Blackwood Manor

The first morning in Blackwood Manor began before dawn.

I woke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway—quick, measured, the rhythm of someone who had been awake for hours. The bed was harder than any I had slept in, the sheets rough, the pillow thin. I had not dreamed. I never dreamed anymore. Dreams were a luxury for people who did not have to survive.

The dagger was still under my pillow. I slid it back into my boot before I even opened my eyes.

The room Luna had given me was at the end of the east wing, as far from the main family quarters as possible without being in the servants’ quarters. Bare walls. A narrow window that faced the stables. A wardrobe that held only the uniform I had worn yesterday and two more sets of the same. No decorations. No warmth. A cell dressed up as a bedroom.

I dressed quickly, braided my hair, and stood at the window. The sun was just beginning to light the edges of the mountains, turning the sky from black to bruised purple. Below, I could see the stables, the training yard, the long drive that led back to the main road. The road to freedom, if I ever found a way to take it.

A soft knock came at my door. Not my mother—she would have entered without knocking. I opened it to find Luna, her grey hair pulled back, her face unreadable.

Alpha Marcus requires you in the dining hall for breakfast, she said. Her voice was flat, professional. Do not be late.

I followed her through corridors that were still unfamiliar, counting turns and doors, mapping the layout in my head. The east wing was quiet, the walls lined with portraits of wolves I did not recognize. As we turned into the main hall, the air changed. Heavier. Thicker. The scent of alpha wolves, multiple, overlapping, marking their territory.

The dining hall was vast, the table long enough to seat twenty. Marcus sat at the head, a newspaper in his hands, a cup of coffee steaming at his elbow. My mother sat to his right, her face pale, her hands folded in her lap. She looked smaller than she had yesterday, diminished somehow, and when she glanced at me, her eyes were hollow.

The triplets were already there.

Theron lounged in a chair near the middle of the table, his feet propped on the seat beside him, a piece of toast hanging from his mouth. He was dressed casually—dark jeans, a grey shirt that stretched across his shoulders—and his grin when he saw me was immediate.

Look who decided to join us, he said around his toast. The stray has risen.

I did not respond. I took the empty chair at the far end of the table, as far from them as possible. Luna appeared beside me, placing a plate of eggs and bacon before me. I had not eaten a meal this large in weeks. My stomach clenched with hunger I refused to show.

Lysander sat across from Theron, his back straight, his eyes fixed on me. He was not eating. He was watching, his head tilted slightly, his expression curious. He held a knife in his hand, turning it slowly, the blade catching the light.

Cassian sat apart from his brothers, at his father’s left hand. He had a plate before him but had not touched it. His grey eyes were fixed on some point beyond the window, and I had the distinct impression that he was not in this room at all. He had not looked at me since I entered. I told myself I did not care.

Marcus folded his newspaper and set it aside. His gaze moved over his sons, then settled on me.

You will begin your duties today, he said. Luna will instruct you on the running of this household. You will assist her where needed. In exchange, you will be fed, housed, and educated at Silver Creek Academy. Is this understood.

It was not a question. I nodded once.

Theron snorted. Duties? What duties can she possibly do? She looks like a strong wind would knock her over.

My mother’s hands tightened in her lap, but she said nothing. I kept my eyes on Marcus, refusing to acknowledge his son’s words.

Marcus’s gaze flickered to Theron, and something passed between them—a warning, perhaps, or simply the weight of an alpha’s displeasure. Theron’s grin faded slightly, but he did not apologize. He did not need to. In this house, apologies were for the weak.

Luna appeared at my shoulder again. Come, she said. We begin now.

I rose from the table, my plate untouched. My mother’s eyes followed me, filled with something that looked like guilt. I did not look back.

Luna led me through the manor, explaining my duties in a voice that was neither kind nor cruel. I would clean the east wing. I would assist in the kitchen. I would run errands for the household. In return, I would be allowed to attend Silver Creek Academy in the afternoons. It was a fair trade, she said. A generous one.

I did not argue. I took the cloth she handed me and began to scrub the floors of the main corridor, my knees pressing into the cold marble, my arms aching within minutes. I had done worse work for less. This was nothing.

The hours passed. I cleaned the east wing, the library, the smaller sitting rooms. Luna watched me at first, then left me to my work. I was alone with the dust and the silence, and I was grateful for it.

Then the footsteps came.

I did not look up. I recognized the rhythm—confident, unhurried, the walk of someone who had never been told to hurry. Theron. He stopped beside me, his shadow falling across the floor I had just scrubbed.

You missed a spot, he said.

I kept scrubbing. There were no spots. He was lying.

He crouched down beside me, his face level with mine. Up close, he was even more striking—sharp jaw, dark eyes, a mouth that curved into a perpetual smirk. He smelled of pine and something else, something that made my wolf stir uneasily.

You know, he said, his voice low, most people in your position would be begging. Pleading. Trying to make themselves useful. But you just… clean. Like a machine. Don’t you feel anything?

I stopped scrubbing. I turned my head slowly, meeting his eyes.

I feel, I said, that you are standing on the floor I just cleaned.

He blinked. Then he laughed—a real laugh, surprised and genuine, and for a moment he looked almost human. Almost.

She has a spine, he said, apparently to himself. Interesting.

He rose, dusting off his pants, and looked down at me with something that might have been respect or might have been amusement. I could not tell which.

Enjoy your cleaning, stray, he said. It’s the most useful you’ll ever be in this house.

He walked away, and I watched him go. My hands were shaking. I clenched them around the cloth and forced myself to breathe.

By afternoon, I was in the kitchen, helping Luna prepare the evening meal. She worked in silence, her movements efficient, and I copied her without being told. She seemed satisfied with that.

A door slammed somewhere in the house. Voices rose—Marcus’s deep rumble, then another voice, sharper, angrier. I could not make out the words, but the tension in the air thickened, pressing down on my chest.

Luna’s hands did not stop moving. Ignore it, she said quietly. It is not your concern.

I nodded, but I could not help listening. The voices grew louder, then stopped abruptly. A moment later, Cassian appeared in the kitchen doorway.

He was taller than I remembered, broader, and the shadows under his eyes spoke of a sleepless night. He did not look at Luna. He looked at me.

You, he said. His voice was low, flat, without inflection. Come with me.

I glanced at Luna. She gave a slight shake of her head, a warning, but she did not speak.

I set down the knife I had been holding and followed Cassian out of the kitchen.

He led me through the manor, his strides long, forcing me to half-walk, half-jog to keep up. He did not speak. He did not look back. He moved with the certainty of a wolf who had never been questioned, and I followed because I did not know what else to do.

He stopped at a door in the north corridor—the same corridor I had explored my first night, the one that led to the locked room. My pulse quickened.

He opened the door and stepped inside. I hesitated, then followed.

The room was the same as before. Dusty books, a dead fireplace, the painting of the woman with honey-colored eyes. Cassian stood before the painting, his back to me, his shoulders tense.

Do you know who she is? he asked.

I shook my head, then realized he could not see me. No.

His voice was quiet when he spoke again. She was my mother.

The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. I had not expected him to speak of her. I had not expected him to speak to me at all.

She died when we were ten, he said. Marcus never speaks of her. This room is kept as it was. No one is allowed inside.

Then why did you bring me here? I asked.

He turned. For the first time, his grey eyes met mine fully, and I felt the impact of it like a physical blow. He was looking at me—truly looking—and what I saw in his face was not coldness.

It was pain.

Because you found it, he said. And you did not touch anything. You did not take anything. You just… looked.

I did not know what to say. I stood there, my hands at my sides, and let him look at me.

He stepped closer. One step. Two. Close enough that I could see the faint scar that ran along his jaw, the silver flecks in his irises.

You are not like the others, he said. I do not know what you are yet. But you are not like them.

He reached out, and for a moment I thought he was going to touch my face. But his hand stopped, hovering in the air between us, and then he lowered it.

Stay out of this room, he said. And stay out of my way.

He left without another word, his footsteps fading down the corridor. I stood alone in the dust and the silence, my heart pounding, the ghost of his gaze still burning on my skin.

I looked up at the painting one last time. The woman stared back at me with eyes that held secrets I could not name.

I left the room, closed the door behind me, and walked back to the east wing with the image of Cassian’s face burned into my memory.

He had looked at me. And for the first time since I arrived, I was not sure I wanted him to stop.