All Chapters of THE ALPHA'S ASSASSIN MATE: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Lyra’s POVThe night feels thinner than usuallike the air itself is listeningeven the torches along the wall burn smallerlike they know something’s coming and want no part of itThe servants’ quarters are supposed to be asleepbut sleep doesn’t come easy when the moon is full and too brightwhen it throws silver right across the floor like it’s marking where I should walkand where I shouldn’tJennifer finds me in the washroomher steps soft like she’s walking on broken glass“Lyra,” she whispers, not my title not my fake name just Lyraand that’s how I know it’s seriousHer eyes look wrong in the torchlight—shadowed, tiredlike she’s carrying ghosts in her ribs“You shouldn’t be here,” I tell her, my voice too loud in the quietShe shakes her head fast, like she’s already argued with herself about this“I had to,” she saysand pulls something from her aprona folded scrap of parchmentworn, creased, edges soft like it’s been hidden too longMy stomach drops before I even take it“

Lyra’s POVThe cellar is too quiet for comfort too still, too heavy with the smell of herbs that lost their virtue years ago There’s rot here and dust that sticks to the back of my throat like guiltI shouldn’t be here this late no one should but Spark’s busy stealing bread again and the rest of the servants pretend cellars don’t exist once the sun goes downWhich makes it perfectThe shelves are uneven jars of crushed leaves, powdered roots, glass bottles filled with liquid the color of bad intentions I run my fingers along the labels, half-faded belladonna wolfsbane ashroot mercyvineMercy, what a word humans like to make poison sound poetic when it kills neatlyI pull the last jar down carefully set it next to the half-cracked mortar grind until the smell fills my nose with something bitter, something finalThe scrape of pestle against stone feels too loud every noise down here feels like a confession I mix until the powder turns dark, almost blue and my hands shake, maybe from the

Lyra’s POVThe corridor smells like ink and lies and too much perfume trying to hide bothI keep to the edge of the wall steps light breath shallowThe counselor—Tarian—moves ahead of me like he owns the airHe glances back once I freezehe doesn’t see me or pretends not toeither way I keep goingHe turns the corner quick sharp disappears behind a heavy doorI waitcount to ten maybe twentythen slip closerThe voices start before I touch the handle“…if we move before winter, they won’t have time to fortify.”Tarian’s voice—smooth and coldAnother voice answers deeper rougher “You think your Alpha won’t notice half your soldiers gone?”Tarian laughs short “Aziel doesn’t notice people, only order. We’ll give him both—for a price.”The second voice hums “And what’s that price again? Remind me.”“A treaty,” Tarian says “between the Council and the Silverfangs. Mutual support. Neutral territories divided, resource flow shared.”Silverfangs. Rivals.My stomach twistsA chair scrapes wood

Lyra’s POVThe corridor was too long tonighttoo quiet too echoing with the kind of silence that waits to biteMy tray was empty, the dishes stacked, a little grease still clinging to the edge. I’d meant to go straight back to the servants’ hall but the shortcut through the west wing felt easier—less eyes less talk.I’d almost made it to the turn when his voice slid out of the dark“Late for a servant, aren’t you?”I froze.Orlan stepped out from the shadows like he’d been there for hours waiting maybe he had his smile a little too sharp for courtesy.“Sir Orlan,” I said too fast “I was just returning the dishes to the kitchen”He glanced at the tray then at me “Empty”“I already dropped the plates”“Did you now” he said like he didn’t believe a single word of it but wanted to see how far I’d go “Strange how I never see you in the kitchens during daylight”My throat tightened. “I—handle errands mostly”“Errands.” He said it slowly like tasting it “You speak neatly for an errand girl”

Lyra’s POVMorning came like punishmentThe sky pale and washed out as if even the sun wanted nothing to do with what happened last nightThe hall was sealed most of the night, guards pacing, whispers slithering through corridors like smokeBy dawn, half the nobles claimed sickness or fear or bothThe rest just pretended to care who’d tried to kill a king and missedI thought maybe it would all settle quietlyMaybe the poison would fade into rumor, into another secret buried under marble floorsBut then—screamingIt cut through the courtyard sharp enough to break the silence of breakfastBy the time I reached the upper terrace, people were already runningServants, guards, physiciansA chaos that smelled like iron and bileThe minor lord—Varin’s cousin, I think—was slumped against the tableFace slick with sweat, veins dark against his throatHis mouth moved but no sound came out, just a gurgle of air that didn’t belong inside a human throat“Fetch Aziel,” someone barkedAnd for once,