The Alpha’s Captive

Chapter 6

I didn’t want to follow him, but what choice did I have?

The butler’s voice had been calm, steady, almost bored, as if my anger and panic were nothing more than childish tantrums. “Come, Miss Maeve. I’ll show you to your quarters.”

Quarters. The word made my skin crawl.

But the more I fought the urge to scream, the more my body reminded me of how drained I was. My limbs were heavy, my thoughts sluggish. I had darted to escape, only to be stopped so easily, as if I was nothing more than a stubborn kitten caught trying to bolt out a door. The humiliating image still burned in my chest.

And yet, I trailed him down the hall.

The corridor was lined with tall windows that let in a ghostly wash of moonlight. The silence of the mansion pressed against me; no footsteps other than ours echoed, no servants appeared, no voices drifted from hidden corners. Only me, this butler with his unreadable expression, and the oppressive weight of a house that seemed to breathe on its own.

He finally stopped before a set of double doors. Without a word, he pushed them open, and light spilled out.

I froze.

The room inside was nothing like the dim little chamber I’d first woken in. No cracked walls or flickering lamps. Instead, the space seemed carved out of another world.

A gold-and-brown aesthetic ruled everything. The walls were painted in a soft cream that caught the glow of ornate sconces, the trim gleaming bronze. A massive queen-sized bed sat against the far wall, framed by thick curtains of velvet the color of honey. Its sheets looked impossibly soft, layered with furs and silks. A carved dresser stood to the left, its mirror reflecting the chandelier that glittered above.

This wasn’t a prison cell. It wasn’t even a guest room. It was a chamber fit for royalty.

My throat tightened.

Why?

Why would they move me here? Why would they treat me like someone important, someone meant to be pampered, instead of just throwing me back out on the road?

“Is this, ” My voice cracked, and I had to swallow hard before trying again. “Why this room? Why not just let me go home?”

The butler didn’t look at me as he smoothed a fold in the bedspread, his gloved hand lingering for a moment. “Because, Miss Maeve… this is where you belong now.”

My skin prickled at the words.

“I don’t belong here,” I snapped, even as my eyes betrayed me by wandering over the details of the room again. “This is insane. You can’t just, ”

But my body betrayed me too. Every ounce of me ached with exhaustion. The golden light was warm, heavy, inviting. The bed seemed to whisper promises of rest.

The butler inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “You should rest. The Master will expect you to be… composed when next you meet.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the fight in me was gone. My legs wobbled, my head spun. Against every furious thought screaming at me, I stumbled to the bed and sat down. The mattress dipped beneath me, swallowing me in a softness I hadn’t felt in years.

It was wrong. So wrong. But I couldn’t help it. My body melted. My eyes fluttered.

The butler’s figure blurred in the corner of my vision, still standing like a sentinel. “Goodnight, Miss Maeve.”

The door clicked shut.

And I was alone.

The last thing I felt before sleep pulled me under was the faintest trace of dread, because somewhere deep inside, I knew, this room wasn’t comfort. It was a cage.

***

I woke to silence.

The kind of silence that presses in on you, heavy, suffocating. For a moment, I thought maybe the butler had locked me in. But when I glanced toward the door, I saw no bolt on my side, no chain. Just the gleam of polished wood.

I sat up slowly. My body was stiff, but the rest had been real, deeper than anything I’d had since leaving the city. I should have felt better. Instead, unease coiled in my stomach.

Because the mansion was too quiet.

I pushed off the bed, the plush rug swallowing my steps. A part of me wanted to stay, to cling to the false safety this room offered. But another part, the louder part, refused to sit in silence waiting for some strange man to reappear and tell me again that I “belonged.”

So I slipped out.

The hallway beyond looked different in daylight, though I realized quickly I had no real sense of time. The tall windows were clouded, the light dim, as if the sun itself refused to shine properly on this house. Dust motes floated in the pale beams.

I walked.

The corridors twisted in ways that felt wrong, as if the house was larger inside than it could possibly be from the outside. My fingers brushed over the wallpaper, thick, embossed patterns of vines and flowers, but the texture was almost too smooth, like it had been preserved unnaturally.

I tried doors along the way. Some opened, revealing more beautiful but unused rooms: sitting areas, parlors, even a music room with a piano whose keys were yellowed with age. Others were locked tight, their knobs cold beneath my hand.

One room stopped me.

It was a gallery. Paintings lined the walls, portraits of men and women in old-fashioned clothing. Their gazes followed me as I stepped closer, their features sharp, almost lifelike. But what made me stop cold was the detail, several of the paintings had their faces scratched out. Deep gouges tore across eyes, mouths, as if someone had violently erased them.

A chill swept down my spine.

I backed out and shut the door.

The mansion didn’t just feel empty, it felt haunted. Not with ghosts, but with memories, anger, secrets I wasn’t supposed to see.

I should have gone back to the safety of my room. Instead, I pressed on.

That’s when I found the library.

The doors opened easily, and a smell of leather and dust hit me. The room stretched impossibly far, shelves crammed with books that looked older than anything I’d seen. Their spines were faded, titles etched in strange fonts. I pulled one out, it was so brittle I was afraid it might crumble in my hands. The language inside was archaic, words curling into shapes I barely recognized.

Why would anyone need books like these?

I put it back quickly and turned to leave.

That’s when I heard it.

A sound.

Not footsteps exactly. More like a shuffle, the faintest brush of movement against the silence.

My chest tightened. “Hello?”

No answer.

I spun, scanning the aisles between shelves, but no one was there. My heart thundered. Maybe it was just the house settling, I told myself. Old wood, old walls.

But when I stepped out into the hall again, I felt it, that prickling awareness. The undeniable sense of being watched.

I forced myself to keep walking, to breathe evenly, to not run like prey. My steps carried me farther than I’d intended, down a wing of the mansion I hadn’t noticed before.

And then I saw it.

A hallway that looked different from the rest. Narrower. Darker. The wallpaper here was torn, the sconces unlit. Dust coated the floor, as if no one had walked here in years.

Every part of me screamed to turn back.

But I didn’t.

I stepped forward, my heart in my throat. The air was colder here, the silence thicker. My footsteps echoed differently, like the space swallowed sound.

At the end of the hallway was a single door.

I reached for the knob.

It was warm.

And as my fingers closed around it, I felt the undeniable certainty that someone, something, was waiting for me on the other side.