Marco’s POV
“Alpha Marco.”
The maid’s soft voice pulled me out of the trance I didn’t realize I’d sunk into. I adjusted in my chair, my movements sluggish, careless—like someone who’d just been shot awake after a long, unwanted sleep.
“What is it?” I asked, squinting at the blur of her form. She appeared to be split into five versions of herself, each one circling my vision like a Ferris wheel.
“I’ve brought your breakfast,” she said, her voice small, careful. She took hesitant steps forward, courage trembling in each one, and set the tray on my desk. Plates clinked softly as she arranged the delicacies before retreating as if I were something venomous.
“What’s this?” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face, half-hoping the gesture would sharpen my vision.
“Toasts with stuffing, sea
