10
905 Words
Maisie’s POV
The kitchen doors swung open for what felt like the hundredth time that night, and Greta’s voice cut through the clatter like a blade.
“Maisie. You’re on dinner service. High table. Now.”
I froze mid-motion, the silver tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries trembling in my hands. One berry rolled off the edge and hit the floor with a soft, accusing plop.
“Me?” My voice came out small, cracked from disuse.
Greta didn’t look up from the carving board where she was slicing prime rib with surgical precision. “Yes, you. One of the servers twisted her ankle carrying the last wine crate. We’re short. Move.”
I opened my mouth to argue—something about how I was filthy from kitchen grease, how my hands still shook, how I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the important guests—but the words died before they formed. Greta’s glare told me arguing would only earn me worse duties tomorrow. Or worse punishment.
I set the tray down, wiped my palms on the already-stained apron, and followed the line of servers out of the kitchen.
The corridor felt longer than usual. Each step sent a dull throb through my legs, but that wasn’t what made my pulse race. Something else was building inside me—restless, electric, like static crawling under my skin. My wolf, silent and broken for so long, stirred again. Not weakly this time. Not faintly. She lifted her head, ears pricked, nostrils flaring.
I pressed a hand to my chest as if I could hold her down.
*Calm,* I told her silently. *It’s just dinner. Just trays and bowed heads. Nothing more.*
She didn’t listen.
The closer we got to the grand dining hall, the faster my heart hammered. It wasn’t fear—not exactly. It was anticipation. Hunger. A pull so strong it felt like invisible threads wrapped around my ribs, tugging me forward whether I wanted to go or not.
The double doors stood open. Golden light spilled out, along with the low hum of conversation, the clink of crystal, the rich scent of roasted meat, spiced wine, and dozens of powerful wolves in one room. Music drifted from the string quartet in the corner—soft, elegant, almost mocking.
I stepped inside.
The pull sharpened instantly.
It wasn’t coming from Gaius.
It wasn’t coming from the high table’s center where the new Alpha sat, silver circlet gleaming under the chandeliers, smirking at some whispered joke from a visiting Luna.
It was coming from farther down the table.
From the man seated to the right of Emeric.
I couldn’t look away.
He was… devastating.
Tall even while seated, broad shoulders filling out a black suit that looked tailored by someone who understood both power and restraint. No tie. The top button of his shirt undone just enough to reveal a sliver of tanned skin and the faint edge of a scar that disappeared beneath the collar. Dark hair swept back, a few strands falling rebelliously across his forehead. Jaw carved from stone. Lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.
But it was his eyes that stopped my breath.
Ice-blue. Piercing. Cold enough to burn.
They swept the room with lazy indifference—until they landed on me.
The world narrowed to a pinprick.
My tray tilted. A champagne flute wobbled. I caught it just in time, fingers numb.
The pull became unbearable.
My feet moved without permission, carrying me closer to the high table even as every instinct screamed to run the other way. The other servers fanned out, placing platters and refilling glasses, but I felt like I was walking through water—slow, heavy, inevitable.
I stopped directly in front of him.
Face to face.
Close enough to see the faint silver threading through his dark lashes. Close enough to smell him.
Cedar. Smoke. Thunder on the horizon. Something wild and ancient and terrifyingly alive.
My wolf surged.
For the first time in three hundred and sixty-five days—three hundred and sixty-five days of silence, of pain, of feeling like half a soul—she roared inside me.
Alive.
Whole.
Fierce.
A sound tore from my throat before I could stop it.
A growl.
Low. Raw. Possessive.
The entire hall seemed to stutter.
Conversations faltered. Heads turned.
His eyes widened—just a fraction.
Then he was on his feet so fast the chair scraped back with a sharp screech.
“Mate,” he shouted.
The word cracked through the room like lightning.
One syllable.
Absolute.
Final.
Everything inside me fractured and reformed in the same heartbeat.
My vision tunneled.
The tray slipped from my fingers.
Crystal shattered against marble.
Champagne sprayed across the hem of a nearby gown.
Someone gasped.
Gaius’s chair crashed backward.
But I couldn’t look away from the man in front of me.
The Alpha King.
Kylen.
My mate.
My wolf howled in triumph, claws scraping the inside of my skull, demanding I close the distance, claim, mark, *take*.
But my body—my weak, battered, human body—couldn’t keep up.
The room spun.
My knees buckled.
Darkness rushed in from the edges, fast and merciless.
I felt myself falling.
He lunged forward—too late.
The last thing I saw was his face—shock, fury, something raw and unguarded flashing through those winter eyes.
Then the floor rushed up to meet me.
And everything went black.
- Writer
