He Thought I Betrayed Him, but I Was Kneeling at His Gates

In the grand banquet hall of the Gray Wolf Pack, Alpha Atticus Blackwood was hosting a lavish feast for his fellow pack members.

When Gerald Mercer, the pack's steward, handed me the guest list, his clouded eyes carried a trace of pity.

"Alice, if you don't want this assignment tonight, I can have someone else cover for you."

I looked down and smoothed my clothes, faded almost white from years of washing. The coarse fabric scraped my neck as I forced a faint smile.

"No need, thank you. These big banquets pay the best, and I need the money."

I needed money, a lot of it, to buy medicine for my younger brother, Theo, who lay bedridden and gravely ill in our rundown shack.

Gerald sighed, said nothing more, gave my shoulder a pat, and turned to leave.

I picked up the wine pitcher and pushed open the door to the grandest private dining room in the hall.

The clamor inside hit me all at once, and the man seated at the head of the table seized my attention at once.

It was Atticus.

I hadn't seen him in seven years. The raw, stubborn boy I remembered had changed beyond recognition.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, carrying the cold authority of a man with the power to decide who lived and died, his expression cold and detached.

Leaning against his side was the future Luna, Christine Vale.

She wore a pristine white velvet dress and looked at me with a gaze dripping with condescension and smug satisfaction.

I kept my eyes lowered, carrying the wine pitcher forward at a measured pace, trying to make myself as invisible as possible.

But fate had other plans.

"Well, well, if it isn't Alice!"

Christine spoke first, her voice sweet and soft, yet every word barbed, silencing the noisy room in an instant.

Every pair of eyes snapped to me, filled with scorn, mockery, and the thrill of a spectacle.

"I was wondering who it could be. It's Alice, the one who broke off her engagement and latched onto someone more powerful. So, you've sunk to serving drinks at banquets now?"

The moment her words landed, sneers rippled through the room.

"The Alpha used to treat her like a queen, would've laid the world at her feet, and she turned around and stabbed him in the back. She's only getting what she deserves."

The cruel words crashed into me one after another, but I kept my eyes lowered, my face blank.

My hands never faltered. I placed a glass of wine before Atticus with steady precision.

Seven years. I'd spent seven years scraping by at the very bottom of the pack, beaten and humiliated by the others, enduring contempt for every scrap of food. My dignity had long since been ground to dust.

These taunts couldn't touch me anymore.

All I could see was survival, and my brother.

Atticus finally lifted his gaze to me.

Those eyes that had once been filled with tenderness now held nothing but piercing cold, contempt, and a hatred so thick it was almost tangible.

He didn't take the glass. He just looked at me coldly, his low, frigid voice dripping with undisguised contempt.

"Seven years, Alice, and you've sunk even lower."

My hand paused on the pitcher for a beat, but I still didn't look up.

The next second, he lashed out, knocking the glass from my hand.

It shattered against the floor with a sharp crack, wine splashing across the carpet.

Tiny shards sprayed toward me, slicing my fingertips. Warm beads of blood surfaced instantly.

"You think you can serve me this cheap swill?"

Atticus rose to his feet, towering over me, disgust practically spilling from his eyes.

"You sold me out for power back then. Now that you've hit rock bottom, this is exactly what you deserve."

Christine chimed in beside him, her voice gentle, her eyes gleaming with triumph.

"Alice, just be a good girl and clean up the mess on the floor. After all, this is about all you're good for now."

I crouched down and picked up the glass shards with my bare hands. The cuts on my fingertips throbbed with searing pain, but my face stayed blank. I didn't so much as furrow my brow.

I gathered the fragments into my palm, rose slowly, and gave Atticus a slight bow, my voice perfectly calm.

"My apologies, Alpha. I'll replace the wine at once."

Atticus stared at the blood on my fingertips, then at my blank, hollow expression, and the pressure radiating from him grew heavier still.

What he wanted was my remorse, my pain, my pleas for mercy.

But he would never know that I had long since run out of emotions to spare for his belated hatred.

The Alice who had once lived and breathed for him died on that rainy night seven years ago, when her pack was slaughtered.