Page 2 of Alpha's Exiled Mate

She always called me that— “my little wolf”—as if I were a true werewolf, not a broken one who couldn’t shift. To Martha, my flaw wasn’t a mark of shame; it was just a part of me, like my golden hair and green eyes.

“They’ve given me too much work again,” I confided, my voice barely above a whisper.

Martha’s expression hardened. She shook her head, brushing a stray lock of my hair back. “They know it’s impossible. They just want an excuse to punish you.” She turned quickly, pulling a warm bread roll from the oven and pressing it into my hands with a deft motion, as if adjusting my collar. “Here, eat it. You’ll need your strength today.”

The roll was soft and fragrant, laced with butter and honey—a luxury meant for the manor’s masters, not a slave like me. Martha risked severe punishment by giving me such things.

“You shouldn’t take the risk,” I said, worry creeping into my voice, though I couldn’t resist taking a bite. The warmth melted on my tongue, and for a moment, I felt like crying.

Martha smiled, shaking her head, her expression maternal in a way I’d never known. “I’m old, Lilia. They need my cooking, so I can afford to take a few chances.” Her voice softened further. “Besides, you remind me of my daughter.”

It was the first time she’d ever mentioned her family. I stared at her, my mouth still full of bread, stunned.

“It was a long time ago,” she said, her eyes clouding with sorrow. “She has beautiful green eyes similar to yours. The plague took her.”

She patted my hand gently. “But now I have you, my little wolf.”

My throat tightened, and I didn’t know what to say. Martha’s kindness was the only warmth in my life. Without her, I might have given in to despair long ago.

“The kitchen’s busy today,” she continued, shifting the subject. “Royal messengers are coming—something about a betrothal.”

“A betrothal?” I asked, swallowing the last bite of bread.

Martha leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Rumor has it Miss Viossi is to marry Prince Perock.”

I gasped. Prince Perock? The man whispered to have killed his four previous wives?

“That’s awful,” I whispered. “The rumors about him…”

“Shh,” Martha hushed me, glancing nervously toward the door. “Walls have ears.” She handed me a rag. “The head maid will be here soon. Get to work—start with the east wing. It’s the priority today.”

Just then, footsteps echoed at the kitchen door. Martha spun back to her stove, and I grabbed a bucket, pretending to fill it with water.

The head maid, Ella, strode in, her sharp eyes scanning us like a hawk. “You’re late, Lilia. Important guests are coming today, and this manor must be spotless. You’re responsible for the east wing’s corridors and the main parlor.”

“Yes, Ella,” I replied softly, keeping my eyes down. “Bella also said I need to clean the stables and—”

“I don’t care what Bella says,” Ella snapped, cutting me off. “If you can’t finish your tasks, that’s your failure. I don’t want excuses—I want results.”

She shoved me as she turned to leave, my shoulder slamming into the wall. Pain flared, but I bit my lip to hide it.

Martha sidled up to me as soon as Ella was gone, squeezing my hand gently. “Don’t take it to heart, dear. She’s like that with everyone.” She slipped another small piece of sweet bread into my pocket, whispering, “Hide this. You’ll need it this afternoon. And keep your eyes and ears open—something’s off in the manor today.”

I nodded gratefully, tucking the bread away.

“Be careful, my little wolf,” Martha said, her eyes full of worry. “And remember, no matter what happens, you’re stronger than they know.”

Her words gave me a spark of courage, though I wasn’t sure why she felt the need to say them.

The east wing’s corridors were grand and silent, lined with towering portraits of Thornfield ancestors, their cold eyes seeming to follow my every move. I knelt on the icy marble floor, scrubbing until it gleamed, my hands red and wrinkled from the soapy water. My knuckles bled from the constant scraping, but I didn’t dare stop.

A familiar set of footsteps broke the silence, and my heart sank. Miss Viossi.

“Well, look at you, making a mess,” she drawled, yawning as if she’d just rolled out of bed. Clearly, she hadn’t yet heard about the royal decree. The servants wouldn’t dare tell her.

She feigned surprise. “You’re doing such a terrible job, my shoes are getting dirty.”

I kept my head down. “I’m sorry, Miss Viossi. I’ll clean it again.”