Chapter 3

Rath.

What the f!ck?

I'd handed the humans a golden opportunity to redeem themselves—served it up on a silver platter—and they still managed to screw it up. Typical. This was the last straw. First, I'd deal with those incompetent leaders, and then I'd eliminate the so-called "wife" they'd so generously gifted me. The other Alphas would laugh at me for this colossal blunder, but hey, at least I'd have the territories. And honestly? They wouldn't care if she was de.ad. Hell, they'd probably applaud my efficiency. 

--- 

Billie stepped into my office, her ever-unruffled expression doing little to soothe my mounting irritation. 

"Sir, she's in her room," she said, as though this was breaking news. "Should I give her the aloe syrup?" 

I rubbed my temples, leaning back in my chair. "No. I'm not sleeping with the human girl. She can't even talk. I'm seriously considering k!lling her," I replied flatly, the words rolling off my tongue with the ease of someone discussing the weather. 

Billie, ever the optimist, gasped like I'd just suggested eating a puppy. "Master, I don't think you should k!ll her. Let's wait. Quick decisions often yield poor results," she chirped. 

I stared at her, unblinking. "Fine," I muttered through clenched teeth. "But don't get used to it." 

--- 

The room smelled like citrus and berries, an irritatingly pleasant scent that clung to the air like some unwelcome guest. There she was, lying on the bed like a little porcelain doll, all innocent and oblivious. A scarf covered her head—probably some strange human ritual—and her lashes framed those heart-shaped lips in a way that made her look angelic. Come to think of it, she's dangerously beautiful. She has a s.exy body, beautiful face, the only thing she doesn't have is speech and hearing.

I hated her already. 

Approaching the bed, I grabbed the nearest pillow. It was soft, ridiculously so, as though it had been crafted specifically for snffing out lives with minimal discomfort. Convenient.

I stood over her, the pillow clutched tightly in my hands, glaring down at her strawberry-shaped face. "Why can't you just exist somewhere else?" I hissed under my breath. She smacked her lips softly, her head tilting ever so slightly, as though even in her sleep, she was mocking me. 

The pillow descended, I pressed it down.

*********

Dahlia.

I opened my eyes to the comforting sensation of—wait, no, that wasn't comforting. That was a pillow. On my face. Suffoc@ting me. 

I flailed like a fish on land, kicking and clawing with all the grace of someone who had absolutely not been trained for this. By some miracle—or maybe my would-be murd3rer was just bad at his job—I managed to roll off the bed and scramble into the bathroom. 

Slamming the door shut, I locked it with trembling hands and pressed my back against it. My heart pounded in my chest as I stared at the cold, tiled floor. "On the first day of marriage?" I muttered silently to myself. "Really? Not even a honeymoon before the murd3r attempt?" I mean, sure, I probably wasn't wife of the year material, but shouldn't he at least try to know me before suffokating me? 

There was banging on the door—hard, angry, wolfy banging. I wasn't opening it. Not for him, not for anyone. I sank into the bathtub and wrapped myself in a towel, the porcelain sides of the tub suddenly feeling like the safest fortress in the world. 

This mansion was supposed to be my dream house. Instead, it was starting to feel like a particularly fancy prison. I missed the convent. Sure, I had been the weird girl locked in the underground chapel, but at least no one there tried to k!ll me. Everyone had been so kind, even learning sign language to communicate. Here? No one cared if I could understand a single word—especially if they were too busy trying to suffokate me to bother talking. 

By morning, sunlight streamed into the bathroom. I groggily showered and brushed my teeth before retreating back into the tub. The bed? Nope. Not happening. That was his murd3r stage, and I wasn't interested in an encore performance. 

Then, just as I was finally relaxing, a face appeared over the edge of the tub. I nearly died right there. Forget the pillow—this was the real @ss@ssination attempt. 

"Don't be scared, it's just me," said the maid, her bespectacled face looming above me like some bizarre, benevolent ghost. "I won't hu.rt you." 

I eyed her warily. Did she have a pillow hidden somewhere? 

"My master had a rough day at work," she continued, as if work stress justified attempted murd3r. "I made breakfast for you." 

She held out her hand, I took it. Strangely, her hands were pale as if she had no blood flowing in her body, and so cold. She had perfectly manicured black painted nails. She was a mystery but a kind one at that. I felt a strange electric sensation when our hands touched like something came out of my fingers. She let out a kind smile.

Oh. Food. My stomach growled, and suddenly, I was willing to negotiate. 

She revealed a tray loaded with vanilla pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, milk, and mango yogurt. It looked like a peace offering, and I accepted it with all the grace of a starved animal. As I devoured the feast, she watched me with what I could only describe as maternal concern. 

"You're safe now," she said when I finally looked up. "The master has gone to work. What happened last night won't happen again." 

I raised an eyebrow. That sounded suspiciously optimistic for someone living in werewolf territory. But I was too full—and too tired—to argue. 

She handed me a bell, explaining that I could use it to call her if I needed anything. I examined it, half-expecting it to transform into some kind of alarm system or weapon. But no, it was just a bell. It had a strong vibration to it.

For the first time since arriving, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe I could survive here. Maybe I could figure out a way to thrive in this ridiculous situation. Or, at the very least, I could enjoy the pancakes while plotting my next move. 

I could finally feel some relief but not for long.