The Spy's Housekeeper

​[Anya’s POV]

​The tiny black metallic disc felt like a piece of burning coal in my palm. It wasn't just a bug; it was proof. Proof that my father was playing a longer, dirtier game than I realized, and proof that the beautiful, cold Thorne Manor was a war zone disguised as a home. I quickly wrapped the device in a handkerchief and tucked it deep inside my locket. The shielded silver felt cold against the heat of the bug.

​I barely had time to smooth down the dress lining before the soft, rhythmic tap came at the door.

​"Luna?" a woman's voice asked, gentle and patient. "It's Mrs. Hale, the head housekeeper. I was sent to ensure you have everything you require."

​I quickly wiped the genuine fear from my face and replaced it with the programmed misery Ronan needed. Performance time, Anya.

​I pulled the door open. The woman standing there was the opposite of Elara. Mrs. Hale was a round, motherly figure in a perfectly starched uniform, with kind eyes and soft, graying hair pulled back in a neat bun. She looked like she should be baking cookies, not overseeing a tyrant’s household. This made her all the more terrifying. The spy would never look like a spy.

​"Mrs. Hale," I whispered, letting my lower lip tremble slightly. "Please, come in."

​She entered, her movements slow and comforting. "Oh, dear child. You look quite distressed. The Alpha requested I prepare a simple tea service for you. He knows the travel can be tiring, and the move is always hard."

​She set a small silver tray on a nearby table, the clink of porcelain sounding fragile in the massive room. I watched her hands. They were steady, efficient. Was the spy someone who handled things I would consume? Food, maintenance, a small drop of poison?

​I sank onto the chaise lounge, beginning the performance. I spoke softly, subserviently, exactly as Ronan had commanded. "Thank you, Mrs. Hale. Everything here is... lovely, but it's such a shock. I had always hoped for a quieter life." I let a single, pathetic sniffle escape.

​Mrs. Hale poured the tea. "Of course, dear. We all know how much the Alpha's... condition... has changed things. It's difficult to see such a strong man confined to that chair. He needs someone strong and devoted beside him. You must be very brave."

​Her eyes, however, weren't sympathetic; they were probing. She was measuring me, assessing my weakness. She wanted to know if I was strong enough to support the Alpha, or if I would be a liability.

​"I will do my duty," I murmured, staring at the tea cup. "Though I fear I am not the accomplished Luna he deserves. My sister, Seraphina... she is so much more graceful."

​Mrs. Hale smiled sadly. "Grace fades, dear. Loyalty is what matters here. But tell me, is the Alpha's spirit truly broken? He seems so distant. Does he confide in you about the daily struggle of his paralysis?"

​Her question was too specific, an absolute attempt to confirm the extent of the lie.

​"He does not," I answered, shaking my head sorrowfully. "He is an Alpha. He hides his pain. He only speaks of the pack's financial burdens now. He worries constantly that his... debilitating condition... is leaving the pack vulnerable."

​I caught myself. I was performing well, weaving Vesper's lie and Ronan's false vulnerability together. But the strain of maintaining the sadness was exhausting.

​Just then, the door swung open without a knock. Ronan, in his wheelchair and mask, was wheeled in by Alaric.

​"What is this?" Ronan demanded, his voice low and irritated. He looked at me with cold disapproval. "I left you here to rest, Luna, not to host tea parties."

​Mrs. Hale jumped up, startled. "My Alpha! Forgive me. I was just ensuring the Luna was settled."

​Ronan ignored her, his single visible eye boring into mine. He was testing my loyalty now, forcing me to take an insult in front of the possible spy.

​"You look ill, Anya," Ronan said, his tone publicly disparaging. "Perhaps it is the stress of inheriting a pack with my immense burden. Alaric, tell Mrs. Hale about the state of the Northern Asset Transfer."

​Alaric stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Ronan. This was the coded conversation, the performance for the bug I held in my locket.

​"Alpha," Alaric began, his voice official. "The Northern Asset Transfer must be moved immediately. If the Blackwood accounts are seized due to the Alpha's... failing grip on the market, we risk losing the whole sector."

​Ronan sighed heavily, clutching his masked head. "Do it, Alaric. I am too exhausted to look at the ledgers. The numbers confuse me now. I can barely manage simple household needs, let alone a complicated transfer of Blackwood funds."

​He turned to Mrs. Hale, reinforcing the "crippled Alpha" narrative. "As you can see, Mrs. Hale, my concentration is gone. My Luna is emotional, not logical. She's too sensitive to handle numbers. Please handle all simple household requests for her, and ensure she stays out of the financial wing."

​The sting of the insult was sharp. Emotional, not logical. It was the same way my father dismissed me. I swallowed the furious retort that surged up my throat, forcing myself to look down, submissive and weak. The performance was flawless.

​Mrs. Hale’s eyes gleamed with interest. "Of course, My Alpha. I will personally ensure the Luna is comfortable and kept away from any distressing information."

​Ronan waved his hand, dismissing both of us. "Good. Now leave us, Mrs. Hale. Alaric and I have private, delicate matters to discuss."

​Mrs. Hale curtsied and left quickly, her footsteps brisk. Ronan waited until the door closed, then the sound of the wheelchair was replaced by the sudden, soft thud of his feet hitting the floor. He was standing again.

​"You performed well," Ronan said, shedding the mask. He walked over to my trunk and pointed to the small indentation where I had found the bug. "Did you find the souvenir?"

​I pulled out the handkerchief and unwrapped the tiny metallic disc. "It was sewn into the lining of the wedding gown. My father's insurance policy."

​Ronan took the bug, his jaw tight. "Vesper always was shortsighted. He thinks a simple audio device is enough to betray the Night God."

​"The spy is in the house, Ronan," I stressed, using his first name now that we were alone. "Mrs. Hale was fishing for information about your 'paralysis' and your finances."

​"Of course, she was," he dismissed. "But she is only the foot soldier. The bug, however, is a problem."

​I lifted the antique locket around my neck. "Why did you make me wear this, Ronan? I knew it was a leash, but is it also some kind of shield?"

​He looked at the locket, a rare, almost unreadable expression on his face. "Yes. It is both. And more."

​He explained that the silver was not ordinary. It was from a secret mine of the Crescent Pack, treated with an old Alpha-grade shielding technique. "When you are close to it, it scrambles all basic electronic signals. That's why I gave it to you, it protects you from minor listening devices when you are outside. And it protects me when you are near the bug."

​He placed the device on his desk, then leaned close to me. The scent of his leather and power was overwhelming.

​"The bug is now an asset," he murmured. "It will report everything Alaric and I want Vesper and Vorlag to hear. You've earned the first piece of information, Luna."

​He walked to the window, his form powerful and fully healed against the glass.

​"Your father's contact, Vorlag, is a patient man. He will wait for proof that the Crescent Pack is truly failing. He will wait for Alaric to panic."

​Ronan turned, his eyes hard. "The spy is someone who handles things you touch: food, clothing, maintenance. We will find them. But right now, we need to show Vorlag that I am losing control of my most sensitive information: my pack's security logs."

​He walked over and pointed toward the eastern wing of the manor, visible through the reinforced glass.

​"The only person who can legally access those defense logs is my Beta, Alaric," Ronan said. He looked back at me, his gaze demanding. "He trusts no one, especially not Vesper's daughter. You must earn his trust next, Luna. You must convince him to let you see those logs. If you fail, Vorlag wins, and Devon dies."