Toxic Quarters

I look over at Alpha Titus, reading the expression on his face. It mirrors my own. Awe, heavy and unmistakable, but laced with a hidden, squirming fear as he holds the Northern Alpha’s gaze. Suddenly, those endless, pitch-black eyes shift away from Titus and lock directly onto mine.

I freeze. Hidden behind a towering mountain of canvas straps and heavy gear, I am trapped in his stare. I know I shouldn't look back. I know the rules. But those dark orbs pull me in, holding me captive. I wait for the harsh grunt, the reprimand for a lowly servant daring to make eye contact with a visiting Alpha. It never comes. Instead, he just studies me. My eyes are the only part of me visible over the ridiculous pile of luggage crushing my spine.

I force myself to break the connection, tearing my gaze away to stare at the stone porch. *Gaze down at all times,* I remind myself, my lungs burning under the weight. *Gaze down and only speak when spoken to.*

"Alpha," Titus greets him, puffing his chest out in a fragile display of authority. He nods his head in response. "Thank you for the help." His voice holds false hospitality, his pride barely masking his reluctance to accept whatever aid these Northerners are bringing us. His ego is getting in the way, far too big to properly accept another pack's presence on his territory.

My eyes dart back to the Northern Alpha. He doesn't utter a single word to Titus, offering only a firm, rigid nod. He looks back at me, catching my stare once more. A faint, almost imperceptible hint of amusement dances in those pitch-black depths. Does he find this funny? How captured I am by his mere presence? He is probably used to it, which explains why he doesn't take my staring as a lethal offense. His eyes trail slowly up and down my trembling, struggling form, taking in every inch of me hidden behind the multitude of bags.

"Let us take care of your bag," Titus offers smoothly.

My heart drops into my stomach. I study Titus, then glance at the Northern Alpha, who is doing the same to me. I wonder what he and his inner circle of elites must think about me right now as I struggle with this massive load, making a fool of myself. I look at the five of them, terrified of adding another massive duffel to this back-breaking pile. *Please, no,* I beg in my head.

As if he can hear my silent plea, the Northern Alpha turns back to Titus. "No, thank you."

His voice rumbles through the air. It is deep. Dominant. Vibrating right through the porch and into the soles of my worn shoes. It is significantly lower than Titus’s voice. In the werewolf world, a deeper pitch commands immediate submission. I can practically see Titus’s ego bruising in real time.

Titus gives a stiff nod. I tilt my head toward the overcast sky, thanking the Moon Goddess for this one tiny mercy. The Northern Alpha just spared me from collapsing.

The elites bypass me, making their way inside the packhouse. Now comes the real nightmare. I check the tag on every single bag, matching them to the designated guest rooms on the upper floors. I haul the gear up the grand staircase, my legs burning with every step. Bag after bag, room after room. My muscles scream by the time I drop the last heavy duffel.

Then it hits me. In the rush of preparing for the visitors, I never cleared out my meager belongings. My old room—now repurposed for a Northern guest—still has my stuff inside. I hadn't had the time to pack it away.

I hurry down the corridor and stop in front of the familiar wooden door. I take a shallow breath and knock, praying the current occupant is in a forgiving mood today.

The door swings open. A massive, shirtless Northern warrior fills the frame. My eyes immediately catch on the intricate tribal tattoos weaving across his broad chest, standing out against a patchwork of fresh, ugly bruises. I force my gaze up to his face. His jaw is locked, his expression hardened from years of brutal combat. The rumors about the Northerners being bred into the most athletic, tenacious werewolves are staring me right in the face. They say a normal Northerner could easily overpower an Alpha from another pack. One look at his battered torso confirms those rumors.

"I'm sorry," I say, keeping my tone submissive. "I think I forgot something in this room this morning. Do you mind if I take a closer look?"

He studies me for a long second, his bruised face unreadable. He knows I shouldn't be playing games. He grunts, raising a thick eyebrow, and steps aside. "Be quick."

I slip past him, but the second I step inside, my stomach sinks. The maids have already been here. They changed the sheets and got rid of anything that belonged to me. I pull open the small closet just to be sure, finding nothing inside. They must have taken my things down to my new room.

I close the cabinet door, offering him a tight, polite smile. "Thank you for your help."

I step back out into the hall, ready to figure out where my life got moved to, but I freeze dead in my tracks.

The Northern Alpha is walking down the corridor, heading straight toward this room. Panic grips my chest as he locks eyes with me. He just witnessed me stepping out of his warrior's private quarters. It isn't inherently wrong for a servant to be doing her job, but I do not want to leave a poor first impression on a visiting ruler.

I stand rigid in front of the door, paralyzed. The Alpha pauses just a foot away from me, waiting for me to move out of his path. Up close, his sheer size is overwhelming. The heat radiating off his body feels like a furnace.

"Giving out the bags?" he asks.

My voice is gone. My mouth goes completely dry. My vocal cords refuse to work. I manage a frantic, jerky nod, duck my head, and flee. I scramble down the stairs as fast as my aching legs can carry me, desperate to escape his intense gravity.

I make it down to the basement level, my erratic breathing echoing in the dim hallway. I find the door to my new quarters. The janitor's closet.

I push the door open and immediately gag. A thick, toxic cloud of bleach and cleaning chemicals punches me in the face. My eyes water instantly. My few worn clothes are scattered everywhere, dumped unceremoniously onto the dirty, unmopped floor. The ultimate sign of disrespect.

I hold my breath and scramble to salvage my belongings from the grime. It isn't much, but it is all I own. I shake out the fabric, tossing the garments onto the tiny cot. Summer is approaching, so the fabric should dry quickly if I wipe it down. I make the bed as rapidly as my hands allow, desperate to minimize my time in this chemical trap. The concentrated fumes burn the back of my throat, making my head spin. Staying in this unventilated space for too long could be dangerous. Keeping my exposure to an absolute minimum is crucial to avoid any health scares. I grab what I need for the afternoon and bolt back out into the hallway, gasping for clean air.

Later that afternoon, after helping the orphans finish their schoolwork, I take them out to the edges of the training grounds. They have been exceptionally well-behaved all day, and watching the warriors spar is a special treat in our culture. Plus, little Jace dreams of becoming a warrior himself someday. We only have fifteen minutes before dinner, but for the kids, it is more than enough.

We stand by the edge of the dirt arena, keeping a respectful distance. The sight before us is mesmerizing. The warriors are divided into groups. Some train in their human form, others as wolves. But the most shocking display is the hybrid training—human warriors practicing how to take down massive wolves without shifting themselves.

The Northerners lead the drills, sometimes demonstrating the techniques themselves. Our local warriors look sluggish and uncoordinated by comparison. Every strike from a Northerner is fluid, a lethal, natural dance of power. To them, every movement is beautiful. To us, fighting is just a messy blend of kicks and punches lacking real strength.

I keep a tight, protective grip on the children, making sure none of them wander too close to the violence. As I scan the field, my breath catches.

Pacing the far side of the grounds is an enormous black wolf.

He is as black as the night sky, his dark coat absorbing the fading sunlight. He moves with a slow, calculating grace, studying every fighter, every drill. Without a doubt, it has to be the Northern Alpha.

Cleo tugs lightly on my sleeve, snapping my attention down to her. I crouch to her level.

"Is that the Alpha?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

I muster every ounce of courage I have to keep my tone steady. "I think so."

As if he hears us over the clash of bodies and snarls, the massive black beast turns his heavy head. He looks right at our small group. The kids freeze, too in awe to say a word or even wave in a friendly manner.

Then, those dark, bottomless eyes find mine.

The world seems to stop. The wolf takes a long, slow breath, holding my gaze across the training yard. The sheer weight of his attention pins me in place. He lingers for a moment before turning back to watch over his men.

The tense silence shatters.

"Wow," Rhea breathes out, not quite registering the gravity of what just happened. She turns to face me, her eyes bright with pure, unadulterated excitement. She practically shouts, "It's so fluffy!"

Panic explodes in my chest. I slap my hand over Rhea's mouth, stifling a hysterical laugh that threatens to bubble up from my throat.

"Rhea!" I hiss, pulling her back. "Alphas aren't fluffy. They are dangerous. Especially in their wolf form, okay?"

I whip my head around, scanning the nearby warriors with wide eyes. Werewolves possess enhanced hearing. Even over the noise of combat, someone could have caught that. I pray that if anyone heard her comment, they didn't realize who she was talking about.

Every so often, as the afternoon drags on and I eventually herd the children toward the canteen to wait for their meal, I can feel the Alpha's eyes on me. A heavy, phantom weight pressing into my skin.

I sit on the edge of the bench, left agonizing over that brief moment on the field. Did he hear her? Did the Northern Alpha hear a little orphan girl disrespect him? The suspense is suffocating. If he did hear it, is he mad? Will he pull me aside later to lecture her for not educating the kids on the strict respect Alphas demand? Or worse, will he go straight to Titus and demand that Rhea receive a cruel punishment? I chew on my bottom lip, my stomach twisting in anxious knots, praying for Rhea's sake that the giant black wolf is willing to let a child's innocent mistake slide.