Chapter 6 – The Wolf in Hiding

The mansion groaned awake before dawn. The corridors breathed with cold drafts that smelled faintly of stone, wood polish, and the smoke of last night’s fire. Elara’s bare feet whispered against the rug as she moved carefully and deliberately, as if every step might betray her.

Her first morning.

She tied the apron strings tighter around her waist, fingers clumsy from lack of sleep. All night she had lain awake on the thin mattress in the servants’ quarters, her heart pounding with the same rhythm that had carried her since the moment she stepped into this house: hide, hide, hide.

The wolf inside her stirred uneasily. It hated the smell of confinement as always, and the constant fear. It whispered against her ears, demanding release. Elara clenched her jaw and forced it down. Not here. Not ever. Not if you want to live.

The mansion was a world of eyes. Damien’s sly smile, the sideways glances of the other staff, even the portraits along the corridor seemed to watch her too closely. She kept her head low, her breath shallow and her lips shut.

When she reached the kitchen, the heat of the oven wrapped around her, but it gave no comfort. The cook shoved a bucket toward her without looking up.

“Water. From the pump. Don’t spill it.”

Elara obeyed quickly. The bucket’s handle dug into her palms as she carried it, her muscles tightening. She could lift it easily – far too easily – but she forced herself to stumble once, just enough to appear ordinary. Always ordinary.

By the time she returned, the cook barely acknowledged her. That was good. Attention was dangerous.

But attention found her anyway.

Edward’s chair wheels scraped against the marble floor before she even saw him. The sound rolled down the hall like a warning bell. Elara’s stomach clenched. She wiped her damp hands on her apron and lowered her eyes.

“Late,” his voice cut, sharp as broken glass.

“I was at the pump, Sir,” she murmured, steady but soft.

“Excuses,” he said. “Every servant begins with excuses. Do you think this house runs on excuses?”

“No, Sir.”

His shadow passed over her where she stood in the kitchen doorway. He tilted his head, studying her. His gaze had a weight to it, she felt stripped bare under her clothes, as if he could peel away her skin and glimpse the secret beneath. The wolf shifted, restless. Elara tightened her fingers on the bucket until her knuckles whitened.

“You look fragile,” he said finally. His tone was flat, but something beneath it twisted like a knife. “Fragile things don’t last long here.”

Her throat closed, but she forced the words out: “I’ll last, Sir.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed. A cruel curve touched his mouth. “We’ll see.”

The day stretched long, a series of small humiliations.

He sent her back and forth across the house with pointless commands. Dust the bookshelves, though they gleamed already. Straighten the blankets, though no one had touched them since morning. Fetch water, though the jug remained full. Every task an insult. Every word a test.

She did each without protest.

The other servants whispered when they thought she couldn’t hear. “Another one,” one muttered. “He’ll break her, too.”

But she would not break. She could not afford to. Every coin she would earn here was another step toward her future – a chance to pay for her schooling, to build a life that wasn’t just hiding and running.

Still, by midday her hands were raw from scrubbing, her back aching from bending. The wolf inside her paced, growling low. Let me out, it begged. Let me protect us.

“No,” she whispered, too low for anyone to hear. She pressed her fists against her apron. “Not here. Not now.”

Edward watched her again at supper. She carried a tray into his study, careful not to let the dishes clatter. The stew’s steam fogged the edge of her vision, but she kept her steps steady.

“Put it there,” he said, nodding to the desk.

She obeyed, setting the tray down. The smell of meat and herbs clawed at her hunger, but she kept her face blank.

Edward rolled closer, his chair creaking. He lifted the lid, then paused. His gaze flicked up to her again.

“You didn’t taste it.”

She blinked. “Sir?”

“You bring me food, and you don’t taste it. How do I know it’s not poisoned?”

Elara’s stomach lurched. “The cook…”

“I didn’t ask about the cook.” His voice sharpened. “Eat it.”

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the spoon. The stew burned her tongue, but she swallowed it down without flinching. She could not flinch.

Edward leaned back, watching. “Good,” he said finally, as if she had passed some invisible trial.

“I don’t know where that mouth of yours has been, so go and get me a clean spoon”

Her legs felt weak as she left the room, but she kept her back straight, her steps even. Only when she reached the corridor did she press her hand to her chest, feeling the wolf’s furious heartbeat beneath her own.

By the time night came, Elara collapsed on her narrow bed. Her hands were blistered, her body sore, her pride shredded. She buried her face in the pillow to muffle the sound that escaped her – not quite a sob, not quite a growl. Something in between.

She hated him. She hated the way he picked at her like a wound, the way he forced her into corners, the way he looked at her as if he knew she was more than she pretended to be.

But beneath the hate, something worse twisted. Pity. For herself, yes, but also for him. For the shadows that never left his eyes, for the anger that seemed to cage him as tightly as she caged her wolf.

She turned on her side, staring at the wall. She could not afford pity. Not here. Not now. She had to survive. She had to keep her secret.

But as sleep dragged her under, one thought whispered in her mind, soft and dangerous:

He knows.