Kaya
"Get the glasses." Jack jerks his hand at Shelly, and she obeys without hesitation.
"You’ll be serving Reiner’s n. They’re in the guest room. Charlie will show you the way." He barely spares her a glance before shifting his attention to . "And you," he says, jabbing a thick finger in my direction, "grab that tray over there and hold it. I’ll pour the drinks. Can’t afford any mistakes when it cos to serving that demon."
Silently, I pick up the tray and wait. Jack doesn’t reach for the fresh bottle of whiskey—the sa kind Alpha Damien prefers. No. Instead, his fingers curl around a tall crystal carafe, its body encased in an intricate golden snake that coils up to the very top.
The honey-colored liquor inside shimrs under the dim light, a rich golden undertone swirling as he tilts the vessel. The liquid flows smoothly into the glasses, and for a fleeting mont, I catch myself staring, my mouth watering at the sight.
Why am I craving a drink?
Well, that’s a lie. I know exactly why. I have too many reasons to drown myself in alcohol right now. But if I had to pick just one? eting Alpha Reiner takes the crown.
A sharp screech of a door jolts from my thoughts. I turn in ti to see a man stride into the kitchen. His square jaw and bleached-white hair seem almost comical, an odd contrast to the nace he’s supposed to exude. The ridiculous mismatch between his appearance and his role in this place makes my skin prickle.
"Charlie." Jack motions to him with a lazy wave of his aty hand. The newcor nods, closing the distance between them in just a few broad strides.
"This one goes to the guest room," Jack says, giving Shelly a rough shove between the shoulder blades. She stumbles forward, nearly colliding with Charlie’s chest.
"Don’t go in with her," Jack continues, his tone flat and final. "But make sure you follow her—in and out."
"Got it." Charlie nods once, his square face remaining eerily blank. Then, without warning, he shoves Shelly forward, his tongue darting across his thin lips as his beady black eyes rake over her backside.
Disgust churns in my stomach.
The mont Shelly and Charlie disappear through the doorway, Jack turns back to with a grin—though there’s a flicker of unease behind it. "Move it, sweet cheeks. I hear Alpha Reiner doesn’t like to be kept waiting."
He doesn’t.
Every rumor I’ve ever heard about Alpha Reiner says the sa thing: he is a man to fear. If he weren’t, why would everyone be so terrified of him?
I follow Jack through the dimly lit corridor, my mind racing too fast to focus on my surroundings. My hands tremble so violently that the whiskey glasses clink against each other, and I suck in a sharp breath, terrified I might spill sothing.
Jack chuckles darkly, as if reading my mind. "That’s the last thing you wanna do, sweet cheeks." He stops, and so do I, though my eyes remain glued to the tray, my grip tightening around its edges.
"Rumor has it," he continues with a smirk, "the last maid who spilled a drink on Alpha Reiner had her hands torn clean off."
My throat dries instantly. The ntal image is all too vivid. Sothing being ripped from a body. The mory sends a shudder through .
But I’m not a maid. I don’t even belong here.
So why am I terrified that so crazed alpha might rip my hands off for failing to serve him a drink properly?
My mind is a tangled ss, but I force myself to steady my breathing. I have to hold it together.
I can’t let anything happen to . Not before I find a way out of here.
But then a chilling thought slithers into my mind.
Can I really escape?
Lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice that Jack has stopped until I nearly bump into him. We stand at the end of the corridor, in front of a large black door left slightly ajar. As I sidestep to avoid him, my eyes instinctively flick toward the opening, granting a glimpse inside the room where Alpha Storm and Alpha Reiner are seated.
Like the rest of the building, the room is steeped in shadows, but the opulent display of gilded objects scattered throughout catches the dim orange glow of the overhead bulbs. Their dull shimr casts a false sense of warmth over the space, making it seem almost inviting—almost.
Alpha Storm’s desk faces the door, his sharp features visible in the low light. But it’s the man sitting across from him that seizes my attention, even though his back is turned to .
Still, that alone is enough.
A suffocating force crashes over , so imnse that my blood rushes to my head, my ears ringing violently. The world around fades, swallowed by the deafening silence of my own racing pulse.
I have never felt this way just by looking at soone’s back. Not even when I looked at Damien’s face.
Yet there he sits—unmoving, unreadable, impossibly powerful.
Clad entirely in black, his biker jacket strains against the breadth of his shoulders, the leather appearing almost too tight for his muscular fra. His posture is effortlessly straight, a picture of control without a hint of stiffness. His dark, unruly curls spill past the base of his thick neck, half of them gathered into a small, careless bun at the back of his head.
But it’s his scent that undoes .
It seeps from the room like an invisible force, wrapping around in a cloying, intoxicating embrace. Thick and heady, it coils through my senses, sending a shiver down my spine.
My knees weaken. My breath falters.
And for the first ti in my life, I feel utterly, dangerously trapped.
The scent is both intense and invigorating, a blend of crisp pine needles laced with sothing warm and familiar—cinnamon, perhaps, or the aged pages of a well-loved book resting by a crackling fireplace. It seeps into my lungs, wrapping around like an invisible cocoon, soothing and all-consuming.
I close my eyes, letting it wash over . Drowning in it.
Comforting.
My eyes snap open, my heartbeat hamring against my ribs. No. That’s wrong.
The only scent I’ve ever found comforting before is Damien’s. So why...?
But it’s not just that. It doesn’t simply soothe .
Alpha Reiner slls like ho.
"Ah, the drinks are here," Alpha Storm’s voice slices through the mont, yanking back to reality. I straighten my posture at once, my knuckles whitening as I tighten my grip on the tray.
"Don’t just stand there. Go!" Jack hisses under his breath, giving a light shove as he holds the door open.
I swallow hard, forcing down the lump in my throat, and take a hesitant step forward. But—it isn’t difficult.
That scent pulls in. My legs move of their own accord, as if drawn by an unseen force, and before I fully register it, I’m already standing beside him—Reiner. My eyes remain fixed on the tray, unwilling to lift.
And then—the air shifts.
A heavy, suffocating presence engulfs the room, curling in like thick, choking smoke.
I risk a glance at Alpha Storm and find him frozen in place, his expression rigid with shock. His gaze is locked onto his guest.
anwhile, Reiner’s scent grows stronger, wrapping tighter around . But now, mixed with the sheer weight of his presence, it’s no longer intoxicating—it’s unbearable.
Struggling to ignore whatever force made Reiner shift the very air around us, I carefully lift one of the whiskey glasses from the tray and place it beside his hand. My fingers barely graze his skin as I pull away—a fleeting touch, barely noticeable.
And then—it happens.
Without warning, as if struck by lightning, Alpha Reiner jolts to his feet. His chair screeches against the floor before hurtling backward, crashing against the door with a deafening thud.
I flinch, instinctively jerking back. My fingers slip, and before I can catch it, the second glass tumbles from my grasp.
Shatter.
Golden liquid spills across the floor, seeping into the cracks, pooling at his feet.
On his shoes.
On Alpha Reiner’s shoes.
My heart slams against my ribs, panic surging through my veins like wildfire. I did it. I spilled the drink. The very thing Jack warned not to do.
I brace myself—for fury, for punishnt, for sothing.
But when I lift my eyes to his face, ti stops.
There’s no anger in his gaze, no irritation, no hint of disappointnt.
Nothing.
Only heartbreaking sadness.
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