A Hostile Arrival

Malia

I stand frozen in the middle of the threshold to my brother’s office. My face stings from the sheer force of Beta Vance’s hand. The skin of my left cheek burns with a raw, throbbing heat, radiating pain down to my jawline. A metallic taste pools on my tongue, but I swallow it down and keep my head bowed. My gaze remains locked on the polished floorboards.

Vance looms over me, a dark shadow blocking the hallway light. His chest heaves with manufactured outrage. "Look at this room," he hisses, his voice a harsh, venomous sound that scrapes against the quiet of the corridor. He gestures wildly at the immaculate office I just spent two hours scrubbing on my hands and knees. "I told you to clean this place. I gave you direct orders."

I keep my mouth shut. I hold my breath, forcing my lungs to remain still.

"Alpha Brant is expecting company today," Vance sneers, stepping closer until the toes of his heavy boots enter my field of vision. "Prestigious company. Alpha Rafe of the Iron Eclipse pack is arriving. Do you even understand what that means? It means everything in this house must be flawless. Not adequate. Flawless."

I remain silent. My hands grip the edges of my worn apron. Years of surviving as the Moonscar pack’s primary punching bag have beaten every ounce of defiance out of me. I am treated like an unwanted slave in what should have been my own home. I sweep their floors, cook their meals, wash their clothes, and take their beatings. Eighteen years of life, four of them spent as an indentured servant the moment I came of age. I have learned the hard way that the safest path is to keep my head down. Never argue. Never defend myself. Just take the hit and wait for them to grow bored.

But Vance isn't finished. He steps into my personal space and grabs my shoulders. His fingers dig hard into my flesh. His sharp nails pierce through my thin, frayed shirt and bite deep into my malnourished skin. A sharp gasp rips from my throat as the pain flares.

"You are nothing," Vance mutters under his breath, his hot breath fanning across the crown of my head. "Just a useless, pathetic Wolf."

With a brutal shove, he kicks me forward. The toe of his boot connects with the base of my spine. I stumble deep into the office, my knees hitting the rug hard enough to send a shockwave of pain shooting up my thighs. I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

The heavy wooden door clicks shut behind me. The latch falls into place with a heavy thud, echoing in the pristine room.

I am left alone.

The physical and emotional exhaustion of the morning finally catches up to me. My arms tremble as I push myself up from the rug. I walk over to the heavy oak door and lean my back against the wood. My legs give out. I slide slowly down to the cold floor, pulling my knees up to my chest. I bury my face in my hands and silently weep. Hot tears track over my bruised cheek, stinging the swollen flesh. I hate this house. I hate this miserable life. Every single day is a battle for scraps of food and a few hours of sleep without pain. I have never been strong enough to escape them. I am trapped here, a ghost haunting my own family's packhouse.

I let out a ragged, trembling breath, trying to stifle the sound of my own misery.

Then, someone clears his throat.

My heart leaps straight into my throat. Pure panic floods my veins, turning my blood to ice. My breath hitches. I am not alone.

I scramble desperately to my feet, my back pressed hard against the door panel. My wide eyes dart around the room. There, sitting casually in a darkened corner of the office, is a man. He occupies my brother's leather armchair, one leg propped carelessly over his knee. He nurses a heavy crystal glass of amber liquor.

He is striking. He possesses dark, windswept hair that falls over his forehead and a strong, unyielding jawline. But it is his eyes that freeze me in place. They are a deep, captivating crimson. They glow with a quiet, dangerous intensity in the dim light of the corner. He watches me with an unreadable expression, his gaze tracking the tear tracks on my face and the red handprint blooming on my cheek.

"Is this the way you greet all visiting Alphas?" his deep, rumbling voice asks. The sound vibrates through the floorboards and settles in the marrow of my bones. His tone drips with a strange mixture of amusement and genuine curiosity.

My mind races with sheer terror. Oh goddess. It is him. Alpha Rafe of the Iron Eclipse pack. He is already here, sitting in the dark, and I just collapsed on the floor crying like a broken child in front of him. Brant is going to kill me. Vance is going to starve me for a month.

I bow my head immediately, my chin hitting my chest. "I am sorry," I stammer, frantic apologies spilling from my lips. "I am so sorry. I didn't sense your presence. I thought the room was empty. Please forgive me."

The stranger sits up. The casual demeanor vanishes, replaced by a sudden, heavy authority. His crimson eyes narrow, piercing through the shadows.

"Come closer," he orders.

A lump forms in my throat. My instincts scream at me to run, to slip out the door and hide in the cellar. But you do not disobey an Alpha. Especially not one of his stature. I force my trembling legs to move. I step away from the safety of the door and walk toward the center of the room, stopping a few feet away from his chair. I keep my eyes glued to the intricate patterns of the rug, refusing to meet his intense gaze.

I can feel him staring at me. His presence is a heavy weight in the room, pressing down on my shoulders.

"Your scent is strange," Alpha Rafe says, his deep voice carrying a note of true confusion. "You are a Wolf, correct?"

I give a small, jerky nod.

"Speak when I ask you a question," he growls low in his chest. "I am not in the mood to play games."

"Yes," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I am a Wolf."

He tilts his head, the ice clinking softly against the glass as he swirls his drink. "Then why do you smell like that? It is muted. Faded. And how is it possible that a Wolf could fail to scent an Alpha of my stature standing in the same room? You should have known I was here the second you stepped into the hallway."

I swallow hard. I hate this question. People always ask, and when I tell them, they only mock me. They laugh at my broken nature. But this man demands an answer, and I have no choice but to give it.

"Look at me when you speak," his voice demands, sending a cold shiver down my spine. "Has your Alpha taught you no manners?"

Slowly, reluctantly, I raise my head. I lift my eyelashes just enough to look at his broad chest, still avoiding direct eye contact with those crimson irises. "My Wolf abilities were bound," I mutter, keeping my voice as flat as possible. I was bound as a child. Twice. The ritual severed my connection to the beast inside me, leaving me half-blind and half-deaf to the supernatural world.

Alpha Rafe leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. He carefully places his glass on the small side table. The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.

"Why would someone do that?" he asks. The amusement is gone from his tone. Now, there is only a sharp, cutting demand for the truth.

If this is the powerful Alpha my brother needs for his alliance, saying the wrong thing could ruin the treaty. Brant would rip my throat out if I cost him the Iron Eclipse pack's support. I have to tread carefully.

"It was a punishment," I whisper. It is the simplest and safest truth I can offer. It gives nothing away while answering his question.

A muscle twitches in Rafe's jaw. His gaze sweeps over my bruised cheek, my thin frame, and my worn clothes. Before he can push for a deeper explanation, a loud crash echoes through the room.

The heavy oak door is violently kicked open, slamming hard against the wall.

My brother, Alpha Brant, storms into the room. His face is flushed with panic and rage. His eyes lock onto me instantly, his upper lip curling into a vicious snarl.

"Malia, what the fuck are you doing in my office?" Brant screeches, his voice echoing off the walls. He marches toward me, his hands balled into tight fists.

Then, Brant notices the imposing man sitting in the corner. He freezes, the color draining from his face as he realizes the formidable stranger is indeed Alpha Rafe. Brant's posture shifts immediately. He squares his shoulders, trying to project strength, but the panic in his eyes betrays him. He looks back at me, his rage boiling over at the thought of me embarrassing him in front of his crucial guest.

"You useless bitch," Brant snarls. He lunges forward, raising his large fist to strike me down for my insolence.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I tense my shoulders and tuck my chin, bracing my muscles for the familiar, burning pain of his knuckles connecting with my skull. I know how to take a hit. I just need to stay on my feet.

But the blow never lands.

A rush of wind sweeps past me.

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you," Alpha Rafe's deep voice rumbles right beside me. The sound is a low, dangerous vibration that sends a cold shiver racing down my spine.

I tentatively open my eyes. I blink, trying to process the scene unfolding in front of me. Alpha Rafe is no longer sitting in the chair. He stands tall and commanding, placing himself directly between me and my brother. Rafe's large, muscular hand is coiled tight around Brant's raised wrist. He holds my brother's arm in a vice-like grip, stopping the attack dead in its tracks.

Brant's eyes widen in shock. He struggles for a second, trying to pull his arm back, but Rafe does not budge. The size difference is apparent. Rafe towers over my brother, his broad shoulders blocking me from Brant's view.

"Malia," Rafe says, my name rolling off his tongue with a smooth, dark cadence, "was graciously escorting me around your packhouse. Since you failed to meet me at the front gates as we agreed, I took it upon myself to wander. I am quite fortunate your sister was present to show me to your office."

I stare at Rafe's broad back. He is lying. He is lying to an Alpha to protect a servant he just met. My mind spins. Why would he do that? No one defends me. Ever.

Brant's face flushes a deep, angry red. He is furious at the blatant disrespect, but he is forced to mask his anger in front of his powerful guest. He needs Iron Eclipse too much to risk a fight.

Brant yanks his wrist free from Rafe's grip, massaging the skin where Rafe's fingers left white marks. He shoots me a venomous glare, promising pain the moment the guest leaves.

"Get out," Brant barks at me, his voice tight with suppressed rage. "Go and fetch Beta Vance immediately. Tell him our guest has arrived."

I do not hesitate. I nod once, keep my eyes down, and hurry out of the office. The tension in the room is suffocating, and I need air.

I rush down the hallway, my worn shoes padding softly against the hardwood floors. I find Vance in the dining hall, sitting at the long mahogany table reading a newspaper.

"Beta Vance," I whisper, stopping a few feet away from the table.

He slams the newspaper down, glaring at me with dark, cruel eyes. "Did I give you permission to speak?"

"Alpha Brant is in the office with Alpha Rafe," I say quickly, ignoring his threat. "He demands your presence."

Vance scowls, pushing his chair back. He strides past me, his boots heavy on the floor. As he passes, he pauses behind me. His large hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of my hair. He yanks my head back hard, exposing my throat to the ceiling. The roots of my hair scream in pain. I feel his hot breath on the side of my neck. He doesn't say a word. He just holds me there for three agonizing seconds, asserting his dominance, reminding me that I am prey.

Then, he lets go and walks away, leaving me gasping for breath.

I retreat to the kitchens, trying to keep myself busy. I scrub the counters, organize the pantry, and try to stay as far away from the front of the house as possible. But my fragile peace shatters twenty minutes later when I hear Brant shouting my name from the hallway.

I wipe my trembling hands on my apron and pad quietly back toward the office. I plaster a blank, submissive expression on my face as I push the door open.

"Malia, go get the champagne and some glasses," my brother orders from his seat behind the desk. "We are celebrating a new partnership."

I bow my head and back out of the room. I hurry to the main parlor, unlocking the crystal cabinet. I arrange three heavy crystal flutes on a silver tray and fetch a chilled green bottle of vintage champagne from the cellar cooler.

I carry the heavy tray back down the hall. My arms ache from the weight, but I keep my steps steady. As I re-enter the office, I feel the immediate shift in the room's atmosphere. Alpha Rafe is sitting in the guest chair facing the desk. The moment I step through the doorway, his intense crimson gaze locks onto me. He tracks my every movement. I can feel the heat of his stare burning into my skin. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. No one ever watches me this closely. It makes me feel exposed. Hunted.

I approach the small table positioned between Rafe's chair and Brant's desk. I set the silver tray down. My hands shake slightly as I reach for the heavy green bottle.

Before my fingers can wrap around the chilled glass, a large, warm hand intercepts mine.

Alpha Rafe reaches out and takes the bottle directly from my grasp. His fingers brush against my bruised knuckles, sending a jolt of strange electricity up my arm.

"I am perfectly capable of pouring my own glass," Rafe states coolly, not breaking eye contact with me.

Panic freezes my blood. I step back, my heart hammering against my ribs. I look over at Brant. My brother's eyes are narrowed into dangerous slits. He glares at me with raw hatred. I know exactly what he is thinking. He views this as a sign of my incompetence. A servant who cannot even pour a drink properly. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Brant will brutally punish me for this failure the second Rafe drives away.

But instead of popping the cork and raising his glass in a celebratory toast, Rafe sets the bottle back down on the tray. He turns his head slowly, shifting his intense, burning gaze onto my brother.

"Malia is your sister, correct?" Rafe asks, his voice cutting through the quiet office like a blade.

Brant stiffens in his chair. "She is," he mutters, his face twisting with open disgust. He refuses to look at me.

Rafe leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Why do you treat her like shit?"

The question drops into the room like a live grenade.

I freeze in absolute terror. The breath leaves my lungs. I stare at Rafe's profile in shock. No one in my entire life has ever questioned my abuse. Not the pack elders, not the neighboring Alphas, not the passing traders. They all looked the other way. They all accepted that the Moonscar pack's omega was meant to bleed.

If this confrontation ruins their fragile pack alliance, Brant will not just beat me. He will lock me in the silver cages beneath the cellar and let me rot.

Brant's face contorts with fury. He slams his hand flat against the mahogany desk. He glares at Rafe, then turns his venomous eyes onto me.

"Malia was responsible for our parents' death," my brother spits out venomously.

I close my eyes tight. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper, fighting back the bitter tears that threaten to spill over my lashes. The old, familiar shame crashes over me, heavy and suffocating.

"Responsible how?" Rafe's voice rumbles through the room. There is no amusement left in his tone. Now, his voice is laced with an undeniable, dangerous anger.

Brant sneers, pointing a trembling finger in my direction. He delivers the final, damning blow with sick satisfaction.

"She served them Wolfsbane."