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SERAPHINA

I had a plan.

Work as hard as I could to pay off my debts, and then, I'd travel far away from these lands and start over. Maybe I'd go to a human school and get a degree and a real job that didn't include washing dishes and serving entitled Alphas.

I had it all under control—my life, I mean.

Until I didn't.

More often than not, I've realized that love makes you forget. It changes the very trajectory of your life, and before you know it, someone with so much potential ends up in a horrible, shit position, all because of one decision.

It happened to my mother.

I swore I would never be her as I scattered her ashes through the wind. I swore off men, love and relationships for most of my life—hard to have those when you are juggling six cleaning jobs. And even if I had all the time in the world, I wouldn't have wasted it on pursuing romantics.

Because all men, whether they realized it or not were self-serving pricks.

But I met my mate, a man who lifted me into his arms when my legs failed me and forced his way into my heart. Ronan Callahan, my Alpha.

"He's making an announcement tonight! He's choosing his Luna!" Harriet practically shrieks, and the kitchen explodes into excited chatter.

I keep chopping vegetables as the women argue over which Alpha's daughter it'll be this time.

I'm not bothered. Rumors like this surface all the time.

Ronan is the most eligible bachelor in the South—the Head Alpha.

Everyone wants to be him or mate with him, and the latter is all they talk about these days.

But he wouldn't make the announcement tonight. The ceremony is already a spectacle, and Ronan hates fuss. Plus, he tells me everything, and he hasn't mentioned a word about if he is announcing me as his Luna.

A sharp wave of nausea suddenly coils in my stomach. Bile rises in my throat. I abandon the cutting board, gripping the counter as I wait for the dizziness to pass.

The morning sickness has been getting worse, stretching well into the day and making my nights unbearable.

I would take a day off, but the staff couldn't spare any workers today without solid reason. It is Ronan's ascension as Alpha and the biggest event the South has seen in years. Pregnancy is solid enough, but then, everyone would find out—including Ronan's mother.

She never noticed me until she found out that I spent my nights in Ronan's bedroom.

One confrontation, one sniff and Luna Kaida knew we were mates.

She has hated me ever since. Because Ronan refused to reject me and marry someone of her choosing.

Someone who wasn't some 'lowly' Omega whose wolf was so dormant, she might as well be human.

"You want to be sick, girl, don't do it over the damn tomatoes," the Head Cook snaps at me.

I inhale deeply, ignoring the stares clinging to me. I am dumped with more work, moved from chopping to washing to cooking and soon, the music from the revelry outside swells.

Sweat beads at my temples. The dizziness lingers. I feel faint, overheated, starving, yet disgusted by the sight of food. It's like growing a baby turns your body into your enemy.

I'd kill for a break. Some air. Maybe even a glimpse of Ronan.

He's been gone over a week on pack business. It's never been this long.

I miss him and can't wait to see his face when I tell him I'm pregnant.

"Seraphina."

Luna Kaida's personal maid stands by the door, a permanent scowl pulling her lips down. Nora jerks her head towards the hallway and I drop the knife, rubbing my blister-crusted fingers against the apron as I meander my way out of the kitchen.

"Luna Kaida wants you to attend the ceremony tonight," she says in her usual tone that is leeched of life. "To serve, of course," she adds when my brows furrow in obvious confusion.

I work in the kitchen. I'm never allowed around the guests. Ever. They make Harriet and the more 'tolerable' maids do it. In most parts of our world, Omegas are only good for the dirty work and nothing else.

Runt. Mutt. Inadequate. Lowly.

Those are terms they describe us by. It is why I wish to leave to a place where I am not defined by everything I lack.

"Why?" I ask.

The older woman looks annoyed by the question. "You should be grateful?—"

I smile sweetly. "Well, why don't you go serve them yourself?"

She bristles, flushing with anger and she mutters something under her breath that sounds like 'put in your place tonight', but I don't catch the rest of it.

"It is possible the Alpha names his mate tonight.

She wants you near." She leers at my uniform that's stained with sauce and soup. "And presentable."

I nod, though my mind whirls. I knew he would make the announcement sooner or later, but not this soon. And he didn't mention a thing about it, or hint toward it for that matter.

Returning to my quarters, I swap my uniform for a short black dress and battle my frizz into something manageable. I wipe the soot off my face, reapply mascara, and push away the unease gnawing at me.

Ten minutes later, tray in hand, I weave through the hallways past affluent guests mingling, laughing at Goddess knows what.

The decorated hall soon comes into view and it is as grandiose as it is packed.

Glassware clinks, champagne flutes rise high in the air, laughter drowns out the soft music floating from the mezzanine.

Expensive, rare stones catch the light on the necks of prestigious Lunas from far and wide, and golden cufflinks and brooches hooked to the suits of the wealthiest Alphas and Betas in the world gleam richly.

The air is thick with the scent of tasteful wine and tension, the latter having to do with the group standing on the other side of the hall.

Not once in the long, bloody history of our people have the North and South crossed each other's borders for anything else but war.

And yet, here they are, their presence bleeding unease and tension into every hushed whisper and curious, as well as hostile side glance.

They don't sip the champagne. They don't engage in pleasantries.

They watch. Cold, assessing, and vaguely amused, like we are something to be dissected and still found lacking.

The last thing I want is to walk in that direction, but I have no other choice.

No one else would dare go there, so they sent me, the supposed runt.

I start to make my way across, stealing glances at the dais in search of a particular blonde. I deflate when I don't find him.

He's probably busy with the guests?—

I bump into someone and to avoid spilling the drinks, I grip the tray so hard, it digs lines into my palms. "I'm so sorry—" I halt when my gaze meets honey brown ones and my stomach tightens for a whole different reason.

A small smile creeps onto my lips and if I wasn't holding the tray, I might have jumped right into his arms. I start to tell my boyfriend and mate that I missed him. "Ronan?—"

But he doesn't answer.

Doesn't move.

Doesn't actually acknowledge me at all.

His gaze locks onto mine for the briefest second—a flicker of recognition—before his expression smooths into cold indifference. Then, like I'm nothing, he dismisses me. Turns his head right.

That's when I see her.

The Northern woman perched on his arm, tall and stunning in a way that belongs on magazine covers, her golden silk gown hugging every perfect curve. She leans into him, laughing at something he murmurs, her hand curled possessively around his forearm.

He—They walk past me.

The tray wobbles in my hands and the music, as well as the crowd grow distant as I watch them go. I don't move for several seconds, standing there and wondering what the hell just happened.

It's not the first time Ronan and I have played this game where we act like we don't know each other in the public eye. Before his father died, we agreed to keep our bond a secret because he knew his father would force him into rejecting me and mate him to someone else.

But his father has been dead for three weeks now, and even if his ceremony hasn't been held, he's already taken up the mantle as Alpha.

I expected things would be different, and even if they weren't, he would usually smile a little and brush his fingers against mine in a silent apology.

I understood, I always did. But now, I don't.

All I can think of as I serve the guests is the woman's finger around his arm and her lips brushing against his cheek as she leaned in.

Something cold settles against my chest.

Dread. I don't function well with that particular emotion and it must be why I don't sense it. Him .

Not until he is right beside me, voice harsh and laced with a darkness that causes the fine hair on my arms to rise. " Pathetic ."

I jolt—my entire being jolts—and the sole word drives a sharp blade between my ribs, and I look up and up, gaze clashing with eyes of such deep, dark green, I catch my reflection on its surface. "Excuse me?"

His brows snap up in surprise at my tone.

I couldn't keep the irritation out of it.

"The Vodka," he raises the glass he must've swiped off my tray without my notice.

His eyes run along my frame, not in the heated way men usually stare at me before they realize I'm an Omega and scowl.

His eyes dissect, analyze, and return to mine.

"Tell me, what do you think of Ronan Callahan? "

I blink at the Northern accent. Foolish of me not to notice right away that he isn't from around here.

Not with his features and manner of dressing—the embroidered, regal jacket that looks like a piece out of a medieval movie, the layers of clothing underneath, the pants that are tucked neatly into knee-high boots.

Definitely not from here, not with the prickly, unbearable heat of the South.

"Ron is?—"

"Is he so lax that even the scullery maids give him nicknames?"