Betrayed by My Fated Alphas

The first time I went back to the kitchen, I told myself it was just for a glass of water. But the next night, it was for the quiet. Soon, it became a routine.

Weeks slipped by in a strange, suspended reality. Every night at midnight, the massive Black Iron pack house fell dead silent. I would slip out of my room and pad downstairs to the industrial kitchen. Weston was always there.

Sometimes he wore faded sweatpants. Sometimes a wrinkled button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He never used his Alpha tone. He never stood over me. He just sat at the wooden table and watched me cook.

I made simple things. Chicken broth with ginger. Hand-rolled dumplings. Food that took time and patience.

"Tell me about Milani," he said one night. I was chopping scallions on the wooden board. The knife paused. I looked over my shoulder. He was leaning forward, his elbows on the table, looking genuinely curious.

"What do you want to know?" I asked cautiously.

"Everything. What is her illness like? What does she like to do?"

I turned back to the cutting board, keeping my eyes on the bright green stalks. "It's in her blood. Her lungs get weak. She needs the sanctuary's pure air and the healers' herbs just to breathe without pain. She spends most of her days reading by the window."

"And the gown you're making?" he asked softly. "The pink one."

"Dusty rose," I corrected him. A small, sad smile touched my lips. "It's her favorite color. She always dreamed of seeing me in a Luna coronation gown. Since that will never happen, I decided to make one for her instead. Just so she can see it."

Weston went quiet. I scooped the scallions into the simmering broth. When I brought the bowls to the table and sat across from him, he was tracing the rim of his spoon.

"It must be heavy," he murmured, his dark eyes meeting mine. "Carrying someone else's life on your shoulders."

"You do it every day," I pointed out. "You carry an entire pack."

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly very tired. "It's different. A pack is a machine. You grease the wheels, you make the hard calls, and you live with the silence afterward. It's lonely at the top, Cleo. You sit at the head of the table, and everyone looks at you for answers. No one ever asks if you're tired. No one cooks for you just to make sure you eat."

He looked down at the bowl of soup. Then he looked at me. His Alpha aura was completely tucked away. He was just a man sitting in a quiet kitchen, sharing a burden.

I stared at him. I was an Omega. I was used to being invisible, treated like dirt on Paulina's expensive shoes. But in this kitchen, I was feeding an Alpha, and he was looking at me like I mattered. I knew I shouldn't trust it. I knew it was a dangerous illusion. But I had been starved of tenderness my entire adult life. I was freezing, and the fire was right there. I leaned into the warmth, and I cooked for him the way I would cook for someone I genuinely cared about.

During the day, the transaction shifted to Xavier.

He would knock lightly on my door, always bringing a gift. A spool of silver thread. A yard of fine tulle. He would sit on the edge of my desk, his charismatic smile in place, and watch my hands as I sewed.

"This velvet ribbon is from Italy," he said one Tuesday, trailing the dark blue fabric across my table. "Speaking of imports, did Paulina ever receive shipments that weren't on the official pack ledger?"

I didn't stop sewing. My needle dipped in and out of the silk. "Yes. Once a month. A gray truck would come to the back entrance. She made me file those receipts in a separate red folder in her private safe."

"A red folder," Xavier repeated softly. "And who visited her on Thursdays?"

"The Beta from the Pine Ridge pack. He always brought a black briefcase."

I answered their questions in fragments. A name here, a folder color there. I thought I was just paying for my keep. I thought I was trading a dirty secret for a piece of French lace. I didn't know what they were doing with the answers. I had no idea they were feeding every single word I said into a massive, coordinated case for the Lycan King's tribunal. I didn't know I was handing them the matches they would use to burn Thornveil down.

I just wanted to finish the gown.

Then came the night the illusion almost cracked.

It was raining outside, a heavy downpour that lashed against my window. I was sitting at my desk. The dusty rose organza was draped entirely across my lap. I had just finished attaching the bodice to the skirt. I held it up by the shoulders, letting the silk flow down over my knees.

It was beautiful. It was exactly how I had pictured it in my head for years.

I imagined Milani's face when she finally saw it. I imagined her touching the soft fabric. Without realizing it, a genuine, wide smile broke across my face. It felt strange on my muscles. I hadn't smiled like that in so long. I was completely unguarded, completely at peace.

Then the air in the room shifted.

I didn't hear footsteps, but a heavy, electric tension suddenly filled the space. The scent of winter pine and warm stone rolled over me.

I looked up. The door was cracked open. Weston stood in the hallway.

He didn't say a word. He just stood there in the gap of the doorway, staring at me. The shadows from the hall hid half his face, but his eyes were pitch black. His chest heaved with ragged, uneven breaths. I could see his hands gripping the doorframe. His knuckles were bone-white.

He looked like he was in physical agony. He looked like a man fighting a war inside his own skin, like his inner wolf was clawing at his ribs, desperate to tear through his chest and bridge the distance between us.

My breath caught in my throat. My smile faded into a look of shock. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I waited for him to push the door open. I waited for him to use that commanding Alpha tone.

But he didn't.

He stared at my face for one long, agonizing moment. His jaw ticked. Then he let go of the doorframe, turned on his heel, and walked away into the dark hallway.

He didn't speak to me. And later, I knew he didn't tell Xavier what he saw. It remained a secret, heavy and unspoken in the air of the pack house. But as I picked up my needle again, my hands were shaking so badly I pricked my finger. A single drop of blood welled up, bright red against the dusty rose silk.

This cage was starting to feel too much like a home. And the way Weston had just looked at me—like I was something he was starving for but refused to eat—terrified me more than Paulina ever could.