Sold to the Alpha King

Chapter 6 — The Kitchen Rebellion

The kitchen smelled like rendered fat and rosemary, a combination so domestic it made my teeth ache. I'd woken up that morning with Gareth's arm still heavy across my ribs—he'd stayed the whole night, breathing slow and even, playing at sleep for my benefit. I'd felt the lie in the tension of his bicep. He was waiting to see if I'd move. If I'd reach for something I wasn't supposed to have.

I'd stayed still. Let him think I was docile. Let him believe the human was too scared to breathe.

Now I stood at a prep counter large enough to butcher a deer across, sleeves rolled to my elbows, a kitchen knife in my hand that was actually sharp for once. The castle's kitchen was a cavern of steam and shouting. Three massive hearths roared along the far wall, iron pots big enough to bathe in bubbling over them. A young wolf with flour-dusted forearms was kneading dough on a marble slab. Two women argued over a stockpot near the window. And Marta—small, gray-haired, moving with the deliberate economy of someone who'd spent sixty years feeding wolves—was showing me how to gut a rabbit.

"Fingers here, under the rib cage. Feel the membrane?" Her voice was gravel and old smoke. "You're going to slide your hand up, palm flat, and pull. Gently. The organs will come out in one piece if you don't rush it."

I followed her instructions. The rabbit's insides were warm and wet against my palm. I pulled. Everything came free in a single, surprising gesture—a neat packet of viscera that I deposited into the waiting bowl.

"There," Marta said, something like approval in her voice. "You've done this before."

"Rabbits. Not people."

She laughed—a rough, rusty sound. "Give it time."

I wanted to like her. That was the dangerous part. She was the first person in this compound who'd looked at me like I was a person instead of a problem. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis, her apron stained with things I didn't want to identify, and she smelled like cinnamon and old blood. She reminded me of my grandmother, if my grandmother had lived in a den of monsters.

*She's a kindness trap,* I told myself, fingers working the rabbit's cavity. *She's a leash with a velvet collar. Don't trust her.*

But I kept helping her. Plucking herbs, chopping root vegetables, listening to her complain about the young wolves who didn't know how to skin a deer properly. "They use their claws," she said, disgust rich in her voice. "They tear the hide, waste half the meat. I tell them—Marta's taught three generations to hunt without teeth—but do they listen? No. They'd rather s***h and destroy like children playing at war."

"Werewolf problems," I said, and she snorted.

"Human problems. Shifters just have better excuses for bad behavior."

I laughed. Actually laughed. The sound surprised me so much I nearly dropped the knife.

The kitchen door banged open.

The energy in the room shifted instantly—cutting boards paused, conversations dropped, even the crackling fire seemed to quiet. Mira Volkov stepped through the threshold like she owned every stone in the castle, because she did. She was Gareth's sister, three years older, and where Gareth was a knife honed to surgical precision, Mira was a hammer. Blonde hair pulled back so tight it stretched her temples. A dress of deep burgundy wool, fitted, impractical for a kitchen. Eyes the color of frozen mercury.

She surveyed the room like she was counting enemies.

Her gaze landed on me.

I felt the weight of it physically—a pressure against my chest, the instinct to look down, to make myself smaller. My fingers tightened around the knife handle.

"Well," Mira said, her heels clicking against the stone floor as she approached. "Look at this. The blood bag has found herself a hobby."

I didn't respond. I kept my eyes on the rabbit, my hands moving mechanically through the motions Marta had shown me.

"She's learning fast," Marta said, her tone neutral but her body shifting slightly between me and Mira. "Better than most initiates."

"I'm sure she is." Mira stopped two feet from me, close enough that I could smell her perfume—jasmine and something metallic. "But tell me, little human—do you think learning to gut rabbits makes you useful? Do you think it makes you belong here?"

I looked up. Met her eyes. Held.

"No," I said. "I think it makes me fed."

Something flickered in Mira's expression. Surprise, maybe. Or interest. It was gone before I could name it.

She reached out and touched the edge of my apron—the flour I'd dusted across it, the smear of rabbit blood I hadn't noticed. Her fingers came away stained.

"You're not a servant here, little human." Her voice dropped, intimate and cruel. "You're a *wound*. We don't let wounds dress themselves."

She turned and walked out. The door swung shut behind her. The kitchen's noise returned slowly, like a room recovering from a held breath.

Marta was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached over, plucked the hollowed rabbit from my hands, and deposited it in the stew pot.

"She's right, you know," Marta said softly, not looking at me. "You're a wound. But wounds can fester, or they can close." She finally met my eyes. "You have to choose which kind you are."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"Finish the leeks," Marta said, and walked back to her hearth.

I stood there for a moment, the knife still in my hand, the ghost of Mira's words settling into my chest like frost. I thought about Sera. About the death notice that had smelled like a lie. About Gareth's hands on my waist in the dark, his breath against my neck, the way he'd said *you should run* like he wanted me to actually do it.

I didn't run.

I picked up a leek and started chopping.

The pantry was small and smelled like dried herbs and old apples. I'd hidden there—ten minutes ago, after the kitchen had wound down and Marta had shooed me away for a break. I'd told myself I just needed quiet. Needed a moment where no one was watching me, evaluating me, deciding what kind of threat I was.

But the tears came anyway. Silent. Surprising. One, then another, then a steady stream that I couldn't stop.

I pressed my palm against my mouth and breathed through the shaking.

*Sera. You stupid, brave, impossible girl. You left me here. You left me with them.*

The pantry door creaked open.

I wiped my face fast, but not fast enough. Marta stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the kitchen's firelight. She looked at me for a long, measuring moment. Then she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a handkerchief—clean white linen, embroidered at the corner with a small golden moon.

"Here," she said, holding it out. "You'll need this more than I will."

I took it. Pressed it to my face. It smelled like lavender and woodsmoke.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure why.

Marta settled herself against the doorframe, arms crossed. "For what? Having feelings? That's not a crime, child. That's evidence of a soul."

"My sister—"

"I know." Her voice was quiet, almost gentle. "I know who you are, Elara Vance. I know why you're here."

My blood went cold. The handkerchief stilled against my mouth.

"I was there when they brought Sera's body back," Marta said. "I'm the one who washed her. I'm the one who found the wounds that didn't match the official story."

I couldn't breathe.

"Your sister didn't die fighting rogues," Marta said. "She was executed. By someone inside this pack. Someone high enough to make it look like an order from the Alpha himself."

*The Alpha himself.* Gareth. My hands started trembling.

"But it wasn't Gareth." Marta's voice dropped lower, harder. "I know that too. He was in the south when she died. He didn't give the order. He didn't even know about it until three days later, when he came home and found her body in the courtyard."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Marta looked at me—really looked, like she was seeing past the human skin, past the nursing student disguise, past the fragile mask I'd been wearing since I arrived.

"Because you're not the only one who wants the truth," she said. "And because if you're going to survive long enough to find it, you need to know who your real enemy is."

She pushed off the doorframe and turned to leave.

"It isn't the Alpha King," she said over her shoulder. "It's the queen sitting on his throne."

The door swung shut. I stood alone in the dark, the handkerchief pressed to my mouth, the smell of lavender and woodsmoke filling my lungs.

*It isn't the Alpha King.*

*It's the queen sitting on his throne.*

Mira.

Mira Volkov.

I stayed in the pantry until my hands stopped shaking. Then I folded Marta's handkerchief carefully, tucked it into my sleeve, and walked back into the kitchen.

There was work to do.