FIFTY EIGHT

FIFTY EIGHT
SARA'S POV

The sun hadn't even cracked the sky when I slipped into the kitchen and lit the first burner. The estate lay in silence, punctuated only by the soft footfalls of Omegas moving through distant halls like ghosts. I'd been careful—checking corners, pausing at intersections, making sure no one followed.

No one had seen me duck behind the garden apothecary yesterday, fingers trembling as I pinched a vial of wolfsbane from the green cabinet. The glass had felt cool against my palm as I'd tucked it into my sleeve. It was used by the healer for wicked cases of wolfsbane attack or poisoning but I had found good and quick use for it.

My hands moved with practiced precision as I worked. No humming. No unnecessary stirring. No wasted movements. I beat eggs until they frothed, folded in herbs from the garden, and brewed the tea to the exact darkness I knew he preferred. Each item received its measured drop of processed wolfsbane—enough to continue to build in his system over time, to hollow him from within without raising suspicion.

A few more doses like this in the coming weeks would finish what I had long started. His body would rot from the inside out, deteriorating before anyone could identify the cause.

Let them whisper about a degenerative curse. Let them theorize about age finally catching up to the mighty Alpha. Let them wonder what had become of the once-invincible leader of Moonveil.

Let them think anything but the truth.

The tray warmed my fingers as I navigated the eastern corridor toward the healer's quarters. I paused outside the heavy oak door, adjusted my robe to hang more modestly, and softened my face into an expression of demure concern. Two measured knocks, then I waited.

The door creaked open halfway. The healer stood in the gap, her gray-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me.

"Alpha Bastien isn't receiving visitors," she said, her voice clipped. "I'll have to check with Alpha Darragh before—"

"Let her in."

His command sliced through the air from within. The healer's mouth snapped shut, her eyes widening slightly. She glanced back over her shoulder, then at me again, lips pressed together as though physically restraining her objections.

"Alpha Bastien needs rest," she tried once more, but her voice had already lost its authority.

"Let. Her. In." Each word hung in the air like an executioner's axe.

The healer's shoulders dropped in defeat. She stepped aside, her eyes lingering on the tray in my hands before she looked away.

I smiled politely as I brushed past her, the scent of medicinal herbs and disinfectant assaulting my nostrils. Without looking back, I shut the door behind me with a soft click.

Bastien was propped up against a mountain of pillows, the thin blanket pooled around his waist exposing his bare chest. A white bandage wrapped around his head stood stark against his tanned skin. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, but his face split into a grin when he saw me. My stomach twisted.

"Feeling better?" I approached the bed, forcing my feet to move at an unhurried pace.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" His voice was gruff but carried an undercurrent of amusement. He gestured to the edge of the mattress. "The healer says it was a brain aneurysm. Strange thing—fixed itself." He patted the space beside him. "Come."

I obeyed, perching at the edge of the bed, careful to maintain just enough distance. The mattress dipped beneath our combined weight.

"I brought you something." I indicated the tray. "Thought you might be hungry."

His eyes crinkled at the corners, deepening the lines carved there by years of cruel smiles. "That's nice of you." His gaze drifted toward the door. "My wife hasn't even shown her face."

'Because she's behind closed doors mourning my grandfather and doing her best to prepare for his funeral'. The words burned in my throat, but I swallowed them down.

Instead, I lifted the tray and set it carefully across his lap. "Eggs, vegetables, tea. Your favorite."

He watched me with something far too intimate in his eyes. Something possessive. "Always thinking about me."

I nodded. Smiled. Liar.

I began transferring food from serving dish to plate with measured movements. The eggs glistened under the lamplight, vegetables arranged in a careful pattern beside them. As my fingers wrapped around the teapot handle, the door swung open again.

The healer entered without knocking, her back straight as a rod.

"Alpha Bastien—" she began.

"I don't remember giving you permission to enter." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, the kind that preceded violence in the council chamber.

The healer didn't flinch. "Forgive me." She dipped her head without lowering her eyes. "But food brought into this room must be tasted. Orders from Alpha Darragh."

A harsh laugh erupted from Bastien's chest, loud and cruel enough to make my fingers tighten around the teapot. "My son doesn't order me. I am the Alpha of Moonveil." His eyes had darkened, the skin around his mouth tightening.

I recognized the signs—the slight tremble in his hands, the way his jaw clenched. I'd seen what followed too many times.

"This doesn't need to be a fight," I interjected quickly, my voice soft. I set down the teapot and reached for a fork, stabbing a small portion of eggs. I lifted it to my mouth, chewed deliberately, and swallowed.

I picked up the cup of tea and took a small sip. The bitter, earthy taste coated my tongue. Perhaps in another life, I would feel the wolfsbane burning slightly, but my body didn't react. I'd never inherited my father's wolf, and with that missing piece came strange immunities—resistance to poisons that would kill most wolves.

I met the healer's gaze evenly. "Is that sufficient?"

She studied me for a long moment before nodding curtly and turning to leave. The door closed behind her with a finality that echoed in the room.

I poured his tea with steady hands, feeling his eyes trace my every movement. Steam curled from the dark liquid.

"Is Darragh still insistent on getting a Delicate here?"

"I talked to him."

"You talked to Darragh?" he asked, breaking the tense air between us

"Yes." I handed him the cup. "I convinced him not to pursue a Delicate. He won't push further." The lie slipped from my lips as easily as breathing.

"So we don't have to worry." He accepted the cup, his fingers brushing mine deliberately.

'We?' I wished I could laugh in his face.

"You shouldn't antagonize him, either," I advised, withdrawing my hand quickly. "He'll under enough pressure with the funeral arrangements. You shouldn't give him reason to suspect you again."

"He's stubborn," Bastien muttered, bringing the cup to his lips. "Too damn stubborn."

"He's like you," I said, the comparison tasting foul in my mouth.

Bastien took a long sip of the poisoned tea. "You're right." He smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes.

I tried not to visibly recoil as he drank. The way he looked at me—like I was a possession, a trophy he'd earned through whatever twisted logic justified his actions.

Focus, Sara. Focus.

"I think our attention should be on the funeral," I said, carefully adjusting the napkin on his tray. "That and... the academy."

"The food is good," he said, ignoring my attempt to steer the conversation. He took another bite of eggs. "I'll try, Sara. For you."

For me. As if every action he took was currency to purchase my affection—affection I would never genuinely give.

I knew what came next. This part always made my skin crawl.

I shifted closer, letting my fingers brush his wrist. "Thank you," I murmured, leaning in to wrap my arms around his shoulders. I pressed my lips to his cheek, the scrape of his stubble making me want to flinch. "Drink your tea. It will help you recover."

He complied, draining half the cup in several long swallows.

I pulled back, straightening the blanket across his lap. "I should go. Someone will notice I'm missing."

His hand shot out, fingers encircling my wrist. "Why hide it? You're welcome here." His grip tightened, the pressure just shy of painful. "Stay."

He leaned forward, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of my neck. Every nerve in my body screamed to pull away, to claw across his face, to run. But I remained perfectly still, counting heartbeats.

His voice dropped to a whisper against my ear. "My wife isn't here."

The implication hung heavy in the air between us.

I pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, fighting to keep my expression neutral. "What about Luna Dayo?"

His mouth twisted in displeasure. "If you keep worrying like this, we'll be discovered." His thumb traced circles on the inside of my wrist. "That would be... unfortunate."

"You plan to reject her?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady.

He shrugged, the movement casual and dismissive. "I told you before. Rejections aren't difficult." His eyes darkened. "Besides, she doesn't love me."

And there it was—the final piece clicking into place. He didn't just want me in his bed. He wanted me as his power waned, as a replacement for the mate who was already distancing herself from him.

The same way he had abandoned Darragh whenever it suited him. The same way he had driven his fist into his wife's ribs when she'd spoken out of turn.

I let my eyes soften, my lips curve upward. "Perhaps we should wait until you're stronger." I took his cup, refilling it to the brim. "Drink the rest of your tea. For me."

He smiled, victorious, thinking he'd won me over. "Anything for you, little wolf"

As he drank deeply from the cup, I imagined the poison seeping into his blood, slowly destroying him from within—just as he had destroyed everyone who had ever loved him.

He set the cup down with a sigh, the steam curling between us like smoke. His hand slid around my waist again, pulling me back to him. I could smell the tea on his breath. Sweetened. Bitter. Poisoned.

“You’ve grown so much,” he murmured, his lips ghosting along my jaw. “Like a flower blooming just for me.”

I wanted to vomit.

Instead, I let out a soft laugh, the one I knew he liked—submissive, unsure, the kind that made him think I needed him. I didn’t flinch when his hand brushed the top of my thigh. I didn’t slap him when his mouth found the skin below my ear. I didn’t scream. Not yet.

Because I had a plan. And he was drinking it.

I rested my hands on his chest to keep distance between us, but it wasn’t enough. He pulled me in closer, his breath hot and greedy, his fingers gripping my waist tighter.

“Maybe I should keep you,” he whispered. “Claim you properly.”

I almost laughed. I almost said, you’re dying and don’t even know it. But then the door creaked open.

The air snapped. Fast.

Eamon stepped in first, his scent familiar, comforting even, but it was the figure behind him—Darragh—that made my stomach truly drop.

They both froze. Eamon’s face went slack. Darragh’s went still. His eyes didn’t blink. Just stared.

I was still in Bastien’s lap.

His hand was still on my waist.

The heat of his mouth lingered on my neck.

We hadn’t been kissing. It wasn’t that blatant. But we might as well have been.

“Sara?” Darragh’s voice was sharp. Low. Controlled.

I stood quickly, stepping back from the bed like it had burned me. “It’s not what it looks like,” I said—stupid, overused words, and I hated myself for saying them.