Chapter 25

She stared straight into the mirror, her reflection staring back like a stranger. This is what I have to do, she told herself. To save her work. To save her sextuplets. To shield them all from the suffocating toxicity of the Hale palace.

The thought of her little ones being dragged into that palace, forced to grow under the shame of being tied to her—a woman spited, treated lower than a pauper, branded a common sex slave—was unbearable. Lois could not, would not, allow that fate to crush her bundles of joy.

This was her only chance. A mask. An extravagant makeover. Mask as art. Mask as salvation. If the event demanded color and spectacle, then she would become the art they wanted—and hope it saved her from recognition.

Yes, an extravagant makeover. Something so vibrant and excessive that Alpha Karl would not see Lois Marrok beneath it.

She leaned closer to the mirror, envisioning bold colors and intricate strokes. Her fingers moved quickly. She powdered her face ghostly white until her skin shone pale and smooth as porcelain, erasing every natural feature.

Six years is enough for him not to notice me, she thought, steadying her trembling hand.

Her eyeliner stretched in thick, black strokes, drawn sharp towards her hairline, distorting her natural gaze into something theatrical. She painted her brows long, curved, and dark, almost menacing. Then her lips—she drenched them in crimson, coating them with gloss until they were plump, wet, and painfully inviting.

Her cheeks she brushed rosy pink, adding false innocence to a face that had endured anything but. By the time she raised her head again, she barely recognized the woman staring back at her.

Extravagant. Masked like an opera performer from the East. A painted illusion.

She stripped off her artist’s apron and pulled on the flowing robe she had prepared—a cascade of color and embroidered flowers that danced across her figure, each stitch alive with brilliance. The final image was mesmerizing, theatrical, and untouchably distant.

Lois looked like a living painting herself. A standing piece of art.

When she slipped into the hall through the back door, her pulse stumbled. And then—her eyes collided with him.

Alpha Karl.

The air caught in her throat. Her mate. Her curse.

He stood tall, exuding dominance with every effortless stride. His presence alone commanded the space; his confident, predatory aura swallowed the hall. Six years, and still his face was devastatingly striking—sharp jawline, chiseled cheekbones, piercing eyes that radiated dangerous power.

She swallowed, forcing her legs to move toward the angle where she had to remain for the session. Her gaze strayed—traitorous—as it met his.

He didn’t notice her. Not yet. The crowd, the coronation, the weight of royal attention—it was enough to distract him from the anonymous artist behind the mask.

But Lois… Lois was undone. Her aura trembled with an arousal she loathed, her mate bond burning through every wall she’d built. His scent dominated her senses. The pull was unbearable. Her body screamed to touch him, to close the distance, to surrender—while her mind recoiled with hatred for everything he had ever done to her.

I loathe you, she told herself, her teeth sinking into her lip. I loathe this. I loathe what you made of me.

And yet her body betrayed her.

Minutes turned to half an hour. She hadn’t painted. She had only stared, drowning in fury, in desire, in revulsion.

The King of Beinville had already been crowned. The festivities of the night began, laughter and music spilling like wine. Still, Lois sat frozen, caught in Karl’s orbit.

It was he who noticed her then. Her constant stare. Too intent. Too raw. Not the professional glances of an artist, but something deeper, familiar, dangerous.

And the mask. The mask that cloaked her. Suspicion carved into his features. A spy?

“Bring her to me,” Alpha Karl said coldly to Wolfe, striding from the hall with his entourage.

When Lois finally blinked back into herself, Karl was gone. Her brush trembled as she realized the seat was empty.

“Hey, woman. Follow me.” Wolfe’s voice was low, firm, unyielding.

Her heart thudded violently. Sweat pooled at her nape. Clutching her board to her chest like a shield, Lois followed.

The moment she stepped into the room, her knees weakened. Dark. Grim. Every detail steeped in shadows. Memories surged—the nights she was dragged, used, discarded like nothing but a body. She swallowed hard, her breath catching.

“This is the woman, your majesty,” Wolfe announced.

Alpha Karl rose and walked toward her. Each step was deliberate, predatory. When his hand landed on her shoulder, a jolt of electricity shot through her—shocking, intimate, cruel.

He circled her like a wolf around prey. Lois stiffened, fighting to hold still as panic clawed up her throat.

“Who are you?” His voice was low, probing.

Lois forced words past her dry lips. “I… I’m just an artist of the royal palace. I was assigned to make your painting. I apologize if I startled or disturbed you in any way, your majesty.” Her words rushed, tumbling, desperate.

In a flash, his hand lifted her chin. His piercing gaze locked on hers, stripping her bare.

“I didn’t ask for your explanations,” he cut her coldly. “Or your apologies. You make me remember someone… someone I loathe more than anything.” He released her chin with a flick.

Lois staggered back a breath, sucking in air. “I… I’m sorry if I remind you of such a repulsive memory, your majesty,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Why were you staring so intently at the king?” Wolfe’s growl rumbled, his suspicion sharp.

Lois steadied herself, forcing her tone calm, collected, womanly. “An artist must capture more than lines. I study features, memorize them, so I can paint with truth. To see, to hold, then to translate—this is art. The sitter’s presence gives detail, but the true work is memory.”

Her voice wasn’t as melodic as six years ago, but it carried conviction.

“Would you take your seat, your majesty, so I may continue? I don’t know how many days you’ll remain in Beinville—perhaps three? I may need two days to complete your portrait—”

“Wash your face.”

The command cut through her like steel.

Her brows shot up, eyes wide in shock.