Chapter 5 The Dress - Amelia’s POV
I woke to the sound of my door scraping open, the harsh metallic grind sending spikes of fear down my spine. Silver burns screamed across my back as I jerked upright, scrambling backward until I hit the cold stone wall. My threadbare blanket clutched to my chest like a shield, I squinted at the silhouette in my doorway, a woman I'd never seen before, her arms wrapped around what looked like a garment bag. The basement room's dim light caught on something shiny at her wrist, a watch maybe, or a bracelet, momentarily blinding me as I tried to make sense of this unexpected intrusion.
'Careful,' Kaela warned inside my head, her presence instantly alert. 'Don't tear the cuts open again.'
The woman stepped into my room, her nose wrinkling slightly at the musty smell. She wasn't pack—at least, not anyone I recognised. Her clothes were expensive, her makeup flawless, her hair pulled back in a sleek bun that spoke of time and care I'd never been afforded.
"Amelia Lovelace?" she asked, her voice crisp and businesslike.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My throat was still raw from Dominic's grip the night before.
"I'm here to get you cleaned up and dressed," she announced, hanging the garment bag on a rusty hook that protruded from the wall—the one meant for my jacket, if I'd had a real one. "We have two hours to make you presentable."
'I don't like this,' Kaela growled. 'Why would they send someone to dress you up? What new torment are they planning?'
The same questions rattled around my head as I watched the woman unzip the garment bag. Inside was something dark blue and silky that caught the dim light in a way nothing in my possession ever had.
"Why?" I finally managed, the word coming out as a rasp. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Why am I being dressed up?"
The woman shrugged, not even looking at me as she assessed the dress. "I don't know. Alpha and Luna's orders. I just go where I'm told and do what I'm paid for." She turned to me then, eyes sweeping over my huddled form with clinical detachment. "You need a shower. Can you walk, or do I need to help you?"
Pride made me straighten despite the searing pain across my back. "I can walk."
'No you can't,' Kaela snapped. 'You can barely sit up straight.'
I ignored her, pushing the blanket aside and swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress. The movement pulled at the cuts on my back, making me bite my lip to keep from crying out. The tank top I'd slept in was stuck to my skin with dried blood.
"What happened to you?" the woman asked, her professional demeanour slipping slightly as she noticed the state of my back.
"Does it matter?" I countered, voice flat.
She pressed her lips together, then shook her head. "I suppose not. Come on, we'll get you cleaned up."
The basement had one communal shower for all the servants who lived down here—a dingy stall with perpetually lukewarm water and cracked tiles. The woman followed me there, carrying a bag of supplies I hadn't noticed before. Inside the small bathroom, she handed me a bottle of expensive-looking shower gel.
"Use this," she instructed. "It'll help with the cuts and mask any... lingering scents."
I took the bottle, confused by this unexpected luxury. "I don't understand what's happening."
"Neither do I, honey," she said, her voice softening fractionally. "But the quicker we get you cleaned up, the quicker we'll both find out. I'll wait outside. Call if you need help."
Alone in the shower stall, I peeled off my ruined tank top, wincing as the fabric pulled away from the wounds. The water hit me like tiny needles, every drop a fresh torment on my silver burns. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, refusing to make a sound that might carry beyond the thin walls.
'Fucking silver,' Kaela snarled as I gingerly applied the shower gel. 'One day, I'll tear out the throats of everyone who's ever touched you with it.'
"You can't," I whispered, the water washing away my silent tears. "You know you can't."
'I will,' she insisted. 'When I figure out how to shift, the first thing I'll do is hunt down Dominic and—'
"Stop," I pleaded. "Please. I can't... not today. I don't have the strength for revenge fantasies today."
Water swirled pink at my feet as the dried blood washed away. The shower gel smelled like something from another world—lavender and vanilla, clean and feminine. I couldn't remember the last time I'd used something that wasn't harsh industrial soap, the kind that left your skin feeling stripped and raw.
When I emerged from the shower wrapped in a threadbare towel, the woman was waiting with a first aid kit.
"Turn around," she said, voice professional again. "Those cuts need treatment."
I obeyed mechanically, too tired to argue. Her hands were gentle as she applied some kind of ointment to my back. It stung at first, then went blessedly numb.
"Silver wounds," she murmured. "These won't heal right without proper care."
"They never do," I said flatly.
She didn't respond to that, just continued working in silence. When she was done with my back, she applied concealer to the bruises on my throat, her touch impersonal but not unkind.
"The dress will cover most of it," she said, more to herself than to me. "And we can do something with your hair to distract from the rest."