The Wolfless Maid's Royal Pups

Kaelen stepped off the dais. His heavy boots struck the stone floor. One stride. Two. He walked straight toward the shadowed alcove as if the crowd, the ceremony, and his newly declared Luna did not exist.

Lyra slammed her spine against the freezing pillar. Rough granite bit into her shoulder blades.

"Alpha?" Thorne called out, sharp with confusion. "Is something amiss?"

"Quiet," Kaelen commanded, his golden eyes locked on the darkness. "I know this scent."

Lyra clamped a bloody hand over her mouth.

He remembered.

Kaelen closed the distance. His massive frame blocked out the light from the chandeliers. The heat radiating off his body reached her shivering skin before he did.

"Come out," he said, voice low and certain. "Now."

Lyra's knees shook. If she stepped forward, if he saw her face—

"My Alpha, please!" Selene rushed forward, her silk gown rustling loudly.

She planted herself between Kaelen and the pillar.

"Move aside, Selene," Kaelen ordered.

"She's diseased," Selene said, standing her ground. "You just recovered. You cannot risk exposure to whatever she carries."

"I said move." The growl vibrated through the floorboards.

Selene stepped back—but her hand slipped behind the folds of her dress. Her fist clenched. A tiny embroidered pouch burst open in her palm.

A cloying, suffocating wave of heavy rose perfume exploded into the tight space. It coated the back of Lyra's throat and scalded her sinuses.

Kaelen stopped dead.

He yanked back from the scent wall, his face twisting in revulsion. He pulled a dark linen handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it hard over his nose, his watering eyes scanning the pillar.

"What is that stench?" he growled.

"Just a servant, Alpha," Selene said, wiping her crushed palm against her skirt. "They mask their unwashed bodies with cheap oils. I warned the head maid about this yesterday."

"A failure in discipline," Thorne remarked, stepping up behind the Alpha. "The lower ranks have grown bold during your absence."

"Clearly." Kaelen peered over the handkerchief, his gaze finding Lyra.

She knelt in the puddle of dirty mop water. Her coarse dress was soaked gray. Her knuckles were bruised and bleeding.

He stared down at her.

There was no recognition in his golden eyes. Only cold, flat disdain.

"You let this crawl around the great hall?" Kaelen asked.

"She was supposed to be cleaning," Cora yelled from the front row. "But she's lazy. She ruins everything she touches."

Lyra looked up at him. "Alpha," she whispered. "I—"

"Silence," Kaelen snapped.

The single word struck her like a blow to the sternum.

He looked at her the way he might look at a diseased animal. The man who had held her in the dark hunting cabin, who had mapped every line of her face with urgent, gentle hands, stared at her with absolute loathing. His scent recognition, that perfect certainty he'd had thirty seconds ago, gone. Drowned in cheap perfume.

"She reeks," Kaelen told Thorne. "Get her out of my hall. Now."

Two guards marched across the floor. The first reached her, tangled a massive hand in her hair, and yanked. Lyra cried out as her scalp burned. She lost her footing, crashing hard against the stone tiles.

"Don't let her bleed on the rugs!" Cora yelled, stepping back from Lyra's proximity.

"Let me walk," Lyra choked out, clawing at the guard's wrist.

"You lost that right when you offended the Alpha." He kicked her legs out. Her knees slammed into the stone.

"Throw her in the snowdrifts," Thorne instructed. "Let the cold wash the stench off her."

The second guard grabbed her upper arm. Together, they dragged her toward the entrance, her boots scraping uselessly. She craned her neck back over her shoulder.

Kaelen had already turned away. He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket, his attention entirely on Selene.

"Are you unharmed?" Kaelen asked her.

"Just startled," Selene murmured, leaning against his chest. "Thank you for protecting me."

The massive iron-wrought doors groaned open. The howling wind screamed in, bringing a spray of ice and snow.

"Out you go," the second guard grunted.

They swung her forward and let go.

Lyra flew through the open doorway and hit the frozen ground. The impact knocked the wind from her lungs. The heavy doors slammed shut. The iron latch fell into place with a definitive thud.

Locked out. In the middle of a blizzard.

Snow gathered on her wet dress almost immediately. The temperature bit into her exposed skin, turning her fingers numb.

She pressed her palms into the snow, trying to lever herself up. The servants' entrance. She had to reach it. She still had to burn that tunic before the guards tore her room apart.

She forced herself to her hands and knees. The wind whipped her hair across her face.

She took one agonizing breath.

A meat-grinding, heavy pain struck deep in her abdomen.

A scream tore from her throat, lost instantly to the howling wind.

She collapsed onto her side, her hands flying to her stomach.

A thick, warm droplet slid down her inner thigh, staining the white snow bright red.