5

Dominic pushed me away and I was surprised that I lost thought because of his action. 

He told Victoria, "Amo has a keen sense of smell and he hates the smell of women's blood."

Victoria was not quite convinced by Dominic's explanation, still, she wrapped her arms around him like she was showing off. To say "wrapped around" might be a bit of an understatement, as she pressed her breasts against Dominic's arm and whispered petulantly in Dominic's ear. "Let's go watch the game."

**

I stayed in the kitchen until the moon was high. By the time the last plate was washed and the last table was wiped, my fingers had gone numb from the cold water. 

The maids had left long ago, laughing and talking about the game Victoria had watched with Dominic, and of course no one had thought of taking even one piece of work from me. 

My broken right hand throbbed under the ugly splint I had made, and every time I moved too fast, pain shot up my arm until my eyes went black for a moment.

I was reaching for the last dirty cup when the kitchen door opened. My body froze before I even turned around. 

Dominic stood there. 

He had changed out of his training clothes, but his hair was still a little damp, as if he had just washed after the game. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up again, and under the dim yellow light, his face looked colder than usual. 

I quickly lowered my head and stepped back, because I had learned long ago that when someone like Dominic came into a room at night, it could not be good news for someone like me.

“Still alive?” he asked.

I did not answer. 

I could not tell if he was mocking me or actually asking. With Dominic, those two things always sounded the same. He walked to the table and placed something on it. I did not dare to look at first. 

Only when his footsteps moved away did my eyes slowly fall to the thing he had left behind. It was a small pastry wrapped in a napkin. I stared at it, stunned. It was not the hard scraps from the trash, not the burnt edges the cooks sometimes threw away, but a real pastry, golden and soft, with sugar dusted over the top. I had made dozens like that for others, but I had never eaten one myself.

Dominic noticed my stare and frowned. “Amo refused to eat it.”

That was obviously a lie. Wolves did not eat pastries. Even I knew that. But I still did not dare to speak. 

“Do not look at me like that. I did not bring it for you.” Then he turned and left the kitchen before I could understand why he had come at all.

For a long time, I stood there without moving. The pastry sat on the table like a trap. Maybe Victoria had sent it to test me. Maybe there was something inside it. Maybe Dominic only wanted to watch me humiliate myself by being grateful for something he would later take away. 

But my stomach cramped painfully. 

The sweet smell crawled into my nose and made my mouth water. In the end, hunger was stronger than dignity. I picked it up with my left hand and took a small bite.

The pastry melted on my tongue. For one ridiculous second, tears almost came to my eyes. It was only sugar and butter, something others ate without even thinking, but to me it tasted like another world. I ate slowly, almost afraid that if I swallowed too fast, the moment would disappear. 

Crack!

Then I heard a noise outside. It was faint at first, like something heavy dragging against the stones beyond the back door. I stopped chewing immediately. 

Another sound came. A low groan. My first thought was to hide. Nothing good ever came from curiosity. If someone was drunk outside and saw me, they might beat me for standing there. If it was Victoria or Alex playing another prank, I would only be walking into it. 

But the groan came again, weaker this time, and there was something in it that made my chest tighten. I picked up the small candle from the counter and opened the back door just enough to look out.

The night wind rushed in and almost put out the flame. At first, I saw nothing but the dark yard and the black shape of the trees beyond the wall. Then the candlelight trembled over something near the rain barrel. A man was lying there. I should have run. That was the only clever thing to do. 

Instead, I stood frozen, staring at the blood on his shirt.

He was not from the Black Moon pack. I knew that at once. His clothes were too strange, dark and torn, and his scent was different, buried under blood, mud, and something sharp like winter leaves. His hair was black, wet against his forehead, and even with his face pale from pain, he was so handsome that for a moment I forgot I was afraid. 

Then his eyes opened. They were silver. Not gray. Not blue. 

“Do not scream,” he said, his voice low and rough.

I almost dropped the candle. “I was not going to,” I lied.

He tried to move and immediately hissed in pain. There was a deep cut across his side, and another wound on his shoulder, as if something with claws had torn through the fabric. Blood had already soaked the ground beneath him. 

I looked around in terror. If the guards found him here, they would question me first. If they found me helping a strange man, they might not even bother with questions. But if I left him there, he would die. 

And I knew too well what it felt like to be left on the floor while everyone pretended not to see.

“You cannot stay here,” I whispered.

His lips curved slightly, as if he found that funny. “I noticed.”

I should not have helped him. I had a broken hand, bruised ribs, and legs that still trembled whenever I stood for too long. But somehow I managed to pull one of his arms over my shoulders. He was much heavier than I expected, and the moment I tried to lift him, pain stabbed through my whole body.

He looked down at me with a frown. “You are hurt.”

“So are you,” I said before I could stop myself.

With great difficulty, I dragged him through the back passage, down the servant stairs, and into the basement. Every sound felt too loud. His boots scraped the floor. My breathing came fast and broken. 

Once, he almost collapsed, and I had to bite my lip so hard that I tasted blood just to keep from crying out. By the time I got him inside my small corner of the basement, my body was shaking worse than his.

I helped him sit against the wall and closed the door. The candlelight showed him more clearly then. He was young, maybe only a little older than Dominic, but there was nothing careless or spoiled about him. Even wounded, he looked dangerous. 

His jaw was sharp, his mouth pale but beautiful, and his black hair fell over his eyes in a way that made him look like someone from the picture book I hid under the floor tiles. 

I realized I was staring and quickly lowered my head.

“Do you always rescue strange men in the middle of the night?” he asked.

I did not answer, because I did not know how to speak to someone who looked at me without disgust. I took the herbs from the cupboard and knelt beside him. My mother had taught me which leaves could stop bleeding and which roots could keep a wound from rotting. I had used them on myself so many times that my hands moved almost without thinking. But when I reached for his torn shirt, I stopped. “I need to see the wound,” I said, and my voice sounded smaller than I wanted.

He raised one brow. “Then see it.”