Chapter 51

SARA 

I finally reached my breaking point. After almost three hours of kneeling, the agony in my joints became unbearable, and I forced myself to stand up. My knees hurt like mad, sending sharp, shooting pains up my thighs with every micro-movement. I still didn’t understand what Tristan meant by "my first cleaning." I had operating under the naive assumption that I was only going to concern myself with his personal affairs and the specific tasks that directly involved his needs.

I stood there in the center of the room, contemplating my next move. I was paralyzed by indecision, unsure if I should even leave the room since he had already accused me of being disrespectful for not asking permission before. I had to weigh my options: which was the greater sin in his eyes? Would he punish me for going to clean without his explicit leave, or would he rather have me wait for him like a loyal dog until he saw fit to return?

Unable to decide and driven by a restless, anxious energy, I finally left the room and headed toward the kitchen.

"Sara, how are you doing? How does it feel to be a live-in maid?" Paige asked, her voice bubbling with a misplaced sense of excitement.

"It’s hellish," I spat, the word tasting like ash. "They said I’m supposed to clean somewhere in the kitchen, but I don't even know where to start."

"Clean? That’s not true. Those who are live-in maids usually do nothing of the sort. All you’re really expected to do is tend to the Alpha and all of his... needs. If you know what I mean." She giggled suggestively, her eyes dancing with a light that made my stomach churn.

"Well, Alpha Tristan is clearly intent on making my life a living hell," I complained, leaning against the counter for support. "He has so many humiliating and degrading rules. I don’t even know what he hopes to gain from it all, other than my total destruction."

"I see." Paige’s expression softened. She wrapped her arms around me in a sudden, warm embrace, and the dam finally broke. I felt the overwhelming need to cry.

"Yeah, let it all out," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm. She slowly ran her palm up and down my spine, offering the only comfort I’d had in days. "Do you feel better now?" she asked gently when my sobs finally subsided into shaky breaths.

"Yes, thank you, Paige," I murmured, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

"Now, let’s go look for Natalie," she said, her tone shifting back to a firm practicality. She practically dragged me toward Natalie’s quarters.

The atmosphere changed as we approached. Natalie was occupied when we arrived, and the sounds drifting through the door were... unexpected. I had always assumed she was a lesbian, but as the sounds of exertion and muffled moans grew louder, it became clear that the deeper, guttering voice did not belong to a woman. When we drew closer and the door cracked open slightly, I found she was pegging a man with a fierce, dominant intensity.

"Just give me a minute, this cheap man-whore is almost there!" she called out, her voice breathless and strained. She was drenched in sweat, her focus entirely on the task at hand.

"So sorry about that," she said ten minutes later, stepping out while adjusting her clothes. She didn’t look the least bit embarrassed. "I’m sorry you had to see that, but duty calls. What can I do for you?"

"I’m sorry to bother you, but Sara tells me she was asked to clean the kitchen," Paige began, her brow furrowed. "It made me confused because I recall you didn't do any of that while you were the Alpha’s live-in maid. Am I right?"

Natalie stared at me for a long, silent moment, her analytical gaze sweeping over my disheveled appearance. "You are right. I didn’t do any of that. I think the obvious truth is that despite everything Alpha Tristan has subjected Sara to, he is in love with her."

She declared it so matter-of-factly that I felt a jolt of genuine shock.

"Oh, come on, let's be serious," I muttered disbelievingly, shaking my head.

"I kid you not. Tristan, deep down, is in love with you, but he’s a broken man who is unsure how to go about it. So, he lashes out. He shows his passion for you in possessive, twisted ways meant to bind you closer to him. And your insistence on not sleeping with him? That is only making him more desperate to break you." She stated this with such a heavy air of certainty that my heart skipped a beat.

The truth was that I’d known for a while that he lusted after me. I had seen it in the way his eyes darkened, felt it in the heat that radiated off him when he was near. But I’d refused to acknowledge it, fearing what that kind of "love" would look like from a man like him. Even though there had been times when I’d been tempted to surrender just to end the fighting, I had refused to give in.

"So, you are saying I’m not supposed to clean the kitchen?" I asked, forcing the conversation back to the immediate problem.

"Yes. If you are to clean anywhere, it would be the Alpha’s private bedchambers. No one in their right mind would even give you a communal task. As far as the rest of the pack is concerned, you are his personal property. You are off-limits." Natalie explained.

"I needed you to hear it from her," Paige said, giving my hand a squeeze. "Now that you have, it’s time to go back before he notices you're gone."

When I returned to the Alpha’s suite, my heart sank. The room was a complete mess. It looked as though someone had come in and deliberately trashed the place while I was gone. Clothes were strewn about, papers were scattered, and furniture had been overturned. Was that why he had mentioned cleaning? So I would leave the room and give his paid goons a chance to destroy the place?

My breath froze in my throat as I moved deeper into the wreckage. It wasn’t how messy the room was that made my stomach churn; it was what was waiting for me on the narrow cot in the corner.

The uniform.

If you could even call it that. It was a pathetic scrap of black satin and cheap, scratchy white lace. The skirt was absurdly short, barely enough to cover anything, and the neckline plunged dramatically to the waist. Beside it sat a pair of towering, patent leather stilettos and a feather duster that looked more like a stage prop than a tool.

I stared at it, my mind racing back to the tailored linen tunics and practical trousers I used to wear. Those were clothes that commanded respect. They were the clothes of a woman of science, a practitioner of medicine, a high-ranking member of the pack who held the power of life and death in her hands.

My hands shook with a mixture of rage and shame as I stripped off my own clothes. Putting on the costume felt like layering humiliation directly onto my skin. The fabric was itchy, tight in all the wrong places, and smelled of cheap chemicals. When I finally looked in the mirror on the wall, I didn't recognize the woman staring back. The powerful healer, the woman who could diagnose an ailment with a sniff and a touch, had vanished. In her place stood a gaudy, cheap caricature of servitude.

I was barely able to walk in the heels. My ankles wobbled precarily as I made my way into the adjoining suite. I remembered the rules; I knew what he expected of me now.

"Master?" I called out, my voice sounding weak and hollow in the cavernous space. "May I... may I begin cleaning?"

Tristan appeared from the living room doorway almost instantly, as if he had been waiting just out of sight. He stopped, his eyes raking over me from the ridiculous white headband in my hair down to the tips of the agonizing shoes. His expression wasn't one of desire or even smug satisfaction; it was a cold, clinical appraisal, as if he were inspecting a flawed piece of livestock at an auction.

"Get on your knees," he said, his voice flat. "The baseboards in this hallway are filthy. Scrub them. With a toothbrush."

He tossed a small, plastic brush onto the floor. It skittered across the polished wood, mocking me.

Hesitantly, and with great pain in the restrictive skirt, I lowered myself to my hands and knees. The marble floor was freezing against my bare legs, the chill seeping into my bruised bones. I picked up the brush and began to scrub at an invisible speck of dirt, my face burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.

I could feel him standing over me, a dark shadow looming in my peripheral vision. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.

"Look at you," he said finally. His voice was devoid of even a hint of warmth. "You look absurd. Like a child playing dress-up in a whore’s closet."

I kept my eyes glued to the baseboard, scrubbing harder until my knuckles turned white. "Yes, Master."

He took a step closer, his polished shoe entering my field of vision. "It suits you, though. This is your true level, isn't it, Sara? Down in the dirt, wearing rags meant to entice better men than the ones you've known."

The belittling words stung, but I had prepared myself for that. What I wasn't prepared for was the sudden shift in his tone when he crouched down, bringing his face so close that his breath fanned against my ear.

"Tell me something," he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Was it all a lie? Your 'gift'?"

I froze, the toothbrush hovering mid-stroke. "Master?"

"Your healing. Your reputation. You walked around this pack with your nose in the air, acting so superior, so intelligent. The great high-class healer woman. But looking at you now... I really have to wonder."

He nudged my shoulder with two fingers, just hard enough to make me wobble dangerously on my heels.

"Did you actually know what you were doing? Or were you just guessing with those herbs and poultices, playing on the desperation of the sick? Because a woman with actual intelligence, a woman with the brainpower you claimed to have, wouldn't be scrubbing my floor in a slut costume. She would have been smart enough to avoid this fate."

"I... I was good at my job," I whispered, the defense feeling weak and pathetic even to my own ears.

"Were you?" He laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed off the marble. "A smart person doesn't murder an innocent woman out of jealousy, Sara. Only an impulsive, stupid animal does that. And now that I see you here, struggling with a simple cleaning task, I realize you probably killed more patients than you ever saved. You were never smart. You were just arrogant."

"I was not! I was good at my job," I defended my honor again, though my voice cracked.

"Were you now? Perhaps I should begin a formal inquiry into your time as a healer. I’ll gather a team of experts to review every single thing you did, every potion you mixed, every life that passed through your hands. If they find even one instance of malpractice, you are done. I'll ensure the world knows you for the fraud you are." He threatened, his eyes glinting with a cruel light.

His words were like scalpels, cutting straight through the remaining armor of my past identity. The healer—that was who I was. It was my pride, my contribution to the world. To hear him dismiss it so casually, to twist my life's work into evidence of inherent stupidity... it was more than I could bear.

A single tear leaked out and splashed onto the cold marble floor.

"Oh, don't cry," Tristan sneered, standing back up to his full, imposing height. "It only proves my point. A useless, emotional creature who can't even handle basic instructions without falling apart. You were never high-class, Sara. You were just very good at pretending you weren't trash. Now, the mask has slipped, and everyone can see the truth."

He walked away without another word, his footsteps echoing rhythmically down the hall until they faded into nothingness.

I was left alone in the heavy silence, my knees aching, the cheap lace scratching my skin like a thousand tiny needles. I looked down at the tiny toothbrush in my hand. I used to hold surgical tools. I used to mix complex, life-saving antidotes.

Was I just guessing? Had I just been lucky all those years? Maybe he was right. Maybe I had always been stupid, useless trash, and it had just taken this—taken him—to finally expose the rot inside me.

I dipped the toothbrush back into the bucket and kept scrubbing, the image of the respected healer fading further and further away, replaced entirely by the broken reflection of the maid in the polished marble floor.