The first pale light of dawn crept through the pack house windows, turning the stone floors a soft gray. Jennie moved silently through the corridors, a shadow among shadows, carrying a stack of fresh linens toward the guest quarters.
No one glanced her way. No one ever did.
Her cheek still bore a faint bruise from Lydia's slap, hidden beneath a thin layer of concealer she'd scavenged from a forgotten bathroom cabinet. The split in her lip had scabbed over. She kept her silver-white hair tied back in a severe knot, loose strands tucked away. Today, she intended to be invisible in the most ordinary sense.
But inside, everything felt different.
The shadows that had answered her last night lingered at the edges of her awareness—quiet, patient, waiting for her call. She hadn't dared test them again in the dark hours before dawn, afraid the power might surge too strongly, afraid someone might hear. Instead, she had lain on her narrow cot in the servants' attic, staring at the ceiling, feeling the cool hum of it thrumming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat.
She had a secret now. Something that belonged only to her.
And for the first time, that felt like strength instead of shame.
Jennie reached Lydia's lavish guest suite—one of the largest rooms reserved for high-ranking unmated females—and paused outside the door. Voices drifted through the wood, bright and gossip-filled.
"…absolutely perfect last night," Lydia was saying, her tone smug. "Did you see how he let me stand beside him during the toast? His father noticed. Everyone noticed."
Mia laughed. "Kai couldn't take his eyes off the platform. He barely looked at anyone else."
Serena added, "Except that one weird moment with the scentless freak. Thank the Goddess that was over quickly."
Lydia's voice sharpened. "It was nothing. A passing curiosity. By tonight he'll have forgotten she exists."
Jennie's fingers tightened on the linens. She took a slow breath, then knocked once—soft, deferential.
"Enter," Lydia called.
Jennie pushed the door open and stepped inside, eyes lowered in proper submission. The room was luxurious: a four-poster bed draped in silk, a vanity crowded with jewelry and perfumes, morning sunlight glinting off gold and gems.
Lydia lounged on the bed in a satin robe, golden hair loose and perfect. Mia and Serena flanked her like loyal sentinels.
Jennie moved to the wardrobe to begin putting away fresh towels. She kept her movements small, unnoticeable.
Lydia watched her with lazy amusement. "On time for once. Good. We have a busy day. Kai's formal welcome feast is tonight, and I need this room spotless."
"Yes, Miss Harrington," Jennie murmured.
Serena smirked. "Try not to bleed on anything this time."
The bruise on Jennie's cheek throbbed at the reminder. She said nothing.
Lydia rose and crossed to her vanity, opening the velvet-lined jewelry box. She lifted out a heavy golden necklace—her prized piece, a family heirloom studded with emeralds. She held it up to the light, admiring how it caught the sun.
"This will look perfect tonight," she said. "Kai won't be able to look away."
She fastened it around her neck, then turned back to the box to select earrings.
That was when the scream came.
High, sharp, furious.
Lydia stared into the empty velvet hollow where the necklace had rested moments ago. In its place lay a single strand of long, shimmering silver-white hair, coiled like a deliberate taunt.
The necklace was gone.
"What—how—" Lydia's face flushed crimson. She whirled on Jennie, who was calmly folding towels at the wardrobe. "You!"
Jennie turned, expression blank. "Miss?"
"You thieving little— You were in here alone yesterday afternoon, weren't you? Cleaning?"
Jennie shook her head. "I was in the kitchens until dusk."
"Liar!" Lydia snatched the silver strand and thrust it toward Jennie's face. "This is yours. You broke in last night and stole my necklace!"
Mia and Serena closed in, eyes wide with scandalized delight.
Jennie met Lydia's gaze steadily. "I've never touched your jewelry, Miss Harrington. And my hair falls out sometimes. It could have been there for days."
Lydia's hand cracked across Jennie's face—harder than last night. Jennie's head snapped to the side, fresh blood blooming on her lip.
"You think you can play games with me?" Lydia hissed. "I'll have you whipped for this. I'll have you banished."
Jennie tasted blood again. The shadows stirred at the edges of the room, darkening slightly in the corners. She forced them down.
"I didn't take it," she said quietly.
Lydia laughed, cold and vicious. "No one else could have. The door was locked. The window barred. And this—" she waved the silver strand—"is proof."
At that moment, the door opened again. Alpha Ronan entered, drawn by the raised voices. His presence filled the room like a storm front.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.
Lydia immediately shifted into distressed tears—impressive in their speed. "Alpha Ronan, my heirloom necklace has been stolen! And she—" pointing at Jennie—"left her hair in my jewelry box as some kind of threat!"
Ronan's gaze moved to Jennie. His expression was unreadable, but there was no warmth in it. Unclassified wolves had few rights.
"Is this true?" he asked Jennie.
"No, Alpha," Jennie answered, voice steady. "I did not take it."
Ronan looked at the silver strand in Lydia's hand, then at the faint bruise blooming on Jennie's cheek. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing about the obvious slap.
"Search her room," he ordered the two warriors who had followed him in. "If the necklace is found, she will be punished severely."
Jennie bowed her head. "Yes, Alpha."
As the warriors left to carry out the order, Lydia smirked behind Ronan's back.
But Jennie's ice-blue eyes held no fear.
Because the necklace wasn't in her room.
It was buried deep beneath the roots of an ancient oak in her hidden glade, wrapped in shadow and moonlight, waiting.
The search turned up nothing, of course.
By midday, the pack buzzed with gossip. Lydia raged publicly, demanding punishment anyway—"She must have hidden it somewhere!"—but without evidence, Ronan could not act harshly. Theft was serious, but false accusation carried risk too.
Jennie went about her duties in silence, head down, silver hair once again tied back.
Inside, the power hummed stronger.
That evening, as the sun began to set and preparations for Kai's formal feast began, an elder healer named Mira approached Jennie in the herb garden.
Mira was one of the few who had ever shown Jennie kindness. Old, stooped, with kind gray eyes.
"I heard what happened," Mira said quietly, glancing around to ensure they were alone. "And I saw the silver hair they found."
Jennie tensed.
Mira leaned closer. "Child… there are old stories. Whispers of Veiled Wolves. Born without scent. Able to walk unseen. To move through locked doors like mist."
Jennie's heart stuttered.
"They were guardians," Mira continued, voice barely above a whisper. "Protectors who could enter enemy camps undetected. Healers who could slip past guards to save the dying. But the bloodline was thought lost centuries ago."
Jennie met the old woman's gaze. "Stories," she said carefully.
Mira studied her for a long moment. "Be careful, child. Power like that… it draws attention. And not always the kind you want."
As Mira walked away, Jennie felt the shadows stir again—restless, eager.
Across the pack grounds, Kai stood on a balcony overlooking the preparations. His father had pulled him aside earlier, mentioning the theft accusation briefly.
"A misunderstanding, likely," Ronan had said. "But keep your distance from the Voss girl. She brings trouble."
Kai had nodded, but the pull in his chest had only grown stronger all day—like a hook buried deep, tugging relentlessly.
He scanned the gardens below and caught a glimpse of silver-white hair glinting in the fading light.
His breath caught.
The girl from last night.
And for reasons he couldn't name, the thought of her in trouble made his wolf growl low and furious.