CHAPTER 12: THE WHITE GOWN

A soft knock raps against the wood, so quiet and restrained it could easily be a trick of the draft. My head jerks up from the edge of the bed. I cross the small room in three silent strides, yank the curtain aside with a desperate hand, and confirm the thin, accusing rays of morning light slanting across the courtyard. Then the voice cuts through the door panels, flat and devoid of warmth:

"Miss Aurora. Open the door."

It sounds like an absolute command, not a request.

"Who is it?" I whisper back, my throat tight.

"Open it," the voice insists.

I hesitate, my heart hammering against my ribs. I smooth my hair down frantically with both trembling hands, double-check that the white shirt is buried safely beneath the mattress, and straighten my spine as much as I am able before turning the iron handle.

I pull the door open to reveal Greta, Lady Victoria’s personal maid. She stands in the dim corridor with her hair a brilliant, immaculate red, her uniform pristine and unwrinkled. She looks smug, utterly pleased with herself, wearing the petty authority she's been handed like a crown. I am far too used to her venomous stare to be surprised, but my stomach drops anyway.

Greta looks me over slowly, her eyes dragging from the top of my head all the way down to my bare feet standing on the cold stone. Without a word of greeting, she reaches into the crook of her arm and throws a folded bundle directly at my chest. It hits me squarely, and I catch it by instinct. It unfolds in my hands to reveal a thin, stark white gown—off-the-shoulder, paper-thin, and entirely translucent under the harsh light of the hall.

"Put it on," Greta says, her tone glacial. "The elders will be here soon."

"I can't wear this," I say quietly, my fingers gripping the delicate, useless fabric. "It's... it's see-through."

"Miss Victoria's orders," she snaps back.

"Please," I plead, my voice dropping to a fragile murmur. "I'll wear my own dress. Anything else in the wardrobe."

"You don't get a say in this house," Greta replies sharply, stepping closer with a cruel smirk. "Remember your place."

"I'm the Beta's..." I start, desperate to anchor myself to some shred of protection.

"The Beta isn't here," she cuts me off, her eyes flashing with malice. "Put. It. On."

A low, vibrating growl rumbles deep in her chest. She bares her sharp canines in a clear warning, taking one aggressive step closer into my doorway. I flinch backward by instinct, my wolf remaining completely silent and cowering inside me, leaving me entirely defenseless. My shoulders hit the wooden doorframe hard, trapping me.

I stop talking, letting my gaze drop heavily to the floorboards. My fingers tighten convulsively on the thin white fabric until my knuckles turn white. My chin trembles uncontrollably, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek until I taste the sharp, metallic tang of blood. I swallow the rising panic and nod once, a stiff, defeated jerk of my head.

"Good," Greta says, her smile dripping with poison. "Don't keep them waiting."

She turns on her heel and walks away down the hall.

Greta gives the warped wooden door a vicious shove as she leaves. It slams shut, barely hanging on its rusted hinges, shuddering violently under the impact. I stand frozen in the middle of the room, listening to the heavy tap of her shoes fade away into nothingness.

When the silence returns, my knees finally give out. I slide slowly down the cold wall, pulling the white gown tight against my chest like a shield. I press the heel of my hand hard over my mouth to choke off the ragged, ugly sounds of sobbing breaking free from my throat. I stare blankly at the delicate dress, then down at my own heavy, trembling arms.

"Why can't I even growl back?" I whisper to the empty room, the words a bitter indictment of my own weakness.

Fifteen years under this roof, and a servant with a sharp tongue can still reduce me to nothing. I had so many things I wanted to throw back in her face.

"I wanted to say something," I whisper into the dark. "I had it right there."

Above my head, the heavy iron bell mounted near the front gates rings out once, twice, three times in rapid succession—the unmistakable signal for high-ranking visitors at the perimeter. The elders are early.