5. Breakfast

CLARA

The next morning comes too fast. It drags me out of sleep like something unfinished, something clawing its way back.

For a second, I don’t move.

The ceiling above me should feel unfamiliar—yet it isn’t. Sunlight spills through the stained glass, breaking into soft fragments across the white ceiling, scattering color where there should be none. My fingers twitch against the sheets, the fabric cool and smooth beneath my skin, and I sink deeper into the pillow.

How surprising can life be? One day I was the happiest woman alive, with a kind husband and a perfect family, a future that looked… safe. Then the next day, I'm killed by that same kindness.

Surprise, surprise.

I exhale slowly, staring up at the ceiling again, grounding myself in the silence. It's just… a morning.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand over my face. “Round two.”

I swing my legs off the bed, the cold marble floor biting instantly into my bare feet. The chill shoots up my spine, sharp enough to wake the rest of me properly.

I move quickly, grabbing the clothes laid out, something simple, fitted. I don’t bother with anything elaborate, because who am I trying to impress? Four walls?

As I tie my hair back, my gaze flicks to the mirror, towards myself. My lips curl slightly. “Let’s not die this time.”

A knock interrupts the moment.

“Come in,” I call.

The door opens and a young woman steps in, her hair in a neat bun, not a strand out of place, in a servants uniform.

Right. Breakfast.

“Alpha Alaric has asked for you in the dining room, Mam” she says.

Mam.

In my past life, I would’ve just nodded, smiled and followed, even trying to talk to her. Played nice, and look where that got me.

I take a step toward her, my gaze steady.

“Luna,” I correct.

She blinks. “Mam?”

“You’ll address me as Luna,” I say, voice calm but firm. “Not mam.”

A flicker of hesitation crosses her face before she lowers her head.

“Yes… Luna.”

Better.

“Lead the way.”

—

The dining hall is exactly how I remember it. Large and speckless, suffocating in its perfection.

Sunlight spills through the tall windows, catching on the long table, the silverware, the glass, everything gleaming like it’s trying too hard to be perfect.

At the head of the table—Alaric Voss.

Already seated, posture relaxed, composed, like he owns not just the room, but everyone in it. His eyes lift the moment I walk in, that same warm, practiced smile slides into place.

God, I used to fall for that?

“Good morning, Clara,” he says smoothly.

I take the seat to his right without hesitation, right where I belong.

“Good morning,” I reply, equally smooth.

His gaze lingers for a second, calm and observing as ever.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks.

Oh, wonderfully. No nightmares, no death, no fear of when someone's gonna betray me. An eleven on ten experience.

“Perfectly,” I say with a small smile.

“And the room?” he continues. “Was everything comfortable?”

Aside from the part that it reminds me of my past?

“Very,” I nod.

“If there’s anything you need,” he adds, voice softer now, “anything at all, you can tell me.”

Oh, I have a list. It starts with your downfall.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply sweetly.

Before he can say anything else, the doors open.

And there she is.

Emma Rose.

The moment I see her, it hits, not loud, not dramatic. Just a slow, unpleasant heat crawling under my skin. For a second, I just stare. Not at who she is, but at who I thought she was.

A friend.

The one who was always there, always hovering just close enough to matter. The one who helped. Guided me through everything I didn’t understand in this place, what to wear, what to say, how to behave, how to not completely embarrass myself in a world that was never mine to begin with.

She made it easy, patient, gentle, careful.

God, I fucking ate that up.

I trusted her. Completely, like an idiot, and she knew it. She used it. Every soft smile. Every reassuring word. Every “this is better for you.”

All a lie. A big fat lie.

My fingers curl slightly against the polished table, the cool surface biting faintly into my skin, nails pressing in just enough to feel something real.

Not grief, not anymore. What I feel is... vengeance. A vengeance so deep, it dragged me back from death.

Again, a surprise.

“Clara,” Alaric says, glancing between us. “This is Emma.”

The sidechick.

I turn to her fully, tilting my head just slightly.

“Emma,” I repeat.

"Good morning, Clara," she says, her voice smooth, controlled, as she settles into the chair opposite me, the faint clink of cutlery filling the space.

“Who are you?”

Her expression shifts, completely, hands freezing over her utensils.

“I thought Alaric told you about me,” she says.

I glance at him.

Oh, this should be interesting.

“I told you about my best friend,” Alaric says smoothly. “Clara.”

Best friend.

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “One tends to have a lot of friends.”

Emma’s smile tightens—just enough.

“Yes,” she says. “But I’m… special.”

Oh?

I lean back slightly, folding my arms, the chair creaking softly under the shift.

“How special?”

She lifts her chin, subtle confidence settling in.

“We grew up together,” she says. “I know Alaric better than anyone in the world.”

I bet you do, sidechick.

"And still I didn't see you at our wedding?"

“I wasn’t able to attend,” she says. "Wasn’t feeling well.”

“Of course,” I nod. “Missing something so important must’ve been… difficult.”

It's not every day you get to watch your lover getting married.

Her eyes flicker again.

"You're not what I expected," she comments, cutting into her omelette, the knife slicing clean through it.

"And what did you expect?" I fire back. "A human who doesn't know anything."

"Not at all," she replies, taking a bite of her food. "I hoped we could get along, given how close I and Alaric are."

Absolutely.

I smile, dropping my knife with a soft clink, and place my hand gently on Alaric’s shoulder.

“No matter how close a friend is,” I say softly, my fingers resting there just a moment longer than necessary, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric, “you can’t be as close as his wife.”

My gaze shifts to Alaric.

“Isn't it, Alaric?”

Cat got your tongue, shitface?

His hand lifts after a moment, covering mine, fingers closing around.

“Yes,” he says.

I know, you don’t have a choice. My hand slowly withdraws, satisfaction surging through me as I continue to eat.

What a morning.

“There’s someone else I’d like you to meet,” Alaric says, wiping his hands with a neatly folded towel.

Bring it on.

"Yeah," I nod.

“Evan.”

What?

I whip my head to the side just as he walks in. The human tower. His eyes meet mine, steady, unreadable, not a flicker of surprise, like he didn’t just interrogate me in the dark like some morally gray philosopher.

“Evan will be assigned as your bodyguard,” Alaric continues. “You’ll be under his protection.”

I almost laugh. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Him? My bodyguard?

No. What the fuck is happening?

Where’s Jacob?

He was supposed to be my bodyguard.

I can’t exactly ask why the human tower is here instead—

“I’ll be out,” Alaric says, standing.“If you need anything further, just give me a call.”

He smiles one last time before leaving, Emma close behind him.

Great. Now it’s just me and the human tower.

“Well, isn’t this interesting,” I say lightly, tilting my head.

He steps forward, and instinctively, I lean back into the chair, the wood pressing hard against my spine. My fingers curl slightly against the armrest before I force them still.

“Don’t try to kill yourself,” he says, voice sharp. “From now on, your life is my responsibility.”

My eyes flick up to his, narrowing just a fraction. The nerve.

I blink once, slow, deliberate, then let a smile pull at my lips.

“Oh?” I murmur, my head tilting slightly. “That sounds like a you problem.”