The Pack Leader's Hidden Monomania

POV Morgan

"If you ruin this night, cousin, what father did to you yesterday will feel like a caress."

Sarah's manicured nails dig crescents into my wrist, right where yesterday's bruises have barely begun to yellow. The bruises beneath my servant uniform pulse with fresh agony when she presses her body against mine, deliberately, knowingly.

She knows exactly where they are because she watched my father put them there.

"The most powerful Alpha in four territories is about to make me his Luna." Her grip tightens until I bite back a whimper. "You will be invisible tonight, cousin. Do you understand?"

"Yes." The word scrapes past my dry throat.

She releases me with a shove that sends me stumbling into the prep counter. The kitchen staff don't look up from their work. They never do when Sarah decides to remind me of my place.

My uniform strains across my hips where the fabric was cut for someone narrower, another daily reminder that I take up more space than I'm allowed.

"Good." She smooths her silk gown, examining her reflection in the polished surface of a serving tray. "Now finish preparing the wine service, and try not to break anything else this week."

The door swings shut behind her, and I allow myself one deep breath. Just one. Even my breathing must be controlled around others—if it’s too loud, too noticeable, and I become a target again.

Sarah, the Luna.

The thought would be laughable if my ribs didn't ache so much. But the man she's going to marry makes her cruelty look like child's play.

His name keeps echoes through my hollow stomach. Three days without a proper meal, punishment for the plate I accidentally dropped, and my hands trembling as I arrange crystal glasses on a silver tray.

Alpha Paul of Blood Ridge.

The dark stories about him have haunted these halls for weeks since their arranged marriage with Sarah was announced.

None of his previous wives lasted more than a year. His appetites, both in battle and in bed, are legendary. They say he takes his women the way he takes his enemies—brutally, completely, until there's nothing left but surrender or death.

And Sarah preens about marrying him like she's won a prize.

The irony tastes bitter on my tongue.

For decades, our Silver Moon Pack has been locked in bloody warfare with Blood Ridge, the territorial dispute claiming lives on both sides. The marriage changes everything. Peace, sealed with my cousin's hand in union to a monster.

At least soon she'll be someone else's problem, I think, then immediately feel guilty.

Even Sarah doesn't deserve whatever Alpha Paul will do to her behind closed doors.

The banquet hall glitters with candles and forced diplomacy when I enter. I move the way I've learned to move since I was twelve and become a slave to my own pack for murder—silent, invisible, keeping my eyes downcast and my presence forgettable.

Guests from both packs mingle with the kind of tension that could erupt into violence at any moment. I weave between them, offering wine, clearing empty glasses, becoming part of the furniture.

That's when Sarah's foot catches my ankle.

The tray tips and wine arcs through the air in a graceful crimson wave before shattering across the marble floor. Gasps ripple through the crowd, and my heart pounds against my bruised ribs as every eye turns toward me.

"Oh, Morgan." Sarah's voice drips with manufactured concern. "How clumsy of you. Perhaps you should fetch more wine from the cellar storage immediately, before you cause any more scenes."

"Of course. I apologize." The words come automatically, rehearsed through years of survival.

I flee the hall, my cheeks burning with humiliation, desperately searching through unfamiliar hallways. The cellar should be somewhere in the west wing, but the manor has been rearranged for the banquet, and every corridor looks the same in the dim evening light.

Another beating.

If I don't find the wine, if I take too long, Sarah will make sure I pay.

A door appears on my left, and I push it open without thinking, praying for storage shelves and dusty bottles, but it’s only a dimly lit study.

I froze right when the door behind me closed and I took a few steps to finally mention them.

The study reeks of sex and dominance. A massive figure lounges in a leather chair like a king on his throne, his head thrown back in obvious pleasure. A woman kneels between his spread thighs, her blonde hair bobbing as she works him with her mouth.

My body turns to stone when his eyes snap open—pale blue, piercing—and pin me in place.

The growl that rumbles from his chest vibrates through my bones.

He doesn't stop the woman. Doesn't cover himself. Just watches me watch them, his gaze tracking the flush spreading down my throat, the way my chest rises and falls with each shallow breath.

"Stop." The single word carries enough command to make the woman pull back instantly. His cock springs free—thick, glistening, impossibly large—and my thighs clench involuntarily.

"Get out," he tells her, never looking away from me.

She scrambles to her feet and slips past me without a word, and I should run too, I should apologize and disappear, but my legs refuse to obey.

He rises to his full height—seven feet of carved muscle and barely leashed violence. Instead of tucking himself away, he strokes himself once, deliberately, watching my eyes follow the movement.

His eyes never leave mine as he drinks in my dilated pupils, my rapid breathing, the flush spreading down my neck. His gaze drops lower, tracing the curves my thin uniform fails to hide, and something shifts in his expression.

"Close the door."

My hand moves without my permission, pushing it shut behind me. Trapping myself with him.

"Come here."

My feet betray me, carrying me forward close enough to see the veins pulsing along his still-exposed length until he finally, slowly, tucks himself back into his pants.

"Your scent," he murmurs, stalking closer. Each step he takes shrinks the room until there's nothing left but him. "It's... strange."

His hand reaches toward my face, and years of instinct make me flinch, bracing for pain. But his palm cups my jaw with unexpected gentleness, his massive hand tilting my face up toward his.

"What's your name, little wolf?"

"I'm nobody." The words tumble out. "Just a servant, sir. I apologize for the intrusion, I was looking for the wine cellar and—"

"Name." His eyes flash, and my heart skips a beat.

"Morgan," I whisper.

"Morgan." He repeats it like he's tasting it, rolling the syllables across his tongue.

He steps closer still, close enough that I have to crane my neck to maintain eye contact, close enough that I can feel his erection press against my stomach through my uniform, hot and insistent.