Sold to the Cruel Alpha

The Friendly Stranger

Sierra

Morning comes, light pouring into my room to wake me before the bells, before the servants begin to move through the corridors like a tide pulled by routine. It feels as if the storm washed the world clean, leaving streaks down the windows and a glistening on the earth itself.

As I pull myself up, I notice my body feels different—still collapsing under the weight of my apparent fate but also light as a bird with the horizon in its view—as if something inside me changed in the night, a change as evident as the renewing after a storm.

My wolf is quieter now. She’s not in repose, but she’s also not commanding her presence. I feel her inside me in a way that hasn’t been existent or possible since before we moved, before my world crashed in and I was uprooted from everything, from her. But she stays quiet, allowing me to go on about my day as expected.

I dress slowly, brushing my hair into a topknot out of my face, and I slip into the hall. The mansion hums with its usual restraint: muted footsteps, low voices, the clink of metal and porcelain. The morning tide rolls in as door after door creaks open and closed, more faces filling in the sea of servants starting their day. Few exchange glances; fewer exchange greetings. No conversation, no mention of the storm or the day ahead. Just forward marching to their duties.

In the kitchens, steam fogs the air and the smell of bread wraps around me, warm and grounding. Maela hands me a list and a basket and sends me down the long corridor that leads toward the lesser-used rooms—storage, laundry, the places where servants disappear and reappear without anyone noticing.

That’s where I meet her—a young woman, around my age, kneeling by a stack of linens, sleeves rolled, dark auburn hair braided over one shoulder. When she looks up, her striking green eyes catch the light—somber, curious, and intense in a way that makes my spine prickle.

“You must be new,” she says, smiling like we’re old friends. Her voice is soft, friendly maybe.

“I am,” I say, affirming her evaluation.

She rises smoothly, wiping her hands on her apron. “Lena. Lena Voss.” She sticks one out, and I return the gesture. She grasps my hand with both of hers and shakes confidently, one corner of her mouth slightly raised into a smile.

The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but the way she says it does—like it should mean something.

“I’m Sierra.”

Her gaze flicks over me, quick and explicit. She seems to notice my posture, the way I hold the basket too tightly, the mud still crusted faintly beneath my nails despite my scrubbing.

“You look like you slept well,” she says.

I almost laugh. Instead, I shrug. “I guess I did.”

She tilts her head. “That’s rare in this place.” There’s no bitterness in her tone, no reverence either—just observation.

We fall into step together without further discussing her comment. She helps me fold linens and then carries the basket when my arms begin to ache. She talks about nothing at all—how the east wing stays colder than the rest of the house, how the cooks burn the soup every third day, how the rain makes the old stones in the courtyard sing if you listen closely.

It feels… easy. Too easy. In my life, I have learned that you can never be too cautious. After overhearing the guards’ conversation yesterday, I know that rings true here just the same as anywhere else. So I hold my guard up steadily while trying to gain any insight to the operations of the household—namely, Draven drama.

“So,” she says eventually, “what brings you to the Draven estate?”

The question flows lightly but lands like a blow to my chest all the same. “Work,” I say, blankly.

“Of course.” She smiles again, unfazed. “That’s what brings most of us.” Most of us?

I study her as we walk. She moves like someone who knows when she’s being watched—and when she isn’t. There’s a quiet confidence to her steps, a steadiness that doesn’t belong to someone who’s only here to scrub floors.

“Voss,” I repeat. “That’s a pack name, isn’t it?”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Everything’s a pack name, if you listen long enough.”

Not an answer. But I don’t push.

We part near the servants’ stairs, but she finds me again later in the afternoon, passing me a cup of watered-down wine when no one’s looking.

“For the nerves,” she says.

I take it. “Do I look nervous?”

She studies me for a long moment. “You look like someone pretending very hard not to be.”

I snort before I can stop myself.

Her eyes brighten. “There she is.”

“Who?”

“The real you.” Something about the way she says it makes my chest tighten.

As the day wears on, I notice how often Lena seems to be exactly where she needs to be. When a tray nearly spills, she’s there to catch it. When a guard’s gaze lingers too long, she steps into the line of sight, distracts him with a question, a laugh, a story. She watches everything.

Including me.

By late afternoon, my muscles are sore, and my thoughts keep drifting—back to the forest, to the feel of wet earth under my paws, to the quiet weight of Kaelen’s presence in the dark. I haven’t seen him since the storm. I don’t know if I feel relief or disappointment. Probably both.

Lena corners me near the pantry just before supper. “You’re quiet,” she says.

“I’m tired.”

“Mm.” She leans against the wall, crossing her arms. “This place does that. Takes more than it gives.”

I hesitate. Then, “How long have you been here?”

Her eyes flick upward, like she’s counting the stones in the ceiling. “Long enough.”

“And before that?”

She laughs softly. “Careful, Sierra. Questions have a way of leading places you can’t come back from.”

There it is—the edge beneath the warmth.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Her tone gentles. “I’m just saying… be cautious. Not everyone here wears their intentions on their sleeves.” Something in her gaze sharpens. “Especially not where the Dravens are concerned.”

My heart stutters. “What do you mean?”

She pushes off the wall and steps closer, lowering her voice. “I mean, this estate has a way of chewing up people who don’t understand the rules.”

“And you do?”

She smiles. “I understand how to survive.”

The bell rings, cutting the moment cleanly in half.

At dinner, I eat in my room again—bread, broth, a sliver of apple. I’m halfway through when there’s a knock.

Lena slips inside without waiting for an answer.

“Thought you might want company,” she says, carrying in her dinner and perching on the edge of the chair. I think about how she is the only woman I have ever met who carries herself the way she does, so confidently, assertive, and alive. I raise my gaze up to her and give a slight nod.

We eat in companionable silence. It’s almost comfortable—almost.

“You know,” she says eventually, “people talk.”

I keep my eyes on my bowl. “Of course. They always do.”

“They say you came from nowhere, that you don’t smell like the rest of us.” I freeze. She lifts a hand. “Relax. I don’t mean it like that. Just… different.”

Different.

“That can be dangerous here,” she continues. “But it can also be useful.”

“For whom?”

Her smile returns—slow and unreadable. “Depends who’s asking.” The silence stretches. Finally, Lena stands. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s heavier.”

“Heavier how?”

She pauses at the door. “You’ll see.”

When she leaves, I sit very still, listening to the quiet press in around me.

Something about Lena Voss doesn’t sit right. She’s kind. She’s helpful. She’s everywhere. And I don’t trust her.

But a smaller, traitorous part of me wonders if she might be the only other one here who understands what it means to live between worlds and how useful that can be. A larger part of me hopes that our common ground will be exactly what opens the floodgates for any information Lena may have to share.