Steam choked the laundry house rafters, but Lira barely noticed the heat.
One mistake tonight, and she wouldn't live to scrub another sheet.
She stood ankle-deep in gray water, knuckles bleeding as she scrubbed ceremonial linen marked with sigils that weren't hers. Lye burned open cuts. Tubs were too heavy. Air too thick.
The other girls — older, wiser — had learned not to look at her when Madam Renna passed.
Looking made you complicit.
"Faster, omega."
Madam Renna's voice cut low, sharp, comfortable with cruelty.
Lira lowered her head and scrubbed harder.
Silence was safer than answers. Always had been.
She'd been here since thirteen — orphaned, unclaimed, wolf-less. No parents. No records. Just a girl no one wanted.
A wolf-less omega.
Useless.
"Choosing Day," one girl whispered, wringing fabric dry.
Another leaned in. "Last girl who tripped in the hall didn't walk out."
Lira didn't slow. Cold slid down her spine.
Tonight the Moon Goddess would choose a
Luna for the Lycan King.
And punish anyone foolish enough to be seen.
"Lira."
She stiffened.
Madam Renna stood at the threshold now, arms folded, eyes sharp with something that wasn't quite satisfaction.
"You're delivering a bundle."
Lira's breath caught. Deliveries went to higher quarters. Deliveries meant being seen.
"I—" Her voice faltered. She tried again. "Where, Madam?"
Renna's lip curled. "Don't get ideas. These are for the palace."
The room went quiet.
Even the tubs seemed to still.
"Prince Rowan Blackthorne's chambers," Renna continued. "Ceremonial wear. Clan-marked. Late already."
The name carried weight. Power.
And something else—something that tightened in Lira's chest for reasons she didn't understand.
The Lycan King's younger brother.
Lira swallowed. "Madam, I shouldn't—"
Renna stepped closer. Too close. Her fingers jabbed into Lira's chest, hard enough to send her stumbling back into the tub.
"You shouldn't speak unless spoken to."
Water sloshed over the rim.
Renna's gaze promised pain.
"You will deliver them. You will not linger. And if anything goes wrong — it's on you."
Lira nodded quickly. "Yes, Madam."
The bundle was thrust into her arms — heavy, expensive, Blackthorne sigil burned into the fabric.
"Try not to trip," Renna added, thin smile.
Laughter followed her out.
Lira didn't look back.
——
In the palace, mistakes didn't earn scoldings.
They earned scars.
The palace gates swallowed her.
Cold stone replaced steam. Vaulted ceilings pressed down with gold and moonlight.
Guards lined the corridors, eyes sliding past her like she was furniture.
Her footsteps sounded wrong — too loud, too small.
Choosing Day had turned the palace into a hive — servants rushing, nobles' voices echoing, anticipation sharp enough to cut.
She counted steps, hugged the wall, searched for someone to take the bundle so she could vanish.
She didn't make it ten paces.
A strange heat curled low in her belly — sudden, unwanted, unfamiliar.
Her breath hitched. Thighs clenched involuntarily.
What is wrong with me?
The sensation pulsed — sharp, insistent — like something inside her had woken and found her wanting.
A sharp hand seized her arm.
The bundle slipped.
"I'm here to deliver—"
The woman — tall, palace gray — didn't let her finish.
"Kitchen's short. You laundry girls are always in the way." She snatched the fabric. "Move."
"It's ceremonial — for Prince Rowan—"
The woman shoved her toward a side passage.
"If it matters, someone will come looking. If not, it doesn't."
Lira stumbled, caught herself against stone.
The bundle was gone.
Panic flared.
"Move," the woman snapped. "Or explain to the steward why you're idle on Choosing Day."
No one would come for her.
She obeyed.
—-
The kitchen was chaos — heat, steam, bodies colliding.
A tray was thrust into her hands.
"Cups. Move."
She obeyed.
She carried, poured, wiped — stepped aside to avoid spills that would earn a strike. Grease slicked the floor. Smoke burned her eyes.
She was invisible.
And yet — more exposed than ever.
Two maids whispered nearby.
"They say today's the day," one murmured.
"If the Lycan King finds his mate," the other murmured, almost hopeful, "maybe he won't be so feral anymore."
"Don't be stupid," the first whispered back. "Men like him don't soften. They conquer."
Lira kept her eyes on the tray.
Hope wasn't for people like her.
Then — the heat curled again. Sharper.
Deeper.
She froze.
A sharp whistle cut through.
"All hands to the hall. Drinks. Now."
Crystal goblets loaded with pale gold wine.
"I—" she tried.
A hand pressed between her shoulder blades.
"Move."
Girls glanced at her—at her worn shoes, her shaking hands.
One scoffed softly.
Lira pressed her lips together as she was pushed into the line.
She stepped into the grand hall.
Voices swelled. Chandeliers glittered.
Marble chilled her bare soles. Rows of women in silks and jewels stood at the center of the hall, heads lifted, spines straight, expectation gleaming sharp as glass. Alphas and nobles lined the walls, eyes cutting, weighing.
Judging.
She moved when the line moved. Poured when goblets tilted toward her. Her heart pounded so hard she was certain someone would hear it.
Then—
A sharp shove struck her shoulder.
Lira lurched.
The tray tipped.
Crystal shattered on marble — deafening in
the sudden hush.
All eyes turned.
Lira dropped to her knees — instinct — hands scrambling for shards.
Then — heat flared low in her belly, violent, undeniable.
She looked up.
Amber eyes locked on hers from across the hall.
The Lycan King.
Tall. Cold. Dominance pressing against her skin like a hand at her throat.
The bond snapped taut — raw, invasive.
He froze mid-step.
So did she.
A low growl rolled from his throat — vibrating through her bones.
Guards turned. Nobles hushed.
He took one step forward.
Then another.
Lira's palms bled on the shards.
She didn't feel it.
All she felt was him.
He had seen her.
And he was not going to let her disappear again.