The Packhouse

Chapter 1

Sasha

“Are you sure you don’t need help with that one?” The voice is warm, like honeyed tea on a cold day. It belongs to Liam, a man built like a lumberjack but with the gentle eyes of a kindergarten teacher.

I clutch the cardboard box tighter to my chest. It’s the one labeled ‘Sentimental Crap,’ and it feels heavier than all the others combined. “I’ve got it. It’s the last one.”

He smiles, a genuine, crinkle-eyed thing that makes me instantly trust him. It’s the same smile from the housing ad interview, the one that convinced me this whole situation wasn’t a scam to harvest my organs. “Alright. Just don’t want our new housemate breaking a nail on her first day.”

I manage a weak laugh and follow him through the ridiculously grand oak door. The entryway is bigger than my entire last apartment. Polished hardwood floors gleam under a high ceiling, and a wide staircase curves elegantly toward the second floor. It smells like lemon polish and old, happy wood. Not a hint of the damp, musty despair I’m used to.

“I still can’t believe this place is real,” I say, setting the box down by the stairs. I run a hand along the smooth, cool banister. “Or that my share of the rent is less than my weekly grocery bill.”

The ad had been a joke, I’d thought. ‘Room for rent in spacious heritage home near campus. Utilities included. Must be clean, quiet, and okay with a few house rules. $300/month.’ Three hundred. I paid more than double that for a glorified closet with a leaky ceiling and a neighbor who practiced the trombone at three in the morning. I’d applied out of sheer, broke desperation, never expecting a reply.

Liam just shrugs, his broad shoulders moving easily under his t-shirt. “The landlord is an old family friend. He’s more interested in keeping the house full of good people than making a profit. We get to be picky.”

“And I made the cut?” I ask, a little amazed.

“You made the cut.” His grin widens. “Maya loved you.”

As if summoned, a woman emerges from a doorway down the hall. She’s wiping her hands on an apron tied around her waist, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. This is Maya. During my interview, she’d felt like a warm hug in human form, asking me more about my favorite foods than my credit score.

“Sasha, you’re here! Leave the boxes, you must be starving.” She heads toward me, her expression a mix of welcome and concern. “You look exhausted. Did you eat today?”

I feel my cheeks flush. I skipped lunch to finish packing, a habit born from a budget that rarely stretched to three meals a day. “I was going to grab something later.”

“Nonsense.” She waves a dismissive hand. “I made pot roast. There’s more than enough. The boys eat enough for a small army.” She glances back toward the living room, where two other guys are lounging on a massive sectional sofa, watching TV. They’d been introduced as Ben and Marco. They’d just nodded at me, their eyes watchful but not unfriendly. It seems to be a house of quiet, ridiculously fit young men and one den mother.

“I really appreciate it, but I should probably just start unpacking,” I protest weakly.

“The unpacking can wait. Food can’t,” Maya insists, her tone leaving no room for argument. She steers me toward the kitchen, which is, of course, spectacular. Stainless steel appliances, a huge island, and a window overlooking a sprawling, green backyard. My last kitchen had a hot plate and a mini fridge.

Liam follows us in. “Maya’s right. Rule one of this house: you don’t turn down Maya’s cooking. Your stomach will never forgive you.”

“Speaking of rules,” Maya says, her voice turning a little more serious as she pulls a plate from a cabinet. “Liam, did you go over the important one?”

Liam leans against the counter, his easy smile tightening just a fraction. “I was getting to it.” He looks at me. “It’s a bit weird, Sasha. But it’s not negotiable.”

I brace myself. Here it is. The catch. Maybe I have to participate in a multi level marketing scheme or join a cult. For three hundred a month, I’d probably consider it.

“A few nights a month, we have a strict curfew,” he says. “From sunset to sunrise, everyone stays inside. No exceptions. No visitors. Doors and windows locked.”

I blink. “Okay. Like, a security thing? Is the neighborhood bad?”

“The neighborhood is fine,” Maya says quickly, piling potatoes and carrots onto my plate. The sheer amount of meat she adds is startling. “It’s just… a precaution. A family thing. It’s usually around the full moon, for three nights.”

I try to process that. A full moon curfew. It’s bizarre. “What happens if I have a late class? Or work?”

“You’ll have to rearrange your schedule for those nights,” Liam says, his tone gentle but firm. “We’ll give you plenty of notice. We’re all really serious about it. It’s for everyone’s safety.”

Something in the way he says ‘safety’ makes a little shiver run down my spine. But then Maya sets the plate in front of me, and the rich, savory smell of the roast hits me, and all my suspicions are drowned out by the rumbling of my empty stomach. It’s weird. So what? I can handle weird. I’ve been handling weird my whole life.

“Okay,” I say, picking up a fork. “Full moon curfew. Got it.”

The relief on their faces is palpable. Maya beams, and Liam’s relaxed posture returns. It’s almost as if they were afraid I’d say no and walk out. For this rent, they could tell me I had to howl at the moon and I’d probably do it.

“Good,” Maya says, patting my shoulder. “Now eat. Welcome home, Sasha.”

Home. The word feels foreign and wonderful. I take a bite of the roast, and it melts in my mouth. I’m so focused on the best meal I’ve had in years that I don’t hear the front door open and close. I don’t notice the sudden silence from the living room.

I only notice when the temperature in the kitchen seems to drop by ten degrees.

A presence fills the doorway. It’s not just a person entering a room; it’s an invasion. The air thickens, charged with a low hum of energy that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

Liam, who was just joking about Maya’s portion sizes, straightens up, his body going rigid. Maya freezes, her hand hovering over a pitcher of water. All the warmth and ease drains from the room, replaced by a tense, heavy silence.

Slowly, I turn my head.

He stands there, framed by the doorway, like a painting of some dark, fallen angel. He’s tall, taller than Liam, with a lean, powerful build that his simple black shirt and jeans do nothing to hide. His hair is the color of midnight, and his face is all sharp angles and unforgiving planes. He is, without a single doubt, the most beautiful man I have ever seen. And he is looking at me with absolute, undisguised hatred.

His eyes, a startling, cold gray, sweep over me once. It’s not a glance. It’s a dismissal. An assessment and a verdict delivered in a single, chilling second. I feel my skin shrink, my posture crumble. I suddenly feel like a bug he’s considering crushing under his boot.

“Owen,” Liam says, and his voice is tight, strained. “You’re back early.”

Owen doesn’t look at him. His glare is still locked on me. It’s so intense, so personal, that it feels like a physical blow. What did I do? I’ve never seen this man before in my life.

“What,” Owen says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates through the floorboards, “is that?”

He doesn’t say ‘who.’ He says ‘that.’ The word hangs in the air, dripping with contempt.

My face burns with a humiliation so sharp it brings tears to my eyes. The fork in my hand trembles.

Maya steps forward, placing herself slightly between us. A protective gesture. “This is Sasha, our new housemate. I told you we found someone.”

Owen’s eyes finally flick to Maya, but the coldness doesn’t recede. “You brought a human into this house.” It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A sin laid bare.

Human? What else would I be? The word sounds like an insult coming from his lips. Like he’s saying ‘vermin’ or ‘infestation.’

“She needed a place, Owen,” Liam says, his voice taking on a placating tone I haven’t heard from him before. He sounds like someone trying to calm a wild animal. “She’s a student. She’s quiet.”

Owen’s jaw clenches. A muscle jumps along the sharp line of it. He ignores Liam completely and takes one step into the kitchen. I flinch, instinctively pulling back in my chair. His gaze drops to the plate of food in front of me, and a look of pure disgust twists his perfect features. Then his eyes snap back to mine, and for a second, I see something else under the rage. Something that looks like raw, agonizing pain. It’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that wall of ice.

Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. A moment later, we hear the heavy slam of a door somewhere upstairs, a sound so violent it makes the silverware on the counter rattle.

The silence he leaves behind is thick with unspoken things. I stare down at my plate, my appetite completely gone. The delicious roast now tastes like ash in my mouth.

Maya lets out a long, slow breath. “Don’t,” she says, her voice soft but strained. “Don’t mind him. He’s… not good with new people.”

Liam comes over and rests a hand on the back of my chair. It’s meant to be comforting, but I can feel the tension thrumming through his fingers.

“That wasn’t about you, Sasha,” he says, but his words sound hollow. It felt exactly like it was about me.

“He called me a human,” I whisper, looking from Maya to Liam. “What was that supposed to mean?”

Maya forces a brittle smile. “It’s just Owen. He’s… intense. He grew up in the middle of nowhere. He’s not used to the city. Or strangers.”

It’s a terrible lie, and we all know it. That wasn’t about being bad with new people. That was a deep, primal animosity aimed directly at me. He looked at me as if my very presence here was an insult, a contamination in his home.

I push my chair back and stand up, my legs feeling unsteady. “I think I will go unpack now.”

“Sasha, please, eat something,” Maya pleads.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. I can still feel the burn of his stare on my skin. I walk out of the kitchen, past the now silent living room, and up the grand staircase. My room is at the end of the hall. It’s beautiful, with a big window and a four-poster bed that looks like it belongs in a fairy tale.

But as I close my door, the silence of the big, perfect house feels different now. It’s not peaceful. It’s watchful. And I know, with a certainty that settles like a cold stone in my gut, that one of my housemates wishes I was anywhere else but here. The question, the one that echoes in the sudden quiet of my new room, is why.

Chapter 2

Sasha

I wake up to the smell of bacon. For a moment, I’m disoriented, the unfamiliar softness of the mattress and the scent of lavender from the sheets confusing my sleep-addled brain. Then yesterday comes rushing back. The ridiculously cheap rent. The warm welcome. The cold, violent hatred in Owen’s eyes.

My stomach twists into a knot that has nothing to do with hunger. I should just stay in here. Live on the protein bars I have stashed in my bag. I could probably survive for a week before anyone noticed.

But that’s not who I am. I’m not a coward. I’ve faced down sleazy landlords and final exams from hell. I can face one surly, beautiful man who looks at me like I’m something he scraped off his shoe.

Taking a deep breath, I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater and head downstairs, my footsteps sounding too loud in the morning quiet. The smell of cooking gets stronger, leading me to the kitchen.

Maya is at the stove, humming softly. Liam is at the table, nursing a mug of coffee. They both look up when I walk in, and their faces break into welcoming smiles that feel a little too bright.

“Sasha! Good morning,” Maya chirps. “Did you sleep alright? The bed is comfortable?”

“It was great, thank you.” I inch toward the coffee maker. “It’s the best I’ve slept in years.”

“Wonderful.” She gestures with her spatula to a plate on the counter piled high with eggs, sausage, and at least six strips of bacon. “I saved a plate for you. You have to eat.”

I stare at the mountain of food. It’s more than I usually eat in a full day. “Oh, that’s… a lot. I’m really not a big breakfast person. Coffee is usually enough.”

Maya’s smile falters. A flicker of something like panic crosses her face before she smooths it over. “Nonsense. You’re too thin. A girl needs her protein. Especially a student. Brain food.”

Liam gets up and pulls out a chair for me. “She’s right. It’s a house rule. You can’t study on an empty stomach.”

Their insistence is strange. It feels less like hospitality and more like a command. Not wanting to cause a scene on my first morning, I give in and sit down. “Okay. Thank you, it looks delicious.”

The relief that washes over them is immediate and just as bizarre as their insistence. I pick at the eggs, feeling their eyes on me. It’s like being watched by two benevolent, slightly neurotic prison guards.

“I was thinking I’d finish unpacking today,” I say, trying to make normal conversation.

“Great idea,” Liam says, his smile back in full force. “I’ll help you. There are still a few heavy boxes, right?”

“Just my books, really. I can manage.”

“Don’t be silly,” Maya scolds gently from the stove. “Let him help. We take care of each other here.”

An hour later, Liam is in my room, treating my boxes like they’re filled with priceless artifacts. He lifts a small one marked ‘Kitchen Stuff’ with a grunt.

“This one feels heavy,” he says, his brow furrowed in concentration. “What’s in here?”

“My coffee maker and a few pans,” I say, picking up my desk lamp. Before I can take two steps, he’s there.

“Whoa, let me get that. No need for you to be lifting things.” He takes the lamp from my hands. It weighs maybe three pounds. I stare at him, baffled.

“Liam, I’m not an invalid. It’s a lamp.”

He just laughs, a warm, booming sound that doesn’t quite reach his watchful eyes. “Just being a gentleman. Besides, you look like a strong breeze could knock you over. We need to fatten you up.”

He says it like a joke, but it’s the second time my size has been mentioned this morning. I’ve always been slender, a combination of genetics and a student budget. But they talk about it like it’s a medical condition they need to cure.

“Where do you want the desk?” he asks, gesturing to the antique wooden desk against the wall.

“Actually, I think it would be better under the window.”

“Good call.” Before I can tell him I can help, he grips one side of the heavy desk and slides it across the floor with an ease that is frankly impossible. He doesn’t strain. He doesn’t even breathe heavily. He moves a piece of furniture that should take two people to budge like it’s made of cardboard.

I just stare, my mouth slightly open. “How did you do that?”

He winks. “Lots of protein.”

We’re almost finished when the floorboards in the hallway creak. I look up to see Owen standing in the doorway. He’s not looking at me. His cold gray eyes are fixed on Liam.

“We’re running drills in ten,” he says. His voice is a low rumble, devoid of any warmth.

“Got it,” Liam replies, his own voice losing its easygoing lilt. He stands up straighter, his posture shifting from friendly helper to something else. Something more alert.

Owen’s gaze finally drifts to me. It’s like having ice water poured down my spine. The look is pure contempt. He scans the room, his eyes lingering for a fraction of a second on the now-empty boxes, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Then, without another word, he’s gone. The air in the room feels cleaner, lighter, the moment he leaves.

“Sorry about him,” Liam says, his friendly demeanor snapping back into place like a rubber band. “He’s just… stressed.”

“Right.” I don’t believe him for a second. That isn’t stress. That’s hatred. And for some reason, it’s all aimed at me.

Later that afternoon, I head to the kitchen for a glass of water. The house is quiet. I assume the ‘drills’ are happening somewhere far away. I’m pulling a glass from the cabinet when I hear footsteps. I don’t even have to look to know who it is. The atmosphere in the room plunges.

I turn, and Owen is there, heading for the refrigerator. He moves with a silent, predatory grace that is both beautiful and terrifying. I pretend to be deeply interested in the pattern on my glass, hoping he’ll just get what he wants and leave.

He stops at the fridge, his back to me. I can see the tension in the hard lines of his shoulders. He doesn’t open the door. He just stands there, perfectly still. Waiting.

Is he waiting for me to leave? A spark of defiance flickers inside me. This is my house too. I paid my three hundred dollars. I have a right to stand in this kitchen and drink water.

I take a deliberately slow sip, my heart hammering against my ribs. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

Finally, he speaks, his voice a harsh rasp that scrapes against the quiet. “Are you going to stand there all day?”

I jump, startled. I lower my glass. “I was just getting a drink.”

He turns his head just enough to pin me with a sideways glare. His gray eyes are like chips of flint. “Then get it and go.”

“I am.” My own voice sounds small, breathless.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he sneers. He turns fully to face me then, leaning back against the refrigerator. He crosses his powerful arms over his chest, trapping me with his presence. “What do you want?”

“What?” The question is so absurd I can only blink at him.

“Everyone wants something,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “You show up out of nowhere, move into a house where you don’t belong. So what is it? Money? Protection?” His eyes rake over me, and the disgust is back, tenfold. “Or are you just looking for a meal ticket?”

The accusation stings more than his glares. He thinks I’m some kind of freeloader, a parasite. All the fight drains out of me, replaced by a familiar, weary shame.

“I’m just a student,” I whisper, my eyes fixed on a scuff mark on the floor. “The room was cheap. That’s all.”

“Nothing is ever that simple.”

He pushes off the fridge and takes a step toward me. I instinctively take a step back, my hand trembling so much the water in my glass sloshes over the rim. His gaze drops to my shaking hand, and for a split second, that same flash of agony from yesterday flickers in his eyes. He stops dead, his jaw clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grind.

He looks from my hand to my face, his expression unreadable. Then he turns on his heel and stalks out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, the front door slams shut with enough force to make the windows rattle in their frames.

I stand there for a long time, my knuckles white on the glass, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Everyone else treats me like a delicate flower that might break at any moment. Owen treats me like a disease.

At dinner that night, the contrast is a physical thing. Maya serves a massive roast chicken, piling my plate higher than anyone else’s. Liam and the other two guys, Ben and Marco, keep the conversation light, asking me about my classes and telling funny stories about their own college days. They are all so kind, so gentle, so intensely careful with me.

And at the far end of the table, Owen sits in absolute silence. He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel his anger radiating across the table. It’s a cold, dark energy that sucks all the warmth from my side of the room. He eats with a mechanical efficiency, his focus entirely on his plate. The moment he’s finished, he stands up.

“I have patrol,” he says to no one in particular, and walks out.

Liam sighs softly once he’s gone. “He takes his responsibilities very seriously.”

“What responsibilities?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Just… looking out for the house. The family,” Maya says quickly, offering me another piece of chicken, which I decline.

Later, in the quiet of my new room, I lie on the four-poster bed and stare at the ceiling. The whole day has been a study in contradictions. Unsettling kindness and unexplained hostility. It feels like everyone in this house is playing a part in a play I don’t have the script for.

They see me as something fragile, something to be protected and handled with extreme care. Something human.

Owen is the only one who doesn’t. He looks at me and sees a threat. A contamination. An invasion.

I should be scared of him. A part of me is. But a bigger part, the part that has fought for everything I have, is just angry. And curious.

I’m not made of spun glass. And I am not a threat. I’m just Sasha. And I am going to figure out what is so terrifying about that to the brooding, broken man who slams doors and looks at me like I’m the end of his world.

Chapter 3

Sasha

I’m curled up on the enormous sectional sofa in the living room, a textbook on sociological theory open in my lap. For the first time in three days, the house feels almost normal. Peaceful, even.

Maya is humming in the kitchen, the scent of baking bread wafting through the ground floor. Liam is sitting across from me, cleaning a collection of what look like antique knives with a soft cloth, his movements precise and focused. Even the quiet presence of Ben and Marco, reading on the far side of the room, feels companionable.

Owen is gone. He left before I woke up, a dark mood radiating from him that I felt even through my bedroom door. The house breathed a collective sigh of relief the moment his car drove away.

“How’s the studying going?” Liam asks, his voice a low, pleasant rumble. He doesn’t look up from his work.

“It’s going.” I shift, trying to find a comfortable position. “It would be easier if I understood half the words in this chapter.”

He chuckles. “Need a human dictionary?”

“I think I need a whole new brain.”

He finally looks up, a kind smile on his face. “You’re smart, Sasha. You’ll get it.”

His praise feels warm and genuine, a stark contrast to the icy contempt I receive from Owen. Here, in this bubble of quiet domesticity, it’s easy to pretend that Owen is just a bad dream. It’s easy to ignore the way they all treat me like I’m a priceless vase on the edge of a table, about to shatter.

A low growl cuts through the afternoon quiet. It’s not an animal. It’s the sound of a high performance engine, slowing as it approaches the house.

Liam stiffens. The rag in his hand stops moving. The knife he holds glints under the lamp light. Across the room, Ben and Marco close their books in perfect unison.

I sit up a little straighter. “Expecting someone?”

Before Liam can answer, the front door opens. It doesn’t creak. It’s a solid, confident sound. And no one knocks.

The click of heels on the polished hardwood is sharp and expensive. Each step is a declaration.

A woman appears in the arched doorway of the living room. She is breathtaking. Long, silver blonde hair cascades over the shoulders of a cream colored coat that probably cost more than my entire tuition. Her face is a perfect, symmetrical work of art, with high cheekbones and full lips painted a deep, dangerous red. Her eyes, the color of a summer sky, sweep the room with an air of regal boredom.

She owns this space. She knows it. We know it.

“Liam,” she says. Her voice is like honey laced with shards of glass. “Still playing with your toys, I see.”

Liam places the knife carefully on the coffee table and stands. He’s not smiling. “Seraphina. We weren’t expecting you.”

“A girl likes to be spontaneous,” she purrs, gliding into the room. She sheds her coat, draping it over a chair like it’s a worthless rag. Underneath, she’s wearing a black dress so perfectly tailored it looks sewn onto her skin. The air, which was warm and full of the smell of Maya’s baking, now smells like expensive perfume and disdain.

Her gaze drifts past Ben and Marco, dismissing them, and lands on me.

Her perfectly arched eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch. The blue eyes narrow, cataloging my worn jeans, my faded university sweatshirt, my textbook. The examination is swift, brutal, and utterly demeaning.

“Well, what is this?” she asks, not looking away from me. The question is directed at Liam, but her eyes are stripping me bare. “Did you finally get a cleaning service? I told Owen this place was getting dusty.”

My face flames. The insult is so casual, so effortless, it takes my breath away. I feel Liam take a half step forward, a protective instinct.

“Seraphina,” he says, his voice tight. “This is Sasha. She’s our new housemate.”

Her eyes widen in mock surprise. She brings a hand, tipped with immaculate red nails, to her chest. “Housemate? Oh, you’re joking.” She laughs, a sound with no warmth in it. “How quaint. I didn’t realize we were running a charity now. Where did you find it?”

It. She calls me ‘it’.

I clutch my textbook, the corners digging into my palms. I should say something. I should stand up for myself. But my throat is tight, my tongue a lead weight in my mouth. I’ve dealt with mean girls before, but this is a different species of cruelty. This is practiced, aristocratic venom.

“She’s a student at the university,” Maya says, appearing from the kitchen. She wipes her hands on her apron, her usual warmth replaced by a tense, formal politeness. “It’s nice to see you, Seraphina.”

“Maya,” Seraphina acknowledges with a nod that is more of an insult than a greeting. Her focus returns to me. “A student. So it’s clever, is it? Can it fetch?”

“That’s enough,” Liam says. The words are quiet, but they carry a weight that makes Seraphina finally turn to look at him fully.

She smiles, a slow, predatory curving of her lips. “Protective, Liam? Don’t tell me you’ve developed a fondness for strays. It’s unbecoming.”

Just then, the front door opens again. This time, I know who it is before I see him. The energy in the room shifts, coils, focuses on the doorway.

Owen walks in. He stops short when he sees the scene. His eyes go from Liam’s rigid stance, to Maya’s worried face, to Seraphina’s triumphant smirk, and then, finally, they land on me. I’m still sitting on the couch, feeling like a bug under a microscope.

The cold hatred I’m used to seeing in his face is there, but it’s different now. It’s sharper, hotter. It’s frantic. Like a fire burning so hot it freezes everything around it. He looks trapped.

“Owen, darling!” Seraphina’s entire demeanor changes. The cruelty melts away, replaced by a dazzling smile. She closes the distance between them in three fluid steps and wraps her arms around his neck.

He doesn’t hug her back. His body is a block of solid ice. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides.

“I missed you,” she murmurs, loud enough for all of us to hear. She presses a kiss to the corner of his jaw. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing.

His gray eyes are still locked on me. He looks like he’s in agony.

She pulls back slightly, her hands still linked behind his neck. She follows his gaze to me. Her smile thins. “We were just getting acquainted with your new… pet.”

Something dangerous flickers in Owen’s eyes. A sound rumbles in his chest, so low I almost don’t hear it. It’s a growl. A real, animalistic growl.

Seraphina hears it too. Her smile falters for a barest second before she recovers, running a hand down his chest in a possessive gesture. “You’re tense. Has it been bothering you? Don’t worry. I’m here now. I’ll help you take out the trash.”

Her eyes never leave mine as she says it.

My humiliation finally burns through my shock, replaced by a spark of anger. I close my textbook with a soft thud and place it on the cushion beside me. Slowly, I stand up. My legs are a little shaky, but I lock my knees.

All eyes in the room turn to me. Seraphina looks amused. Owen looks horrified.

I meet her gaze directly. “My name is Sasha.” My voice is quiet, but it doesn’t tremble. “And I’m not a stray, or a pet, or the trash. I live here.”

The silence that follows is absolute. I can feel the shock from Liam and Maya. I can see the flicker of something unreadable, maybe respect, from Ben and Marco.

Seraphina’s amusement evaporates. Her beautiful face hardens into a mask of pure fury. The sky blue of her eyes turns stormy.

“It speaks,” she says, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “How bold. Owen, you really must learn to train your things better.”

She turns her glare on Owen, expecting him to assert his authority, to put me in my place. But he says nothing. He just stares at me, his face a war of emotions I can’t begin to decipher. His silence is his answer, and it’s not the one she wanted.

Her lips curl into a sneer. “Fine. If you won’t handle your little human problem, I will.”

She detaches herself from Owen and takes a step toward me. Liam moves instantly, placing himself between us.

“That’s not a good idea, Seraphina,” he says, his voice a low warning.

She laughs, a sharp, ugly sound. “Oh, please. Don’t act like you could stop me. None of you.” She looks around the room, at the tense, powerful men standing guard. Her gaze dismisses them all. “I am to be the Luna of this pack. This is my house. And I will not have it infested with vermin.”

Luna. The word hangs in the air, foreign and heavy. I don’t know what it means, but I understand the implication. She’s the intended queen. I’m the peasant who tracked mud on the castle floors.

“I need a drink,” she announces, her mood shifting again as she turns away from the confrontation. She sweeps past all of us, heading for what I now see is a fully stocked bar in the corner of the room. “Owen, darling, come talk to me. We have so much to discuss. Plans to make.”

Owen doesn’t move for a long moment. He gives me one last, desperate look. A look that says a thousand things I don’t understand. Then, with a visible effort that seems to cost him everything, he turns his back on me and follows her.

I’m left standing in the middle of the living room, the target of a war I didn’t know I was a part of. Liam lets out a breath he seems to have been holding since Seraphina walked in.

“Don’t listen to her, Sasha,” Maya says softly, coming to my side. “Her bite is much worse than her bark.”

“No,” I whisper, watching Seraphina hand Owen a glass, her fingers brushing his. “I think her bark is just the beginning.”