9
1255 Words
Maisie’s POV
The double doors to the grand hall swung open just as the first low note of the ceremonial horn sounded. A senior Omega—Greta, the one with the permanent scowl—grabbed my elbow without warning and yanked me backward.
“Kitchen. Now.”
I stumbled after her, bare feet slapping against the cold marble. The horn’s echo chased us down the corridor like an accusation. I didn’t resist. What would be the point? The coronation was starting, and I wasn’t meant to see it. I wasn’t meant to see anything beautiful or important anymore.
Greta shoved me through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Heat hit me like a wall—ovens roaring, pots clanging, steam curling thick in the air. The scent of roasted venison, garlic, rosemary, and caramelized onions drowned out everything else. My stomach twisted, not from hunger but from the sudden reminder that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s half-stale roll.
“Tray line,” Greta barked, pointing to the long stainless-steel counter where platters were already being arranged. “You’re on sauce. Don’t spill. Don’t breathe on the food. And if I see one fingerprint on those rims, I’ll make sure you scrub the entire walk-in freezer with a toothbrush.”
I nodded once. My hands—still raw from yesterday’s sparklers—curled into loose fists at my sides. I moved to the station without a word.
Around me, the kitchen was controlled chaos. Chefs shouted orders in clipped tones. Junior Omegas darted between stations like startled rabbits. Knives flashed. Flames licked up from gas burners. Somewhere deeper in the building, another horn sounded—longer this time, deeper. The pack was swearing allegiance. Gaius was being crowned.
I dipped a ladle into the reduction pan and began drizzling dark cherry-port sauce over the first row of venison medallions. The liquid gleamed under the fluorescent lights, rich and bloody. My reflection stared back at me in the polished steel—hollow cheeks, bruised shadows under my eyes, hair scraped back into a limp knot. I looked like someone who had already lost.
I didn’t care that I was missing the coronation. Not really.
I’d spent too many years watching from the edges while everyone else stood in the light. Gaius ascending the dais, the silver circlet placed on his head, the pack roaring his name—it would have been another scene I didn’t belong in. Another reminder that the Moon Goddess had made a cruel joke when she tied my soul to his, only for him to sever it with three vicious words.
Still.
Something restless crawled under my skin tonight.
Not the usual ache in my ribs or the dull throb in my temples. This was different. Deeper. Like my blood had suddenly remembered it was supposed to be moving faster. My wolf—if she could even be called that anymore—stirred faintly, not with pain or fear, but with… awareness. Like she was lifting her head, sniffing the wind.
I shook it off and focused on the next platter. Sauce. Wipe the rim. Next.
The kitchen doors banged open again. A rush of cooler air and distant music swept in. Three Omegas who’d been allowed to watch from the back of the hall tumbled inside, faces flushed, eyes bright with gossip.
“Did you *see* him?” Lila squealed, clutching Mara’s arm.
“I thought I was going to faint,” Mara whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. “He walked in like he owned the entire continent. Which, I mean… he kind of does.”
Greta snapped a towel in their direction. “Less swooning, more plating. The first course goes out in ten.”
But the girls barely heard her. They clustered near the pastry station, voices dropping to excited hisses.
“The Mad King,” Sienna said, almost reverently. “Kylen. In the flesh.”
I kept my head down, but my hands slowed.
I’d heard the stories. Everyone had.
The Alpha King who crushed rebellions without blinking. Who once tore through an entire rogue battalion single-handed, leaving nothing but red snow behind. They called him mad because he never smiled, never hesitated, never forgave. Packs whispered his name like a curse and a prayer at the same time. Even Gaius spoke of him with a strange mixture of resentment and caution.
And now he was here.
In our pack house.
Lila leaned closer to the others, voice dropping even lower. “He’s taller than I thought. And those eyes… Goddess, they’re like winter. Cold blue. You look at him and you just *know* he could kill you without raising his pulse.”
Mara shivered dramatically. “But handsome. Like dangerously handsome. Black suit, no tie, no nonsense. The way he looked at Emeric—like he was already deciding whether the old Alpha was worth keeping alive.”
Sienna giggled. “I swear his Beta had to physically stop one of the visiting Lunas from throwing herself at him. She practically melted when he walked past.”
I ladled sauce onto another plate. My fingers trembled just enough to make a tiny drop fall outside the rim. I wiped it quickly with my thumb before Greta could see.
They kept talking.
About the way he moved—predatory, deliberate.
About the scars on his knuckles, visible even from the back rows.
About how the entire hall went quiet when he entered, the way prey goes still when a lion steps into the clearing.
I didn’t join in. I never did. But I listened.
Because for the first time in months, curiosity flickered somewhere beneath the numbness.
What did a man like that look like up close?
What did power that absolute feel like when it brushed past you?
Would it feel like fear?
Or something worse?
The restlessness in my chest sharpened. My wolf pressed against the inside of my ribs again, not fighting to surface—just… waiting. Listening.
I set the ladle down and flexed my aching hands.
Greta barked another order. Trays were lifted. Servers straightened their aprons and filed out toward the dining hall.
I stayed behind, assigned to the endless task of prepping dessert garnishes. Chocolate curls. Candied orange peels. Mint leaves washed and patted dry. Mindless. Safe.
The double doors opened and closed again and again as courses went out. Snatches of music and laughter drifted in each time. Applause rolled through the walls when Gaius gave his first speech as Alpha. Cheers followed.
I kept working.
But every few minutes, my gaze flicked toward the doors.
Dinner would come soon.
The high table would be set.
Important guests would be seated.
And somewhere in that glittering crowd, the Mad King would be watching.
I didn’t know why the thought made my pulse stutter.
I told myself it didn’t matter.
I told myself I didn’t care if I was allowed to carry trays into the dining hall tonight or if I spent the entire evening hidden in the kitchen.
I told myself I’d never see him.
But deep down—buried under layers of exhaustion and hurt and carefully constructed indifference—something small and reckless whispered:
Maybe I will.
And maybe, just maybe, that would change something.
I didn’t know what.
I didn’t dare hope.
But the restlessness wouldn’t leave.
It sat heavy in my chest like a promise I hadn’t asked for.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t try to push it away.
- Writer
