9. His gaze.

OLENA

“Are you guys not ashamed of yourselves?”

June spat as she rose up from her seat.

She grabbed my hand, ready to pull me away, but Ava seized my other wrist.

“And who’s this fool?” Ava sneered, glaring at June as Isolde and Fiora burst into laughter.

“Wow, looks like the human already made a friend,” Isolde said with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes.

Ava smirked. “Oh? And what about us, huh?” She gestured to herself, then to the other two. “Weren’t we close once? Nah I don't like betrayals,”

Before I could respond, she grabbed the bottle of water from the table, my bottle. I hadn’t even taken a sip yet.

Without hesitation, she twisted off the cap and dumped the entire contents over my head.

“Seems you still don’t get it,” she said coldly.

The water ran down my face, soaking my clothes, my hair dripping wet. My chest tightened.

Then, without a word, June snatched a plate and slammed it against Ava’s hand, forcing her to let go of me.

The loud sound of ceramic hitting her skin was like a gunshot.

The dining hall went silent. Every eye was on us.

Ava stared in disbelief, her hand trembling slightly. “How... how dare you?” she hissed, shoving June back and raising her hand to strike.

But I moved faster.

I grabbed Ava’s wrist and yanked it away.

“Don’t touch her,” I said through clenched teeth. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Suddenly, Isolde leaned toward Ava and whispered something. Ava’s smug expression shifted slightly as she began shaking her hand, blood now dripping from where the plate had struck her.

“What’s going on there?” Morgan’s voice rang out. She strode toward us, that same cold-faced woman trailing behind her.

“How dare you all fight when you’re supposed to be in the kitchen?”

Fiora stepped forward quickly, pointing straight at me. “It’s her, ma’am. She smashed a plate over Ava’s hand just because she asked if her hair was real.”

My heart sank.

"Oh my God!" She exclaimed. "How could you do this to her?"

“No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “That’s a lie, it’s not true—”

Morgan’s eyes snapped to me. “And why are you drenched? Do you think you are here to have fun?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“Ma’am,” June tried, stepping forward, “if you’ll just listen, what really happened—”

“Do you want to be punished with her?” the stern woman snapped, silencing June instantly.

Morgan folded her arms, her voice colder than ice. “For behaving so inhumanely toward your fellow slaves, you will wash all the clothes in the laundry yourself, every last piece without the help of other slaves. And you are excluded from the evening meal.”

My knees hit the floor before I could stop them. “Please, ma’am, I promise this will never happen...”

But Morgan had already turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the tiles.

Ava, Fiora, and Isolde followed after her, with smiles on their faces.

And I was left kneeling, soaked and hungry.

“Get up and move before I strike this bat across your back!”

My shoulders raised and fell as I forced myself to stand and dragged my feet down the hall until I reached the laundry room.

The odour struck me immediately, a blend of sweat, dirt, and something far worse. I could hardly catch my breath.

Clothes were piled everywhere. Mountains of them, stacked almost to the windows. Most were stained, some ripped, all filthy.

“You better wash every single one properly,” the guard bellowed. “If any come out dirty, you’ll be whipped with fifty strokes of cane. Understood?”

I gave a weak nod. I didn’t have the strength to answer.

Where was I even supposed to start?

My eyes stung as silent tears traced down my cheeks. I wiped them away with trembling fingers.

I sat on a small wooden bench, its edge pressing hard into the backs of my knees. I scrubbed the first piece as the water turned brown fast, but I didn’t stop.

My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten all day. Every move hurts now. My arms ached. My eyes were dry and heavy.

I started counting the clothes I've washed just to stay focused.

One.

Two.

Three...

By the time I hit eighty, I stopped.

What was the point?

My vision blurred from exhaustion and still, the pile towered over me. The pain in my hands was growing worse. My palm was red and I hadn’t even started spreading the washed clothes yet.

“What a pity.”

The voice pulled me from my thoughts. I wiped the sweat from my jaw and looked up. There she was, the girl with the short purple hair.

“I’m free now,” she said casually, walking to my side. “Let me help you out.”

I shook my head quickly. “No... What if someone catches you?”

“Jeez, relax. No one’s going to notice,” she said with a wink.

She silently gathered the clothes and spread them with ease. I watched, amazed. When she was done, she walked back and gently tapped my shoulder.

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

“Olena,” I replied, my voice tired and soft.

“I’m Zinnia,” she said with a smile. “Just so you know, this kind of punishment is usually for thieves.”

“But I didn’t steal anything,” I whispered, sadness laced in my voice.

“I know,” she said, her smile fading a little. “Just… try not to get on Ms. Morgan’s nerves again, okay?”

I nodded weakly.

Of course I wouldn’t.

Right now, I could barely keep my eyes open.

I felt like I was going to collapse.

“I’ve got food, in case you’re hungry, slave 401,” Zinnia said as we stepped out of the laundry room, finally done with the endless mountain of clothes.

“Seriously?” I asked, eyes lighting up as I instinctively rubbed my aching stomach. “Because I’m so hungry.”

She scoffed and nodded.

“Follow me.”

And I did.

As we walked, I glanced sideways at her. “But… how did you know my number?”

She hesitated. “I... I went to your room.”

“What? How’d you even know which one was mine?”

Zinnia waved off my question. “Enough questions, buddy.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly. “But isn’t it weird?” I asked, my gaze drifting to the walls around us. “That everything here is painted black?”

She glanced at the walls too, then rolled her eyes. “Our king’s a soulless bastard who doesn’t believe in anything colorful.”

“Not even his favorite color?”

“It’s not about favorites, black isn't his favourite,” she said, voice dry. “That’s just how he is. He hates the Moon Goddess, too.”

“That’s... super weird.”

“No,” she muttered. “I would too, if she cursed me twice for no damn reason.”

Zinnia rolled her eyes again, and I sighed, not sure whether I felt more confused or just deeply out of place.

"Yes Lycan King. The borders are closed,” said a voice nearby, calm and respectful.

“When is Alpha Ronan arriving for the meeting?”

Alpha Ronan?

My mind went blank. My chest jumped. Just hearing that name still sent a chill down my spine.

Then I saw them, two figures walking down the hallway.

And in front of them... was him.

The Lycan King.

My heart stuttered, then raced.

He stopped walking when he saw me. And for a moment, everything around us seemed to freeze.

Our eyes locked.

A light breeze moved through the hallway, but it wasn’t that which made me shiver. It was him.

His deep red and intense eyes held mine like a grip as one brow raised… like he recognized me.

His sharp jawline looked like it had been carved from stone. His dark hair was tied back, showing every perfect detail of his face. He was like seven feet tall with broad shoulders and his muscles almost ripping out of his black suits.

This man didn’t just look like a Greek god, he made them look ordinary. His aura alone was intimidating and scary as I swallowed my saliva.

“How dare a mere slave look the Lycan King in the eyes!!!”

The man behind him barked, jolting me out of my frozen trance.

My breath hitched. I dropped my gaze instantly, heart thundering in my chest like a war drum.

“Where’s Thalia?!” the man bellowed, already scanning the room. “This brat needs to be taught a lesson!"

Two punishments in a day? Goddess please…