*
---
The ticking sound of the old wall clock in the maid's quarters struck six.
Mia's eyes opened before the final chime echoed.
Even in comfort, her body didn't allow her the luxury of deep sleep—not after years of being jolted awake by kicks, cold water, or worse. Her muscles had learned to rise before her mind could even catch up.
As she sat up quietly, brushing her tangled black hair from her face, Barbara was already approaching.
"Oh—I was just about to wake you," the small omega said, slightly surprised, her voice still hoarse with sleep.
Mia offered a faint smile. "Thanks."
Barbara blinked, then smiled back before returning to her bunk.
Mia slipped out of bed, dressed quickly into the clean maid uniform folded neatly at the edge. She fixed her ribbon with silent precision, then turned to Sandra and Luciana, both still half-asleep, to ask softly, "Can someone show me the way to the kitchen?"
Luciana mumbled directions into her pillow, and with a nod of thanks, Mia was gone.
---
The kitchen was alive with noise and heat.
Mia stepped in, and instantly, the chatter died.
It was as if the entire room exhaled together and forgot how to breathe again.
Werewolf and lycan maids turned to look at her—some in curiosity, some in distaste, and others with that quiet, resigned pity that burned worse than hate. Their eyes trailed from her face to the slightly hunched posture of her back, as if they could smell the captivity that still clung to her skin.
Mia didn't react.
She bowed her head lightly and walked forward.
Until—
A sudden shove sent her slightly off balance.
A tall lycan maid stepped in front of her, eyes gleaming with mean delight. She wore her authority like a crown, chin high, arms crossed.
Veronica.
Her sneer could slice stone.
"Well, well," she purred. "Didn't see me, did you? Or did your lowly werewolf nose fail you again?"
A few maids snickered. Others looked away.
Mia said nothing.
Veronica stepped closer.
"You don't belong here," she hissed under her breath. "You should be licking floors, not walking on them."
Mia bowed her head lower, silent still.
> "Oh? Playing deaf?"
> Veronica reached to the counter, grabbed a nearby kettle of hot water and—without a moment's hesitation—poured it straight down Mia's back.
**Ssshhhhhh—** The hiss of water meeting flesh echoed.
Gasps filled the room.
The old chef shouted, "Veronica!"
But it was too late.
Mia didn't scream.
She didn't even move.
Her face was angled downward, her expression unchanged.
The pain lanced through her body like fire wrapped in needles, crawling up her spine and down her arms. But her silence remained intact. Her body trembled, yes—but only from the effort it took to *stand still*.
Emotionally, she was numb. Physically… she felt it. She bled inside. But she'd felt worse.
So much worse.
That wasn't her first burn.
Veronica was seething. Furious at her lack of reaction. "You think you're too good to scream, is that it?"
She grabbed another cup—steam rising violently from the top—and moved to pour again—
"Enough!"
The voice hit like a whip.
Every head turned.
**Grey**—the blonde lycan guard—stood at the entrance, his eyes glowing faintly with suppressed fury. His scent of dominance hit the room like a wave, forcing every lesser aura to retreat.
Veronica stiffened.
She turned slowly, clutching the cup behind her back. "I—I was only—"
"I saw everything," Grey interrupted coldly. "Don't bother."
Veronica's eyes darted around. Maids scattered. Everyone was already backing away from her. Her authority here ended where his began.
She bowed her head in bitter submission. "Forgive me, Sir Grey. It was a misunderstanding—"
"She is a maid. Just like you."
Grey's voice cut through the air. "She is also the King's *personal* maid. You'll be wise to remember your place before it's taken from you."
Veronica's jaw clenched.
But she said nothing else, retreating quickly with her pride trailing in the dust.
Grey glanced at Mia, his gaze softening slightly.
"You don't have to let them do that to you," he said. "Don't break again."
Mia didn't answer. She only nodded.
That was the most she could offer.
---
She rushed toward the counter, ignoring the blistering heat under her uniform. The old chef had already packed the King's dinner tray: roasted elk slices in redwine glaze, seasoned vegetables, bloodroot sauce, black bread, and his favorite crimson herb tea.
The chef handed it over gently, her expression tight with concern.
"Poor child…" she murmured.
Mia steadied the tray in both hands and nodded with thanks.
---
By the time she reached the King's chamber door, it was already **8:01 p.m.**
Late.
Only by a minute, but enough to spark anxiety in her gut.
She took a breath, ignoring the burn across her back, and knocked.
A pause.
> "Come in."
The voice was as cold as ever.
She pushed the door open and walked in, stepping gracefully across the polished floor to the dining table. With practiced care, she laid out the dishes. The plate at the center, wine glass to the left, knife angled precisely, napkin folded into a tight diamond.
She had done this before. Many times.
In the captive house.
For the owner. For his clients. For wolves who watched her like a servant, not a girl.
But this was different. Somehow worse. Because this man's eyes didn't leer.
They observed.
The Lycan King sat quietly at the table, watching as she worked, his silver eyes unreadable. The scent of hot skin and blistered flesh lingered under her uniform, though she masked it well.
He noticed.
She could feel it.
But he said nothing.
She stood back once everything was in place.
He began eating.
And for an hour, she stood like a statue—motionless, wordless—her back pulsing with pain beneath her clothes.
Still, she didn't sway.
Not once.
His fork scraped the plate softly. His wine glass clinked. His breaths were even.
Only at the end did he glance at her again—this time, longer.
She met his gaze briefly.
Then lowered her eyes.
> "You may clear the table."
She did.
Silently. Efficiently.
As she moved toward the door with the tray, her eyes caught the glint of something through the corridor window. Moonlight.
And beyond it—a garden.
---
She hesitated.
Only for a moment.
But her feet took her there.
The garden was breathtaking even in near-darkness. Moonflowers bloomed in silver, glowing like stardust. Vines curled around marble statues. The scent of roses and night-willow filled the air.
Mia stood there, her tray clutched in her hands.
And for that moment… she wasn't broken.
She was alive.
---
Eventually, she turned and walked back toward the kitchen, returned the tray, and took her own meal.
Still warm. A bit plain compared to the King's, but rich compared to anything she'd eaten in years. She ate quickly, quietly, and thanked the old chef in her heart.
When she returned to her room, the corridor was dim and hushed.
But something… felt *off.*
A strange prickling at her neck. Like eyes were on her. Not malicious—but not friendly either.
She turned.
Nothing.
The corridor was empty.
Shrugging the feeling off, she stepped inside.
All three of her roommates were asleep, their breathing soft and even.
Luciana mumbled drowsily, "Welcome back…"
Mia smiled softly. "Thanks," she whispered.
She entered the small toilet room, shut the door, and gently peeled off her uniform.
The skin on her back was red, swollen, and blistered in places.
She avoided the mirror.
She cleaned around it with a wet cloth, wincing only slightly, then changed into the soft nightgown folded earlier on her bed.
Finally, she lay back.
No chains.
No cold floor.
No barking voices.
Just the ceiling.
She stared at it for a long time.
Wondering why… why *him?*
Why did the mark on his chest match hers?
What did it mean?
---
And outside, in the darkness of the corridor, two pale eyes blinked once.
Watched.
Then vanished.
---
?