005

Scarlett's POV

I did not stop running until I reached the end of the corridor, where I stumbled around the corner and pressed my back against the cold wall, struggling to draw enough air into my lungs. My chest rose and fell rapidly, my hands trembled at my sides, and my knuckles were still stinging from where my forehead had connected with his nose. Every time I blinked, I saw his face again, the way his stormy eyes had narrowed when I kneed him in the groin, and the way his hand had shot out as if he intended to grab me. I could still feel the warmth of his blood on my skin, and the memory of that sickening crunch when my forehead struck his nose made my stomach twist. Yet, beneath the pain throbbing through my brow, there was a strange satisfaction that settled in my chest. And if I had another chance, I would probably do it again.

Ten minutes later, the Matron found me hiding in a supply closet near the back of the mansion. I was sitting on an overturned bucket with my knees pulled against my chest, my fingers wrapped tightly around my shins as though holding on to myself would somehow stop my body from shaking. The closet smelled of cleaning products and dust, and the narrow space made it difficult to stretch my legs, but I preferred being cramped in there to standing in the corridor where anyone could find me. I had barely managed to slow my breathing when the door swung open, allowing a strip of light to fall across the floor, and the Matron appeared in the doorway with her hands planted firmly on her hips.

"What happened?" she demanded, her sharp eyes sweeping over me.

"Nothing," I muttered, lowering my gaze to my shoes.

"You are lying."

"I am fine."

She glanced around the tiny closet before looking back at me, her mouth tightening as she took in my position on the bucket. "You are hiding in a closet, Scarlett. Do you expect me to believe you came in here because you suddenly developed an interest in cleaning supplies?"

"I just... needed a moment," I said, rubbing my sweaty palms against my dress before forcing myself to look at her. "That's all."

She studied me for several seconds, as if she were deciding whether to drag the truth out of me or leave it alone. Eventually, she released a slow breath and checked the watch on her wrist. "The auction is about to start. You need to be on stage in five minutes."

"I know."

"Then compose yourself." She started to turn away, but stopped when her gaze returned to my face. Her eyebrows drew together. "Your forehead is bleeding."

I lifted my hand and carefully touched the spot above my brow. The moment my fingertips brushed the broken skin, a sharp sting shot through my forehead, and I sucked in a breath between my teeth. When I pulled my hand away, a thin smear of red glistened across my fingers. I stared at it for a moment, wondering how I had failed to notice the blood running down my face.

"It is nothing," I said, wiping my fingers against the inside of my palm.

"It is something." The Matron reached into her pocket and produced a handkerchief before pressing it into my hand. "Clean yourself up. You have a role to play, and I will not have you walking onto that stage looking as though you have just escaped a fight."

I pressed the handkerchief against my forehead, wincing when the fabric touched the tender skin. The pain brought back the image of the man's face, and my fingers tightened around the cloth.

"Who was he?" I asked, finally lifting my head.

The Matron's hand paused on the doorframe. "Who?"

"The man in the hallway." I swallowed, remembering the scar that ran across his face and the cold, almost predatory way he had looked at me. "The one with the stormy eyes and the scar."

Something changed in her expression. It was subtle, barely more than a flicker around her eyes, but I caught it before she smoothed her face into its usual stern mask. My stomach tightened, and I slowly lowered the handkerchief from my forehead.

"Why are you asking about him?" she asked.

"Because I want to know who I just had the pleasure of meeting."

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she looked at me with an expression that made the back of my neck prickle, as though she knew something I did not and was already calculating how badly it would affect me.

"That," she said carefully, "is the Alpha you are here to meet."

My fingers went still around the bloodstained handkerchief.

"What?"

"Caden Thorne. The Cursed Alpha of the Blackfang Pack." Her gaze held mine as she delivered the rest of the sentence. "The man who will be bidding on you tonight."

The words seemed to settle into the tiny closet one after another, leaving no room for anything else. I stared at her, waiting for the corner of her mouth to twitch or for her to burst out laughing and admit that she was trying to scare me, but she did neither. My throat suddenly felt too narrow, and I became painfully aware of the damp fabric clinging to my back, the ache in my forehead, and the way my pulse had begun hammering against the side of my neck.

"The cursed Alpha?" I repeated, my voice coming out thinner than I intended. "What does that even mean?"

The Matron nodded. "He is under a curse. There are times when he loses control of himself, and when that happens, he can become dangerous enough to kill anyone unfortunate enough to be around him."

I stared at her, my fingers curling into the handkerchief until the fabric bunched between my knuckles. "And you are telling me this now?"

"What difference would it have made if I had told you earlier?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first. What difference would it have made? I could think of several. I might have kept my distance from the man instead of driving my forehead into his face. I might have found a way to avoid offending someone powerful enough to buy me without blinking. Or perhaps I would have been just as foolish, because being cursed did not give him the right to grab me, and I was still not sorry I had defended myself. But the knowledge that I had just made an enemy of the very man I was supposed to meet tonight was beginning to settle heavily in my stomach.

"You don't have to worry too much," the Matron added, her voice softening in a way that did not reassure me at all. "You will be fine."

I looked at her, and wondered how she could say those words with such certainty when she had just admitted that the man might lose control and kill the people around him.

"Get ready," the Matron ordered before leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I remained on the overturned bucket for another few seconds, staring at the open doorway long after she had disappeared.