at the edge of my vision.

I froze.

My head snapped toward it, heart skipping. Perhaps it was nothing—just a trick of the light—but an uneasy feeling settled deep in my chest.

I couldn’t shake the sensation.

Someone was watching us.

Luana’s POV

I walked beside the maid through the narrow hallway of the servants’ quarters, acutely aware of the weight of unseen eyes pressing against my back.

The girl kept glancing over her shoulder, her expression tense, cautious—as though she feared we weren’t alone.

And perhaps… we weren’t.

The words seemed to linger in the air long after they were spoken.

“You shouldn’t have come here, my lady. This place is for the lower ranks. If the higher-ups find out, there’ll be talk… people will gossip about you.”

A sigh slipped from my lips, quiet but heavy. “Let them,” I murmured, though the weight of it settled somewhere deep within me. I suppose they will. Still, there were more important things than whispers and rumors.

We stepped into a small room, swallowed almost entirely by darkness. The girl’s hesitant voice trailed behind me, laced with unease. It’s really dark…

“I can manage,” I said softly.

My hand brushed along the wall until I found the switch. With a faint click, light flooded the room, sharp and unforgiving. And then I saw her.

The breath caught in my throat.

Red marks marred her arms, angry and unmistakable. Her lower lip was stained with dried blood, the wounds hidden before under the gentler mercy of moonlight. But here, beneath the harsh glow, there was no hiding them.

“…Who did this to you?” I asked, though the answer already sat bitter on my tongue.

This was no mystery. I had seen it before. I had lived it.

But standing there, looking at her—so small, so broken—it felt like staring into a mirror I had long tried to forget. A reflection of cruelty I had once endured… and perhaps, in some ways, allowed.

“Please, my lady,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You should go. These injuries… they’ll heal.”

Yet her eyes betrayed her—wide, anxious, flickering with something between fear and resignation. She didn’t want to pull me into her suffering.

I let out a quiet scoff, though there was no real amusement in it. I knew that feeling too well.

There was a time I hid my own wounds, away from Maria, convincing myself I could bear it alone. I didn’t want to burden anyone. And yet… the scars remained. Not the kind you could see—but the kind that lingered, whispering long after the pain had faded.

“They don’t just go away,” I said gently.

I gestured toward the small bed beside us. “Sit.”

She hesitated, fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her black uniform, before finally obeying. She perched at the edge like she might bolt at any moment.

“Do you have a first-aid box?” I asked.

She nodded faintly.

Moments later, I sat beside her, tending carefully to her injuries. My movements were slow, deliberate—familiar. Almost instinctive. As though my hands remembered what my heart tried to forget.

To ease the silence, I hummed softly under my breath—a tune I barely realized I knew. Something light, something distant. It felt strange, almost out of place, yet comforting in its own quiet way.

And as I dabbed ointment gently onto her bruised lip, I wondered—not for the first time—how many of us walked around carrying wounds no one ever truly saw.

“You’re quite skilled at this, my lady.”

Her voice was soft, but there was something new in it now—a quiet note of admiration that hadn’t been there before. When I glanced up, I found her watching me closely, her brown eyes no longer guarded in the same way.

A small smile touched my lips, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes.

“I used to do first aid… back when I was…”

My voice trailed off before I could finish.

The past rose up too quickly—too vividly. Memories, both warm and painful, tangled together in a way that made it hard to separate one from the other. Laughter, fleeting happiness… and then the shadows that followed closely behind. It had become difficult, over time, to remember the good without also recalling everything that had tainted it.

For a brief moment, I stood suspended in it.

Then I cleared my throat softly, forcing the memories back where they belonged. Not now.

Not here.

I placed the ointment bottle back into the plastic box with deliberate care, my movements slower than before.

“These ointments might not be very effective,” I said, my tone shifting back to something more practical, more controlled. “Who recommended them to you?”

She hesitated, then lifted a hand to scratch lightly at her neck—a nervous habit, perhaps.

“I just… got them from the nurse’s office in the servants’ quarters.”

A faint frown creased my lips.

The nurse’s office.

I knew of it—and not favorably. The servants’ quarters had long been known for their neglect, their lack of proper care masked by the illusion of provision. From what I had seen and heard… the medications there were often substandard, chosen for their low cost rather than their effectiveness. Some, if rumors were to be believed, were even kept past their expiration.

It made my chest tighten.

It wasn’t my place to prescribe anything—but I wasn’t entirely without knowledge either.

“I’ll make a list of a few essentials you should have,” I said after a moment. “Proper antiseptics. Better ointments. You should visit the nearest pharmacy and get them as soon as possible.”

She blinked, clearly surprised, but then nodded quickly.

“Yes… thank you, my lady.”

There was a pause.

Something about the quiet between us felt different now—less strained, though still fragile.

“What’s your name?” I asked gently.

“Sara, my lady.”

Sara.

The name lingered softly in my thoughts.

“And your age?”

“Fifteen.”

The word struck harder than I expected.

I lifted my head slightly, studying her again—really looking this time. The bruises, the hesitation in her posture, the way her fingers still fidgeted with the edge of her uniform.

Fifteen.

She was barely more than a child.

A tightness settled in my chest, sharp and unyielding. To think that those older women—grown, fully aware of their actions—would subject someone so young to this kind of cruelty…

It was infuriating.

“Did you start working here recently?” I asked, keeping my voice as steady as I could.

She nodded faintly. “It’s been… about a year.”

A year.

I inhaled slowly, though it did little to ease the heaviness pressing against my ribs.

“How long have they been doing this to you?” I asked.

The question lingered between us.

Sara didn’t answer.

Instead, her gaze dropped to her hands, fingers curling slightly into her skirt as if bracing herself. The silence that followed was louder than anything she could have said.

It was answer enough.

My heart ached at the realization.

She was so young… and yet she had been carrying this for far too long.

For a moment, I said nothing.

But inside, something shifted—quietly, firmly.

Because I knew that silence.

I knew what it meant to endure, to say nothing, to convince yourself that surviving was the same as living.

And looking at her now, I couldn’t ignore the echo of my own past reflected back at me.

Not again.

Not this time.