Damien didn't return that night.
Cora waited — though she'd never admit it. She bathed. She dressed. She picked at the dinner Mira brought and pretended to read a book while her eyes kept drifting to the door.
It stayed closed.
She should have felt comforted.
Instead, she felt hollow.
Telling him about Abernathy had cracked something open. A door she'd kept locked for years,she knew she was strong . Now it hung open, and the memories kept spilling out whether she wanted them to or not.
She lay in the dark, staring at the canopy above the bed, and remembered.
"The first winter at St. Jude's was the worst."
"Cora was six years old. Small for her age. Quiet in the way children learn to be quiet when noise brings punishment."
*The dormitory was freezing. Frost crept up the windows at night, and the thin blankets they were given did nothing against the cold. The other children huddled together for warmth — but not with her. Never with her.*
"She's cursed," one of the older girls whispered. "Strange things happen around her. Best stay away."
Strange things. Cora didn't understand what they meant. Not then.
*But she understood loneliness. The ache of it. The way it settled into your bones like the cold and never quite left.*
*She got sick that winter. A fever that burned through her for days. She remembered shaking in her narrow bed, lips cracked, throat raw, too weak to call for help.*
No one came.
The matron found her three days later, barely conscious, soaked in sweat. She'd survived — barely. But she'd learned something important.
No one was coming to save her. If she wanted to live, she'd have to save herself.
The hunger was constant.
St. Jude's received funding from the state. Enough, supposedly, to feed and clothe and educate the children in its care. But the money disappeared into Abernathy's pockets, into the staff's indifference, into a system designed to forget the forgotten."
Breakfast was watery porridge. Lunch was bread — sometimes stale, sometimes moldy. Dinner was whatever scraps the kitchen could stretch into something resembling a meal.
It was never enough.
Cora learned to steal. Small things at first, an extra slice of bread, an apple from the kitchen when no one was looking. She got good at it. Quick hands, quiet feet, a face that no one noticed.
But she got caught once. Just once.
Mrs. Hendricks, the head cook, found half a bread roll hidden in Cora's pocket. She dragged her to Abernathy's office by the hair, screaming about thieves and ungrateful wretches.
Abernathy listened. Nodded. Dismissed the cook with a wave of his hand.
"Stealing is a sin," he said, circling his desk to stand before her. "And sinners must be punished."
He didn't touch her that night. Not in the way he would later.
Instead, he took her to the basement. A small room with no windows, no light, no heat. He shoved her inside and locked the door.
"Three days," he said through the metal. "No food. No water. Maybe hunger will teach you the lesson stealing couldn't."
She almost died in that basement.
Three days in absolute darkness. Three days with nothing but the cold concrete floor and the rats that skittered in the corners. Three days of her stomach eating itself, her throat screaming for water, her mind fracturing into pieces she wasn't sure she could put back together.
She was nine years old.
When they finally opened the door, she couldn't stand. Could barely see. One of the younger staff members — a woman named Helen who'd never been actively cruel, just passively indifferent — carried her to the infirmary.
"You're lucky," Helen said, her voice flat. "Another day and you'd have been dead."
Lucky. Cora wanted to laugh. Wanted to scream. But her throat was too raw and her body was too broken, so she just lay there and let them pour water down her throat and waited to feel something other than empty.*
She didn't steal again after that.
She didn't need to. Abernathy started bringing her food himself — bribes, rewards for her silence, her compliance. For the things he made her do in his office with the door locked and the blinds drawn.
She ate every bite. Hated herself for it. But she ate.
Survival didn't care about pride.
Cora woke with tears on her cheeks.
The memories had followed her into sleep refusing to stay buried. She lay in the darkness of the chamber, her chest heaving, the taste of bile in her throat.
The bed beside her was still empty. Damien hadn't returned.
Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the mattress, trying to ground herself. She was here. In the estate. Safe. The orphanage was a thousand miles away and a lifetime ago.
But it didn't feel distant. It felt close. Real. Like if she turned her head, she'd see the grey walls of St. Jude's instead of the elegant chamber Damien had given her.
A knock on the door made her flinch.
"Luna?" A servant's voice, muffled through the wood. "The Alpha has sent word. He'll return by evening."
"Thank you," she managed.
Footsteps retreated.
Evening. Hours away. Hours alone with the memories clawing at her mind.
She needed to get out of this room.
The gardens were quiet at dawn.
Cora walked the winding paths, the cold air sharp in her lungs, the frost-covered flowers glittering in the pale light. Her feet carried her without direction, weaving through hedges and past stone benches and around the fountain that had been drained for winter.
She didn't know how long she walked. Didn't care.
The movement helped. Kept the memories at bay. As long as she was moving, she wasn't drowning.
"You're up early."
She spun. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Viktor stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, expression mild. He wore a heavy coat against the cold, his breath misting in the air.
"Sorry," he said, raising his hands. "Didn't mean to startle you."
"You didn't." A lie. They both knew it.
"Couldn't sleep?"
"Something like that."
He nodded slowly, like he understood. "The estate can be overwhelming. Especially at first. All the politics, the expectations, the eyes always watching." He fell into step beside her as she resumed walking. "It's a lot for anyone. Let alone someone who didn't grow up in this world."
Cora glanced at him. "Is that your way of saying I don't belong here?"
"The opposite, actually." His smile was warm. Disarming. "I'm saying you're handling it remarkably well. Most people would have crumbled by now."
They walked in silence for a while.
Viktor didn't push for conversation, didn't fill the quiet with empty words. He just walked beside her, a steady presence, unthreatening in a way that made her shoulders slowly unknot.
"Can I ask you something?" she said eventually.
"Of course."
"What's Damien like? Really like. When he's not being the Alpha."
Viktor considered the question. "Complicated," he said finally. "He carries a lot. The pack, the alliances, his father's legacy. He doesn't let people in easily. Doesn't trust easily." He glanced at her. "But when he does let someone in... there's nothing he won't do for them."
"Even terrible things?"
"Especially terrible things." Viktor's voice was matter-of-fact. "He loves fiercely. And destroys anyone who threatens his pack ." A pause. "That includes you now, Luna. For better or worse."
Cora didn't know how to respond to that.
"He's lucky to have you," Viktor added. "Someone who sees past the monster to the man underneath."
"I'm not sure I do."
"You do." His smile softened. "I can tell. It's in the way you look at him. Like you're not afraid."
"I'm terrified of him."
"Maybe. But not in the way everyone else is. There's a difference."
They parted ways at the entrance to the east wing.
Viktor had business elsewhere — something about border patrols and security rotations. He bowed his head respectfully before leaving.
"If you ever need anything, Luna. Someone to talk to, someone to walk with. I'm here."
"Thank you, Viktor."
"Of course. What are friends for?"
She watched him go, something uneasy stirring in her chest. He was kind. Thoughtful. Easy to talk to in a way that Damien never was.
So why did something feel off?
She shook the thought away. Paranoia. She was surrounded by wolves who didn't trust her, it made sense that she'd start distrusting them too.
Viktor was fine. He was just being nice.
She repeated it to herself as she walked back to the chamber, trying to make it true.
Behind her, Viktor disappeared around a corner,
He'd learned a lot this morning. Not from what Cora said, she'd been careful but from what she didn't say. The circles under her eyes. The tremor in her hands. The way she'd flinched when he appeared.
Something had happened. Something that had shaken her.
He intended to find out what.