Chapter 4

Rath.

Billie barged into my dressing room like a storm in a teacup.

"You tried to kill her, didn't you, master?" she asked, her tone teetering somewhere between concern and outright scolding.

"Whatever I choose to do with the human girl is none of your concern," I muttered, wrestling with the buttons on my shirt.

"I'm not backing down, sir. You mustn't kill her," Billie pressed on, her voice gentler now, like she was reasoning with a particularly stubborn toddler. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my schedule, pretending she didn't exist.

"You've gained the powers of the Lycan King," she began, launching into what I could only assume was Lycan 101. "But you can't fully harness them unless you possess a pure soul. Dahlia is a pure-blood soul—I can practically see her glowing. If you kill her, you'll lose everything you fought so hard to gain. It will all be for nothing, sir."

I tucked my phone away, giving her my best "are we done yet?" glare. Billie wasn't just my butler; she was a walking, talking conscience I hadn't asked for. Still, the decisions were mine, and I had every intention of ensuring that human girl wouldn't be alive by next week. Maybe something subtle—like slipping ar$enic into her morning smoothie.

"What difference does it make?" I snapped, hands shoved in my pockets. "If I k!ll her, I'll gain her soul and whatever pointless purity she's lugging around."

Billie sighed, her expression the epitome of "oh dear, here we go again." "It doesn't work like that, sir. She must willingly give you her soul. And trust me, she's no pushover. I've done my homework. She's sharp—reads lips, picks up on every little movement. She's basically a human polygraph machine. You underestimate her at your peril."

I chuckled, grabbing my laptop briefcase. "She's just a human, Billie. A very squishy one. Fine, I'll spare her—for now. But you better hope she's as pure as you claim, or I'm throwing her into next week's compost bin."

"Yes, sir," Billie said with a calm nod, though the faint twitch of her eye told me she was this close to smacking me with the nearest lamp.

Dhalia.

I decided to stretch my legs and explore my new home—or more accurately, the labyrinth disguised as a house. The manor was enormous, like someone had taken a regular mansion and thought, Let's make it unnecessarily extra. After a nap so good it felt like I'd been hit by a tranquilizer, I wandered outside in a blue sundress someone had thoughtfully left by my bed. Points for creepy yet considerate hospitality.

The maid with glasses must've been responsible for the dress. A nice touch, though the place had "ominous rich villain vibes." I headed toward the lawn, which was so flawless it probably had its own skincare routine. The trees were trimmed to military precision, and if whoever maintained this place wasn't paid in gold bars, it was a crime.

Behind me, the manor loomed like it wanted to remind me who was boss, but I ignored it and ventured toward a smaller gate leading to a garden. The garden had clearly been abandoned faster than a New Year's resolution.

The grass was doing its best impression of a jungle, vines dangled like the set of a low-budget horror movie, and weeds strutted around It was the lawn's rebellious cousin who never showed up to family reunions.

Curious, I pushed aside some vines, only to be attacked by a blade of grass determined to trip me. Blackjack seeds clung to my dress like desperate party guests who wouldn't leave.

Realizing I should head back before the maid thought I was plotting my escape—or worse, playing horticulturist—I turned around. Let's be real: I wasn't about to risk sneaking off. Wolf territory wasn't exactly Airbnb-friendly, and the wolves didn't strike me as the "let's talk it out" type.

Back at the manor, I wandered into the kitchen and nearly gasped. This wasn't a kitchen; it was a culinary cathedral. Everything was sleek, shiny, and probably more expensive than my entire wardrobe. The fridge was so well-stocked it could feed a small country, and the four-eyed maid was busy cooking something that smelled heavenly.

"Lovely to see you. I'm making something for you," she signed, her hands moving gracefully. Wait—she learned sign language overnight?

"I took the time to learn," she signed, as if it were no big deal. "I need to communicate with you. This is your home. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Once again, welcome."

My heart practically melted. "Thank you," I signed back, trying not to cry over this rare act of kindness.

She nodded and smiled warmly. "Can I ask you something?" I ventured.

She covered the pot she was cooking and turned to me. I noticed her gloves—white and pristine. But when she'd helped me out of the bathtub, I'd seen her right hand without a glove: pale, with nails painted black.

"Ask away," she said, her calm demeanor not giving anything away.

I hesitated, unsure how to word my question. On my second day here, I didn't want to sound like a total weirdo for poking around.

"You want to know about the garden, right?" she asked.

I blinked. How did she know?

She pointed at my dress, smirking. "The blackjack seeds were a dead giveaway. Unless you've been rolling in weeds for fun, I figured you'd been snooping."

I glanced down at my dress, flushing as I brushed off the clingy little culprits. "It belonged to someone," she said, her voice softening.

I decided not to dig too deeply—I didn't want her labeling me as the house gossip on day two. "Could you give me a tour of the house? If you're not busy, of course," I asked, aiming for polite curiosity instead of full-blown interrogation.

She nodded, switched off the stove with a practiced flick of her wrist, and gestured for me to follow. What came next felt like stepping into a lifestyle magazine spread. She led me through the living room, with its ridiculously perfect symmetry, then the library, which smelled like old books and intellectual superiority, and finally the piano room, a space so grand it looked like Beethoven himself might drop by to release a banger

"This is Master—your husband's—bedroom," she said, gesturing to a closed door. As soon as she pointed, the intoxicating scent of his cologne practically tackled me, making my knees wobble.

As we moved on, I noticed her walk right past a purple door as if it didn't exist. Suspicious much? Before I could ask, she announced, "That's all. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask."

I decided to test the waters. "No bodyguards?" I signed, raising an eyebrow. Surely a manor this grand came with a fleet of tough guys in suits and sunglasses?

Her lips curled into a knowing smirk, her expression practically screaming, Oh, you sweet summer child. "The house is very secure. You don't have to worry about that," she signed confidently.

Her assurance was convincing, though it felt less like a comforting lullaby and more like a "this house has hidden laser security systems you won't see until it's too late" vibe. I nodded anyway, trying to suppress my overactive imagination and focus on not tripping over my own feet.

The day had been a success—or at least I hadn't died, which counted as a win. As the evening crept in, I slipped into a silk, see-through red nightdress. The fabric whispered against my skin as I brushed my impossibly long black hair, which cascaded all the way to my thighs like a curtain. I'd never cut it—cult rules. Back then, they said no trimming until after you'd lost your virginity, and while the cult had long since disbanded, the rule stuck around.

I stared at myself in the mirror. As if on cue, a random vision of a crystal flashed through my mind. Great, I thought. First cult traditions, now I'm channeling crystal energy. What's next, summoning moon spirits?

Then I caught sight of his car pulling into the driveway, and my heart did a nervous tap dance in my chest. My husband—undeniably gorgeous but with all the warmth of a glacier—was home.

Panic hit like a freight train. My survival instincts kicked in, and I did the only logical thing, I barricaded the door. I shoved the sofa against it, snatched a blanket from the bed and claimed the soft carpet as my new sanctuary. Hiding under the bed felt safer than lying on top of it.

Curled up beneath the bed frame. I couldn't hear, but I could feel the vibrations of footsteps and smell the cologne that was probably more expensive than my entire room. If that handsome lunatic dared to come in, I'd sense him pretty fast.

For now, I clung to that fragile illusion of safety, my heartbeat refusing to settle. I stared into the darkness, hoping the night would stay mercifully uneventful.