This wasn't Shadowmoor.
I reminded myself of that as I walked the corridors with a mop in one hand and a bucket swinging against my leg. No creaking floorboards here. No mildew-stained ceilings or flickering lights. This palace didn't smell like blood and regret. It smelled like lemon oil, silk, and fresh power.
My first day on the job and everything already felt unreal.
The halls stretched on forever, high ceilings trimmed in gold, chandeliers sparkling like starlight. The windows—taller than I was—let in beams of light that fell over marble floors so clean they practically reflected guilt.
Guards lined certain intersections, dressed in black tactical gear with stoic expressions and eyes that missed nothing. None of them spoke. None smiled. Just nodded once when I passed with my head down and my heart in my throat.
This was Nightfang territory. And I was their cleaner now.
Each room I entered whispered wealth. Heavy curtains. Velvet cushions. Carved wood. Portraits of wolves and warriors stared down from the walls like judgment. I didn't belong here. Not with my history. Not with the filth I carried inside.
Still, I scrubbed. I dusted. I kept my head down and my ears open. Every sweep of the mop was like scrubbing out the parts of me that had grown up in Shadowmoor—where blood on your hands wasn't from cleaning floors.
"Would you look at this place," Cherry murmured from the back of my mind. "This ain't a pack, it's a palace. Think they got chocolate fountains?"
I rolled my eyes and kept cleaning.
Room by room, I worked in silence, memorizing the layout. First floor. Second. Every hall more intimidating than the last. I didn't speak to anyone. I barely looked anyone in the eye. I wasn't here to make friends. I was here to survive.
By late afternoon, I was aching. My hands were raw. My feet throbbed in the stiff shoes they'd issued me. When I reached the top floor, I hesitated. There were no guards this time. No one told me not to go up. One door was already open. The room looked empty.
I figured I'd clean it quickly and move on.
The air changed the second I stepped in.
It was warmer. Still. The kind of stillness that made your skin crawl—not because of sound, but the absence of it. As if the room was holding its breath.
I walked in with my head down, rag in one hand, water sloshing in the bucket.
The room was grand—of course it was. Tall arched windows. Rich, deep navy drapes. A fireplace. Dark wood floors that gleamed like they'd been polished with gold. Whoever stayed here clearly outranked everyone else.
I moved to the window and dropped to my knees to start wiping the baseboards.
And that's when it happened.
A sharp sound. Like a door closing behind me.
Then a low, savage growl that rolled through the room like thunder.
Before I could turn, a hand shot out of nowhere and wrapped around my throat, slamming me hard against the nearest wall.
The air fled my lungs. My back hit marble. The rag slipped from my fingers.
The man standing in front of me was not a guard.
He was fury given form. Six-foot-something of pure dominance. Tousled black hair, storm-gray eyes that burned like ice catching fire, and a jawline that could cut glass. His chest rose and fell with barely contained rage.
"Who the hell are you," he growled, voice low and sharp, "and what are you doing in my quarters?"
My body froze.
Then it hit me.
Not the fear. Not the shock.
The bond.
That invisible thread that snapped tight the moment his skin touched mine. A spark. A pulse. A current that lit my body from the inside.
Mate.
Oh, Goddess.
My breath caught. My skin flushed. Heat rushed to places it had no business going.
Cherry blinked awake in my head.
"Well, well... kinky dayummmm. Tall, deadly, and choking the hell outta us? It must be Tuesday."
Cherry, not now! I hissed internally.
But my brain was already drowning in him. The scent—smoked cedar, leather, rain. The way his muscles flexed under his shirt. The cut of his mouth. The wild energy radiating off him like a storm that hadn't touched ground yet.
His grip was unrelenting. His eyes searched mine, colder than a blade, and just as deadly.
"I-I'm the new cleaner," I managed to choke out. "I didn't know this was your room—I swear, I wasn't told—"
He didn't move.
He just stared. Like he was reading every thought I'd ever had, every lie I hadn't told yet.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "It won't happen again."
Then his hand dropped.
I stumbled back, air rushing in as if I'd surfaced from underwater. My legs nearly gave out beneath me.
"I—I'll go now."
I turned. Fled. Didn't even pick up the damn rag.
Cherry was wheezing in my head.
"Girl. GIRL. That was your mate. You just ran from your mate on your first day!"
I didn't answer.
Because I was still shaking.
And the scariest part wasn't that I'd been choked.
It was how badly I wanted him to do it again.