Leila POV

I don't know how I ended up here. Well, I know the how – Alpha Kai’s warriors found me crumpled on their border, unconscious, four silver bullets lodged in my gut, their searing poison nearly stealing my life. The Alpha, with his unyielding sense of duty, took me in, offering sanctuary to a stranger with no past. But how I became Elvira’s personal errand-girl? That’s a mystery even the Moon Goddess couldn’t unravel. “Leila!” Her shrill voice pierces the kitchen’s clatter—pots clanging, knives chopping, the low hum of pack members bustling through the packhouse. I roll my eyes, muttering under my breath, “What now?” as I swirl the wooden spoon through a bubbling pot of tomato soup, its rich red surface flecked with herbs.

The sharp click of Elvira’s heels announces her before she sweeps into the kitchen, her smug air as polished as her manicured nails. Most she-wolves shun perfume—it dulls our natural scent, the essence that defines us and calls to a mate. A mate I’ll likely never find with Aria silent inside me. But Elvira’s drenched in some cloying French concoction, a floral assault that stings my nose. She plants her hands on her hips, her dress straining over her pregnant belly, her blue eyes narrowed beneath lashes so thick they looked fake enough to sweep the hardwood floor. “Where have you been?” she whines, her voice dripping with exaggerated distress, as if I’ve personally betrayed her. “I’ve been looking for you all morning! The Alpha’s bedding hasn’t been changed, and my hospital bag needs sorting for the pup!”

I bite back a sharp retort, my grip tightening on the spoon, the wood smooth and warm against my palm. Everyone in the packhouse knows that Alpha Kai put her in the guest room next to his, not his bed—she’s no Luna, despite her relentless posturing. “I’ll ask household to bring clean bedding,” I say, keeping my tone neutral, though irritation simmers beneath my skin. “And I’ll check your bag after lunch prep.”

Elvira huffs, pursing her lips, but her head snaps toward the hallway at the sound of the Alpha’s deep voice, drifting from the dining hall. Her expression shifts, a calculating gleam in her eyes, and she scurries off, heels clicking furiously, no doubt to pester him about her supposed “heir.” Pack gossip swears she threw herself at him after a full moon run, claiming he was drunk, a feat near impossible for werewolves with our iron metabolisms. We usually only conceive with bonded mates, so her pregnancy raises sceptical brows across the pack. Yet Alpha Kai, being ever the honourable Alpha, took responsibility, letting her stay in the packhouse until the pup arrives in six weeks. Her Luna act fools no one, but I’m stuck playing her maid because Alpha, with his kind grey eyes, asked me to help her settle in—a request I couldn’t refuse, not when he’s given me a home.

I stir the soup, its rhythmic swirl calming my frayed nerves, but my thoughts drift to darker waters.

Five years ago, I woke in the pack hospital. Dr. Nolan extracted four silver bullets from my gut – each one laced with poison meant to kill or suppress a wolf. He called my survival a miracle. Atlas, Alpha’s wolf, sensed Aria inside me, but she’s been buried deep ever since, silent, leaving me half a werewolf with dull senses and a past stolen by amnesia.

Miss Ophelia nursed me back to health, taking me in as her own, her love filling the void where memories should be. After graduating high school and Werewolf College with a business administration degree, I landed here - in the kitchen, under her no-nonsense rule. Demoted to stirring after this morning’s toast-burning fiasco.

“Shouldn’t you be stirring, not staring into that pot like it holds the Moon Goddess’s secrets?” Dax, our Beta, leans against the doorframe, his broad frame filling the space, chewing a piece of my infamously burnt toast with a smirk that could charm a rogue. His eyes glinting with mischief.

“Shouldn’t you be training warriors, not scavenging my mistakes?” I shoot back, fishing blackened bits from the soup with a grimace, praying Miss Ophelia doesn’t notice another disaster on my watch.

“A wolf’s got to eat, even if it’s charred to ash,” Dax says, deflecting my glare with a grin, his boots scuffing the worn floorboards as he tosses the toast crust into his mouth. Miss Ophelia bustles in, her bread-and-herbs scent a warm embrace, her apron dusted with flour from dawn’s baking. “Leila, child, don’t let that soup burn!” she scolds, waving her wooden spoon like a sceptre, her eyes narrowing. Then her face softens, a smile crinkling her weathered cheeks. “You’re doing fine, Girl Child, but keep that fire low.”