Chapter 21
Kara
5:00 PM
The second-floor bathroom is empty when I lock myself inside, stripping off my clothes with shaking hands.
I need to be clean. Need to wash off the forest and the cold and the scent of my own fear before I face whatever's waiting for me downstairs.
The shower water is scalding. I stand under it until my skin turns pink, scrubbing with cheap soap that smells like fake lavender and broken dreams.
Get it together, Kara. You can't fall apart now.
In the mirror—fogged from steam—I can barely recognize myself.
My hair is a tangled mess of dark gold curls, still matted with pine needles and snow despite my best efforts. My eyes have dark circles beneath them that makeup can't hide, proof of eighteen years of shitty sleep and constant stress. But my skin...
My skin is glowing.
Not metaphorically. Actually glowing, with a healthy golden undertone I've never seen before. Like my body finally woke up after eighteen years of being half-asleep.
This is what they mean by "mate glow," I realize, and immediately want to throw up.
"So I look pretty now," I mutter to my reflection. "Great. Fantastic. Just what I always fucking wanted—to look attractive for the three people who made my childhood a living hell."
My wolf huffs. They're trying to fix it.
"Trying isn't the same as succeeding. Trying doesn't erase shit."
I scrub harder, trying to wash away the scent of them that's somehow seeped into my pores. But it's useless. The more I rub, the stronger it gets—black ebony and gunpowder and mint, mixing with my own white musk until I can't tell where they end and I begin.
This is what marking does, I think, and nausea rolls through me. They didn't bite me. Didn't even touch me. But they marked my room, and somehow that's enough to make my body think we're already bonded.
Like I'm their property. Their territory. Their—
No. I rinse off viciously, water so hot it nearly burns. I'm not theirs. I'll never be theirs. This is just biology being a massive bitch.
I wrap myself in a thin towel, head back to the storage room, and stare at the clothes Sophia and Emma bought me.
Time to become someone I'm not.
The dress Sophia and Emma bought me is silver with tiny sequins that catch the light. It's shorter than anything I've ever worn, hitting mid-thigh instead of knee-length, and the neckline dips low enough to make me self-conscious.
This isn't me, I think as I pull it over my head, the fabric whispering against my skin. This is a costume. A disguise.
But when I look in the small mirror propped on my shelf, I see someone different.
Someone who might—might—belong at an Alpha's birthday party.
My curls have dried into soft waves around my face. The dress hugs my curves in ways that make me uncomfortable and confident at the same time, like I'm wearing armor made of sequins and self-delusion. And when I add the mascara and lip gloss Emma left for me, I look...
Pretty.
The word feels foreign. Wrong. Like I'm trying on someone else's identity and pretending it fits.
This is bullshit, I think, staring at my reflection. This is all bullshit. I'm not pretty. I'm just... temporarily not ugly.
My wolf practically glows with satisfaction. See? This is who we really are. Not the debt-slave in rags. This.
"This is what they want," I correct her, my voice bitter even in my own head. "A pretty toy they can show off. Living proof that they 'fixed' me."
But even as I think it, I spray on the perfume Sophia left—jasmine and citrus, sweet and clean—and watch as it mingles with the Alpha scents still clinging to my skin.
The mix is... not terrible.
Don't, I warn myself. Don't start thinking this could work. Don't start believing you could be happy here. That way lies madness and heartbreak and—
My phone buzzes.
5:23 PM.
Seven minutes until I need to be downstairs.
Seven minutes until I prove I'm not just a debt-slave anymore.
I take a deep breath, smooth down the dress one last time, and step into the hallway.
My heels click on the hardwood—Emma's heels, borrowed along with everything else—and I feel like an imposter. Like everyone will see through this costume to the scared, angry girl underneath.
Fake it till you make it, I tell myself. Or fake it till you break. Whichever comes first.
Time to prove I'm worth more than my parents' debt.
Even if I don't believe it myself.
---
5:28 PM - Main Hall
The main hall is transformed.
Crystal chandeliers blaze overhead, throwing prismatic light across tables draped in silver cloth. The air smells like roasted meat and pine and winter berries—a deliberate echo of Alaska's landscape, brought indoors for the comfort of wolves who spend too much time in human form.
And everywhere, everywhere, I can smell them.
"Well, well. Look who cleaned up."
I freeze.
Crystal stands in the kitchen doorway, her red hair pulled back in a severe bun, her expression somewhere between shock and fury. She's wearing the staff uniform—black dress, white apron, sensible flats—and the contrast between us couldn't be more obvious.
She looks like the help.
I look like a guest.
Good, my wolf purrs.
Not good, I correct. This just makes everything worse.
"Luna said you'd be helping," Crystal says slowly, her eyes raking over my dress like she's trying to find something wrong with it. Some flaw she can point out, some proof that I don't belong in anything nicer than rags. "She didn't mention you'd be dressed like a—"
"Like a what?" I cut her off, and my voice is steadier than I feel. Say it. Call me a slut. Call me a whore. Give me a reason to walk the fuck out of here.
Crystal's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"Nothing," she finally says, but her tone drips venom. "Just... surprised. You usually dress more... appropriately for your station."
My station.
There it is. The reminder that no matter what I wear, no matter how I look, I'm still just the debt-slave's daughter playing dress-up in borrowed clothes.
The anger hits fast and hot, like gasoline on a fire.
"My station," I repeat, tasting the words. Testing them. "You mean as the girl who's been doing your job—and everyone else's—for the past decade while you stood around gossiping and pretending to be useful?"
Crystal's face goes bright red.
Good. Fuck her.
"I heard what happened this morning," she hisses, stepping closer. Her scent—artificial musk and jasmine, way too much perfume trying to mask her nerves—makes my nose itch. "You pissed them off. The Alphas. They're going to punish you, Kara. You can dress up all you want, but you're still just—"
"Enough."
The voice comes from behind me, cold and sharp as a blade.
Luna Victoria descends the main staircase in a column of ice-blue silk, her lily-and-cedar scent rolling ahead of her like a warning. Crystal immediately steps back, head bowed, hands clasped.
Fucking coward.
I force myself to stand straight. To meet the Luna's eyes even though every instinct screams at me to look away, to submit, to remember my place.
I don't have a place anymore. Not the one they gave me, anyway.
For a second, I think I see something flicker in Luna Victoria's expression. Surprise? Approval? Some twisted form of respect?