AMAYA
The whispers start before the sun clears the eastern ridge.
They trail me through the kitchens and along the service hall like burrs caught in the hem of my skirt. Soft, sticky voices, casually cruel.
She thinks she’s special.
Did you see how Lucian looked at her?
Alpha's eyes are on her, too. Rogue girls don't last long when the lady of the house decides they won't.
I keep my face empty, my steps brisk. If I show teeth, I feed them. If I look hurt, they feast. I have learned that both mercy and malice linger in this house, and neither one is safe if it comes from the wrong mouth.
By midmorning, my hands ache from polishing the council chamber's oak panels. By noon, I'm hauling crates of wine that should require two servants, not one.
Evelara has changed the labels three ti
