Kaya
"Get the glasses." Jack jerks his hand at Shelly, and she obeys without hesitation.
"You'll be serving Reiner's men. They're in the guest room. Charlie will show you the way." He barely spares her a glance before shifting his attention to me. "And you," he says, jabbing a thick finger in my direction, "grab that tray over there and hold it. I'll pour the drinks. Can't afford any mistakes when it comes to serving that demon."
Silently, I pick up the tray and wait. Jack doesn't reach for the fresh bottle of whiskey—the same kind Alpha Damien prefers. No. Instead, his fingers curl around a tall crystal carafe, its body encased in an intricate golden snake that coils up to the very top.
The honey-colored liquor inside shimmers under the dim light, a rich golden undertone swirling as he tilts the vessel. The liquid flows smoothly into the glasses, and for a fleeting moment, I catch myself staring, my mouth watering at the sight.
Why am I craving a drink?
Well, that's a lie. I know exactly why. I have too many reasons to drown myself in alcohol right now. But if I had to pick just one? Meeting Alpha Reiner takes the crown.
A sharp screech of a door jolts me from my thoughts. I turn in time to see a man stride into the kitchen. His square jaw and bleached-white hair seem almost comical, an odd contrast to the menace he's supposed to exude. The ridiculous mismatch between his appearance and his role in this place makes my skin prickle.
"Charlie." Jack motions to him with a lazy wave of his meaty hand. The newcomer nods, closing the distance between them in just a few broad strides.
"This one goes to the guest room," Jack says, giving Shelly a rough shove between the shoulder blades. She stumbles forward, nearly colliding with Charlie's chest.
"Don't go in with her," Jack continues, his tone flat and final. "But make sure you follow her—in and out."
"Got it." Charlie nods once, his square face remaining eerily blank. Then, without warning, he shoves Shelly forward, his tongue darting across his thin lips as his beady black eyes rake over her backside.
Disgust churns in my stomach.
The moment Shelly and Charlie disappear through the doorway, Jack turns back to me with a grin—though there's a flicker of unease behind it. "Move it, sweet cheeks. I hear Alpha Reiner doesn't like to be kept waiting."
He doesn't.
Every rumor I've ever heard about Alpha Reiner says the same thing: he is a man to fear. If he weren't, why would everyone be so terrified of him?
I follow Jack through the dimly lit corridor, my mind racing too fast to focus on my surroundings. My hands tremble so violently that the whiskey glasses clink against each other, and I suck in a sharp breath, terrified I might spill something.
Jack chuckles darkly, as if reading my mind. "That's the last thing you wanna do, sweet cheeks." He stops, and so do I, though my eyes remain glued to the tray, my grip tightening around its edges.
"Rumor has it," he continues with a smirk, "the last maid who spilled a drink on Alpha Reiner had her hands torn clean off."
My throat dries instantly. The mental image is all too vivid. Something being ripped from a body. The memory sends a shudder through me.
But I'm not a maid. I don't even belong here.
So why am I terrified that some crazed alpha might rip my hands off for failing to serve him a drink properly?
My mind is a tangled mess, but I force myself to steady my breathing. I have to hold it together.
I can't let anything happen to me. Not before I find a way out of here.
But then a chilling thought slithers into my mind.
Can I really escape?
Lost in my thoughts, I don't notice that Jack has stopped until I nearly bump into him. We stand at the end of the corridor, in front of a large black door left slightly ajar. As I sidestep to avoid him, my eyes instinctively flick toward the opening, granting me a glimpse inside the room where Alpha Storm and Alpha Reiner are seated.
Like the rest of the building, the room is steeped in shadows, but the opulent display of gilded objects scattered throughout catches the dim orange glow of the overhead bulbs. Their dull shimmer casts a false sense of warmth over the space, making it seem almost inviting—almost.
Alpha Storm's desk faces the door, his sharp features visible in the low light. But it's the man sitting across from him that seizes my attention, even though his back is turned to me.
Still, that alone is enough.
A suffocating force crashes over me, so immense that my blood rushes to my head, my ears ringing violently. The world around me fades, swallowed by the deafening silence of my own racing pulse.
I have never felt this way just by looking at someone's back. Not even when I looked at Damien's face.
Yet there he sits—unmoving, unreadable, impossibly powerful.
Clad entirely in black, his biker jacket strains against the breadth of his shoulders, the leather appearing almost too tight for his muscular frame. His posture is effortlessly straight, a picture of control without a hint of stiffness. His dark, unruly curls spill past the base of his thick neck, half of them gathered into a small, careless bun at the back of his head.
But it's his scent that undoes me.
It seeps from the room like an invisible force, wrapping around me in a cloying, intoxicating embrace. Thick and heady, it coils through my senses, sending a shiver down my spine.
My knees weaken. My breath falters.
And for the first time in my life, I feel utterly, dangerously trapped.
The scent is both intense and invigorating, a blend of crisp pine needles laced with something warm and familiar—cinnamon, perhaps, or the aged pages of a well-loved book resting by a crackling fireplace. It seeps into my lungs, wrapping around me like an invisible cocoon, soothing and all-consuming.
I close my eyes, letting it wash over me. Drowning in it.
Comforting.
My eyes snap open, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs. No. That's wrong.
The only scent I've ever found comforting before is Damien's. So why…?
But it's not just that. It doesn't simply soothe me.
Alpha Reiner smells like home.
"Ah, the drinks are here," Alpha Storm's voice slices through the moment, yanking me back to reality. I straighten my posture at once, my knuckles whitening as I tighten my grip on the tray.
"Don't just stand there. Go!" Jack hisses under his breath, giving me a light shove as he holds the door open.
I swallow hard, forcing down the lump in my throat, and take a hesitant step forward. But—it isn't difficult.
That scent pulls me in. My legs move of their own accord, as if drawn by an unseen force, and before I fully register it, I'm already standing beside him—Reiner. My eyes remain fixed on the tray, unwilling to lift.
And then—the air shifts.
A heavy, suffocating presence engulfs the room, curling in like thick, choking smoke.
I risk a glance at Alpha Storm and find him frozen in place, his expression rigid with shock. His gaze is locked onto his guest.
Meanwhile, Reiner's scent grows stronger, wrapping tighter around me. But now, mixed with the sheer weight of his presence, it's no longer intoxicating—it's unbearable.
Struggling to ignore whatever force made Reiner shift the very air around us, I carefully lift one of the whiskey glasses from the tray and place it beside his hand. My fingers barely graze his skin as I pull away—a fleeting touch, barely noticeable.
And then—it happens.
Without warning, as if struck by lightning, Alpha Reiner jolts to his feet. His chair screeches against the floor before hurtling backward, crashing against the door with a deafening thud.
I flinch, instinctively jerking back. My fingers slip, and before I can catch it, the second glass tumbles from my grasp.
Shatter.
Golden liquid spills across the floor, seeping into the cracks, pooling at his feet.
On his shoes.
On Alpha Reiner's shoes.
My heart slams against my ribs, panic surging through my veins like wildfire. I did it. I spilled the drink. The very thing Jack warned me not to do.
I brace myself—for fury, for punishment, for something.
But when I lift my eyes to his face, time stops.
There's no anger in his gaze, no irritation, no hint of disappointment.
Nothing.
Only heartbreaking sadness.