The Wolf stirred awake at precisely 5:30 a.m., their body already humming with electricity. Sleep had never held them long—it was in the quiet hours before dawn that they came alive, when the world hadn't yet found its voice, and everything felt suspended, possible.
Without a second wasted, they kicked off the heavy linen covers and slid out of bed, barefoot padding against the cool marble floors. Their morning ritual was not a habit—it was a ceremony. They began with a freezing cold shower, the kind that stripped away sleep and carved a sharp edge into their awareness. Afterward, they brushed their teeth with military precision, massaged their cleanser into their sun-kissed skin, and worked through a series of practiced motions with serums and moisturizers that left their face radiant and awake. Their wrapped in a towel, they stared into the mirror—not vainly, but intently—as though reminding themselves who they were.
A storm, and a strategy.
By 5:50, they were drying their thick hair with practiced ease. Once it was glossy and smooth, they twisted it into a style that showed off the proud angles of their face. Then came the closet—an opulent walk-in full of anything they could possibly need, curated by people with far too much money and far too little restraint. But they didn't need extravagance at the break of dawn. The Wolf chose a maroon two-piece sports set, paired with thigh-high socks and crimson red runners. Sleek, functional, clean.
The Wolf didn't bother with jewelry, except for their necklace—a chain that now held their room key like a charm. With quiet deliberation, they locked every interior door of their suite, stashing the master keys inside a hollowed-out faux book on their bedside shelf. No one needed to know the Wolf's den better than the Wolf themselves.
They locked the front door behind them with a soft click, slipped the key beneath their clothes, and took off down the polished halls. Every twist, every stairwell—they had memorized the path the night before. When they moved, it was with the precision of someone on a mission. Their sneakers barely made a sound against the velvet carpeting.
And they had just reached the winding staircase that led to the east wing courtyard when a voice, warm and smooth as aged cognac, slid into their ear from behind.
"So, mia principessa greca is a morning person."
The Wolf didn't have to turn to know who it was.
Alessandro, the Casanova Italian of the Eagles.
The voice came with the usual scent of trouble—and a fresh hint of sandalwood soap. Thalia glanced over her shoulder and found him shirtless, wearing only sport shorts in a bold shade of dark mustard and black runners. His dark hair was still damp, tousled, and the morning light kissed every carved tanned muscle on his impossibly tall frame. Like her, he'd looped his room key onto a chain around his neck. Clever boy.
Thalia allowed a grin to bloom across her lips as she slowed her jog.
"Always been, Casanova." Her tone was light, teasing. Her gaze drifted down—briefly, but not subtly—taking him in. "Are you?"
He tilted his head, that signature lopsided grin tugging at his mouth as he let his eyes roam her figure just as shamelessly. "I certainly am now," he replied, the flirt crackling in his thick Italian accent. "If it means I get to bump into sunshine every day."
"Oh, please," she groaned, rolling her eyes and nudging his arm. "You up for a snack and a run around this massive place before breakfast? Or do you need a long beauty sleep to maintain that sculpted marble aesthetic?"
He leaned in slightly, close enough for her to smell the clean musk of his skin, and looked down at her with a twinkle in his eye—though she was tall at nearly 5'10, he still towered over her at 6'7, maybe even 6'8, second only to Elijah among the contestants.
His grin deepened. "Who's the snack?"
Without hesitation, Thalia laughed and grabbed his wrist, feeling how his pulse raced under her touch, pushing him back with a strength that caught him off guard. "It's not even 7 a.m., Casanova. Don't push it."
Her fingers on his skin lingered for only a second, but it was enough to send a shiver through his spine. His eyes darkened as he recovered from the playful shove, stepping closer once more.
"I'm just making my move, mia principessa greca," he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. "I have no intentions in waiting for another to swoop you away."
She arched an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh, I've noticed. Subtlety's not your strong suit."
"Guilty," he said with a wink.
"Come on then," she said, brushing past him, her shoulder grazing his bare chest. "Let's raid the kitchen for something healthy."
Alessandro pretended to pout but nodded, offering his arm like some gentleman from a bygone era. Thalia glanced at it, unimpressed, and swatted it away with dramatic flair.
"Oh, come on, I'm harmless," he said with a laugh.
Thalia eyed him up and down. "You are _anything_ but harmless, Casanova."
He clasped a hand to his heart, feigning injury. "Well, I try to be a gentleman."
She was already walking away, her back straight, stride confident, and he followed like a moth to a flame. His gaze lingered on the sway of her full hips, the strength in her posture, the sheer confidence that poured off of her in waves.
She glanced back over her shoulder with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "What's the Italian for 'you're drooling'?"
He chuckled, quick on the draw. "Stai sbavando."
"Well then—stai sbavando, Casanova," she called cheekily, tossing him a wink.
Alessandro jogged up to meet her, his grin practically feral now. "I've been sbavando since the moment you walked into that drawing room, mia principessa greca."
They halted near the end of the corridor, where the morning still clung to shadows and silence—until they met the steward.
"Oh? So we have two early risers this year." Kaspar Vogel arched a brow, his voice smooth as aged brandy. "You might be the only ones who see the sun rise on purpose. Good morning, Lady Drakos. Lord Giordano."
Thalia gave him a dazzling smile that could've rivaled the dawn itself. "Good morning, Mr. Vogel."
"Mr. Vogel," Alessandro echoed politely, with a tilt of his head, his smile less radiant but warm all the same.
The steward clasped his hands behind his back, eyes twinkling as he took them in like a professor noting interesting new students. "Did you both rest well?"
"In that Egyptian cotton cloud you call a bed?" Thalia practically gasped, bouncing a little on her heels like she was made of caffeine and sunlight. "It felt like being cradled by angels. I was out the moment I hit the mattress. Slept like a baby—no dreams, no interruptions. I could run a marathon right now."
Kaspar's mouth tugged into a subtle, knowing smile. "As expected of the youngest in the house. Boundless energy, first to rise, bright as a bell. And you, Lord Giordano?" he asked, shifting his attention to Alessandro with a little arch of curiosity.
The Italian chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Blacked out like I was drugged. That bed might be a trap. Like sleeping on clouds and silk and everything I never knew I needed. I feel human again." He tossed a wink at Thalia, "Human enough to go jogging with mia principessa greca, that is."
Thalia scoffed and gave him a playful nudge, the back of her hand landing lightly on his shoulder. "You're incorrigible. No off switch, is there, Casanova?"