Chapter 5

Irina pov

Thank goodness Anikta led me out of that dining hall.

I don't know what would have happened if she hadn't been there, her hand firm on my arm, her body a shield between me and the weight of all those eyes. The water. Ian’s ruined shirt. Lindsey's smug, satisfied smile. The announcement of a child that should have meant nothing to me but somehow cut deep.

I barely remember walking down to our rooms. My legs moved on their own. My face stayed blank. But inside, I was a storm of things I refused to name.

That was a week ago.

A week of keeping my head down. A week of avoiding them, of taking the longer routes through the castle, of making myself so small and invisible that even Lindsey might forget I existed. A week of telling myself that the pain in my chest was nothing, that I didn't care about Ian’s child or his life or anything that happened in that glittering world above me.

I almost believed it.

"Irina!"

Mrs. Rose’s voice cut through the quietness of the servants' corridor. I stopped mid-step, my shoulders squaring instinctively. The housekeeper. She never liked me, never trusted me, never missed an opportunity to make my life harder.

I turned slowly. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her arms crossed over her broad chest, her eyes narrowed with that particular look of disdain she reserved just for me. Her gray hair was pulled back so tightly it looked painful, and her lips were pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.

"The stables," she said, not bothering with pleasantries. "The Luna has horse training to do, and her usual stable hand is sick. You'll clean the stalls. All of them. I want them spotless before the evening meal."

I opened my mouth to argue. It wasn't my turn for stable duty. I had done it just two weeks ago, had the calluses on my palms to prove it. Angelo was supposed to be on routine this week. Angelo, who always found ways to slip out of the worst jobs, who had friends in high places, who never got yelled at or threatened or demoted.

But I knew better. I learnt years ago that arguing with Mrs. Rose only made things worse. She would add extra duties, take away meal privileges, find creative ways to make my existence even more miserable. So I swallowed the words, gave her an affirmative nod, and walked silently toward the back of the castle.

The stables were at the far edge of the castle grounds, past the kitchens. By the time I got there, the morning chill had burned off, replaced by the heavy, humid heat of midday.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door and immediately regretted breathing.

"Jeez," I groaned, my hand flying to my nose. "This place smells like hell."

It was an understatement. The stalls were caked with days of waste, the bedding was soiled, and the air was thick with the cloying stench of ammonia and rot. What happened to Angelo? He was supposed to clean this. He was supposed to be here every morning, mucking out stalls and laying fresh hay. But judging by the state of things, he hadn't touched this place in at least three days.

Of course not. Why would he, when he knew someone like me would eventually be sent to clean up his mess?

I growled low in my throat, frustration bubbling up hot and bitter. But there was nothing to do but work. I grabbed a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow and got started.

The first stall took forever. The second wasn't much better. By the time I reached the third, sweat was dripping down my back, my arms were shaking, and my hair had escaped its neat bun to cling to my face in damp, sticky strands. The white horse in the corner stall watched me with disinterest, flicking its tail occasionally but otherwise ignoring my presence.

I was just finishing the fourth stall when I heard the sound of laughter. High, sharp, deliberate.

I looked up.

She was walking toward me with her little entourage in tow, two servants who followed her everywhere, echoing her opinions and laughing at her jokes like they were the best jokes they’ve heard. Lindsey herself looked like she stepped out of a royal portrait. Her hair was perfectly waved, a shade of blonde that caught the sunlight like spun gold. Her riding attire was immaculate, tailored to fit her slender frame, and her boots gleamed without a single scuff mark. Her lips were curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes, cold, calculating eyes that were fixed on me with predatory amusement.

She flipped her hair as she approached.

"Scheming bitch," I muttered under my breath, my voice too low for her to hear. Probably.

"What did you say, Irina?" Lindsey's voice was sharp, her eyes narrowing.

I straightened up, meeting her glare head-on. I was tired. I was hungry. I was covered in horse manure and sweat. And I was in absolutely no mood to play her games.

"I said nothing, Luna," I replied, the title tasting like ash in my mouth. She wasn't just Luna in name—she was the Luna, the mate of the Alpha, the woman who had everything I ever wanted and used it to make my life a living nightmare.

She smirked, clearly pleased, and walked past me to the stall where the white horse stood. The horse, which I had just finished grooming after cleaning its stall, was now gleaming—a perfect, pristine white that practically glowed in the afternoon light.

Lindsey ran a hand along its flank, then pulled back with a frown. She examined her fingers as if expecting to find dirt.

"This horse is kind of dirty," she announced.

Her companions murmured in agreement, nodding and clucking their tongues like a chorus of judgmental hens.

I looked at the horse. It was spotless. Absolutely, undeniably spotless. I had spent twenty minutes brushing every inch of its coat, had polished its hooves, had even wiped its face with a damp cloth. The horse looked like it had just stepped out of a royal parade.

"It's clean," I said, my voice flat.

One of the servants flanking Lindsey—the one with the sharp nose and sharper tongue—stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Tsk, tsk. I knew you two were close, but show some respect to your Luna, Irina. You're no longer on the same level. You're a stable hand now. The Luna is... well, the Luna is everything you'll never be."

The words were designed to humiliate. To remind me of my place. To grind me down into the dirt where people like Lindsey thought I belonged.

I said nothing. I just picked up the brush and started cleaning the horse again. Every stroke was an act of will. Every movement was controlled, measured, careful. I brushed the horse's back, its sides, its legs. I brushed places that were already clean. I brushed until my arms ached and my fingers cramped.

Lindsey watched the whole time, her arms crossed, her expression one of bored satisfaction. Her companions whispered among themselves, occasionally giggling at something I pretended not to hear.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she waved a dismissive hand.

"Enough. You're dismissed."

She took the white horse by the reins, leading it out of the stall. Her companions followed, each picking a horse from the stalls I had just cleaned, chatting and laughing as if I didn't exist.

I stood in the empty stable, the brush still in my hand, and let out a long, slow breath.

By the time I made it back to the kitchen, the sun was starting its slow descent toward the horizon. I wanted to put something in my empty stomach. I hadn't eaten since yesterday's meager breakfast, and the hours of labor had burned through whatever energy I had left.

The kitchen was empty when I slipped inside. The massive fireplaces were cold, the long wooden tables scrubbed clean, the pots and pans hanging in neat rows from the ceiling.  The time when the cooks rested and the servants hid in their rooms and the royal family attended to whatever royals attended to.

I moved quietly to the pantry, my heart pounding in my chest. The door was locked, of course. It was always locked now, ever since Mrs. Grace had accused me of stealing food last year. I hadn't been, then. But I was thinking about it now.

The pantry key was held by the housekeeper, a sour-faced woman named Mrs. Rose who kept it on a chain around her neck at all times. Getting it from her was impossible. But maybe... maybe there was another way.

I tiptoed through the large hall, my eyes scanning for any sign of movement. The castle was eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that made every creak of the floorboards sound like a thunderclap. I needed food. Just something small. A piece of bread. Some cheese. Anything to stop the gnawing emptiness in my stomach.

Anikta wasn't around. If she were here, she would have saved me from this. She would have appeared with a plate of something warm, her grin bright and mischievous, and told me not to worry about the consequences. But Anikta had the day off, visiting family in the village, and I was alone.

I rounded a corner and froze when I Beta Michael.

He was standing in the middle of the corridor, his back to me, apparently examining something on the wall. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and solid. I didn't know much about him. I didn't want to know much about him. There was something about Beta Michael that made my skin crawl, something in the way his eyes followed people, something in the way he smiled that never quite reached his eyes.

I didn't feel comfortable around him. I never had.

I pushed my glasses up my nose, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to break and hurried past him, keeping my head down, my footsteps quick and quiet.

"Good afternoon, Beta Michael," I murmured, not stopping, not waiting for a response.

I felt his eyes on my back as I scurried away. I slipped around another corner and let out a breath I hadn't realized I've been holding.

The housekeeper's room was at the end of the servants' corridor, a small, cramped space that smelled of mothballs and old paper. The door was closed, but a quick glance through the keyhole showed the room was empty.

Now many of you might be thinking, what if she smells your scent? What if she comes back and finds you there?

I smirked to myself and lifted the basket I carried along. Inside, nestled on a scrap of old cloth, was a small, furry creature. I found it in the stables earlier, rummaging through the feed bins, and something about its clever little face had given me an idea.

I pulled a small pin from my hair and knelt before the door. The lock was old, simple, the kind that had been in these doors for decades. I have practiced on my own door enough times to know what I was doing.

I slipped the pin into the lock, feeling for the tumblers, applying gentle pressure. My heart pounded in my ears. If someone came around the corner now, if Mrs. Rose decided to come back early, if—

Click.