"Good,” he murmured, “you still remember not to bite the hand that feeds you.”

Clara’s POV

The corridor outside the dining hall felt longer than usual, lined with old portraits and heavy, oppressive silence. My footsteps faltered on the rug; I could have sworn I felt not only the eyes in the paintings watching, but whispers clinging to my hem. My hand gripped the banister at the top of the stairs, knuckles ghost-pale, steadying myself. I knew the moment I entered, all pretenses—of peace, of security—would fall away. I could feel myself bracing, fragment by fragment, for Taehyung’s gaze.

A servant in gray hurried past, head down, not meeting my eyes. Most did not these days. I was tainted by violence and rumor, by a bloodstain that would not wash out—hers or my own, it no longer mattered. Even the sun, slanting through the tall windows, held itself a cautious distance from me.

I swallowed hard and stepped inside.

The dining room was already full, though there was no sound besides the tick of the grandfather clock and the soft chime of crystal and porcelain. The table stretched impossibly long, covered in white linen, immaculate—set as if for royalty or a wake.

Six seats were filled. They all turned to look as I entered, each stare a verdict.

At the head, Taehyung sat perfectly straight, his profile sharp and elegant in the morning light. His dark hair was combed with ruthless precision, jaw clean-shaven, black silk shirt half-unbuttoned in a way that seemed both careless and calculated. The Alpha, and he wore it like a crown.

His hand curled loosely around a steaming mug of coffee, fingers drumming, ever so faintly, on the wood. Every detail about him was deliberate. Even today—even after—he looked as if he’d stepped right from a dynasty painting.

To his right, Lorcan reclined in his chair, ever-watchful and coldly calculating. His left wrist was bandaged from some recent scuffle; he sipped his tea as if its heat did not touch him. Flanking him were two of the pack’s inner circle—Evelyn, who watched me over the rim of her delicate glass, and Hayden, whose fork hovered over his plate as if he could not decide whether to eat or throw it.

Across from them sat Minho, the grizzled advisor who almost never spoke unless spoken to, and Seol, the youngest beta, pink-haired and anxious, shrinking into her chair at the first sign of conflict.

This was not a breakfast. This was a court audience.

The Alpha’s court and I, an interloper—an accused.

I tried not to look directly at anyone as I walked the length of the table, pulse fluttering in my throat. My seat—opposite Taehyung, at his command—waited. A servant, faceless behind their livery, pulled out the chair for me. My legs trembled with every step.

Taehyung’s eyes flicked up, fixing on me like a hawk settling on a mouse. “Late,” he observed, the word falling with all the weight of judgment.

My fingers faltered on the back of the chair. “I—”

His hand rose, palm open, a subtle show of dominance. “Sit.”

The single soft syllable carried more authority than any shouted order. I sat, spine ramrod-straight, hands folded tightly in my lap. My breath came in shallow gulps, and I tried not to look at the perfect setting before me—crystal water glass, embroidered napkin, two forks.

He sipped his coffee, eyes never leaving mine.

“You’ve lost weight.” He said it like a merchant inspecting livestock. “Are you trying to make me a widower already, Clara?”

My jaw clenched as all the heads at the table swiveled, watching. “It happens when—”

“I wasn’t asking for a reason,” he interrupted, voice as soft and final as a noose. “Eat.”

A servant appeared to my right, pressing a plate before me—toast, butter melting into honeyed pools, plump strawberries and green apple slices, a neat puck of perfectly scrambled eggs. The scent should have made my mouth water, but instead my stomach tightened around a pit of basalt.

“I had them make it the way you like.”

For one shattering instant, I almost believed he was being considerate. Then I saw the cruel glint in his eye, the calculation—the reminder that he knew me, past and present, knew my tastes even as he held me prisoner.

It was a knife—sharp, twisting in old wounds. How many late mornings had he stolen toast from my plate before? How many mornings had felt almost normal, safe, sweet?

My hands shook as I picked up my fork.

“You’re quiet,” Taehyung said, leaning back. Even his relaxation was calculated, predatory. “You never used to be so quiet in the mornings.”

My voice was barely a whisper: “I don’t have much to say.”

He arched one brow, lips twisting in a faint, dangerous smirk. “That’s a lie. I see the words burning in your throat—you just don’t know if it’s safe to let them out.”

I stabbed a strawberry, tried to force myself to chew. My head pounded. The eggs tasted like sawdust.

Silence threatened to suffocate the room. The others watched—with something like hunger, like anticipation.

“Safe?” I managed, voice raw.

“Safe,” Taehyung repeated, rolling the word on his tongue. His gaze dragged down my neck, lingering at the fading bite. “With me, safety has always been…conditional.”

He smiled—a flash of white teeth, charming if you didn’t know what lived behind it.

Abruptly, he leaned forward, reached across the table, and plucked a slice of toast from my plate instead of his own. He bit into it, slow and deliberate, smirk on his lips, eyes locked to mine.

The implication was clear.

“Good,” he murmured, “you still remember not to bite the hand that feeds you.”

A low ripple of laughter ran around the table. Not mocking—just cold amusement, hungry complicity.

Shame burned at my cheeks, prickling hot tears at the corners of my eyes.

It shouldn’t hurt—this casual theft. But it was a taking, a reminder of how utterly powerless I was, how deeply he understood the levers that moved me.

Hayden pretended not to notice, but his grip on his water glass whitened. Evelyn was less circumspect, tilting her head, a faint curl at her mouth.

Taehyung’s voice grew silkier, almost affectionate if you didn’t know better.

“Clara, you must learn to eat when you’re told.”

He took my fork and raised it, as if in toast. “Tell me—are you going to starve yourself out of spite, or shall I be forced to feed you myself?”

Seol, sitting at the farthest end, risked a glance in my direction—pity flickering, quickly hidden.

I choked. The tears threatened to spill over.

Taehyung noticed.

He set the fork down with gentle precision and regarded me, head tilted, dangerous curiosity flashing in his eyes. “Is it really so hard? One bite, Clara. One. Show us you remember your place.”

Lorcan broke the tension. “The Luna was never a picky eater,” he mused, voice dry as parchment. “Not until recently.”

The others murmured their agreement, murmurs running like cold water over my skin.

As if on cue, I reached for an apple slice, hands trembling so hard I could barely grip it. Taehyung watched, rapt.

For a moment, his gaze softened—a glimmer of something almost like the Taehyung I’d known before the darkness took him.

My vision blurred.

A memory surged—violent, senseless.