Zaria Blackwood stared at the towering iron gates of Vane Estate like they were the gates of hell—and maybe they were.
Rain slicked the black bars, streaking down like tears over rusted steel. Beyond, the massive house loomed in the gray morning like a predator crouched in wait.
Her stomach clenched. She hadn't eaten since yesterday.
The bus had left her three miles back, and she'd walked every step through mud and pounding rain, humiliation sticking to her like the wet clothes on her body. Her shoes squelched with each movement, her socks soaked, and her thin coat clung to her skin like a second layer of punishment. Her hair—thick, curly, wild—was plastered to her scalp, dripping water down her spine until she shivered.
In her pocket, the letter was damp, but she could still feel its weight like a curse. She didn't need to pull it out. The words were etched into her brain:
"You are hereby required to report for employment to fulfill the outstanding debt owed by your late father, Thomas Blackwood."
Her throat tightened, and she squeezed her eyes shut for just a moment.
Her father.
The man who had devoted twenty years of his life to the Wolfes—faithful, hardworking, never missing a day—until they accused him of embezzlement. Fired him without proof. Blacklisted him until no other employer would take him. Three months later, he was dead. A heart attack, they'd said. But Zaria knew the truth.
Grief had killed him. Shame had finished the job.
And now, the punishment had fallen to her.
Her jaw set. She wasn't here for pity. She was here because survival demanded it.
The gates creaked open with a deep, metallic groan. The sound sent a shiver crawling down her spine. She stepped forward, legs trembling even though her back remained straight.
She couldn't turn back. She had nowhere else to go.
The mansion loomed ahead—dark stone, ivy strangling its walls, black glass windows that reflected nothing. It looked less like a home and more like a tomb for secrets.
A storm rumbled in the distance as Zaria mounted the steps. Before she could knock, the door swung open.
"You're late," snapped a voice like a whip.
A woman stood in the doorway, gray hair pulled into a severe bun, cheekbones sharp enough to slice, eyes narrowing in distaste. She looked Zaria up and down as if she were mud tracked across polished marble.
"I'm—"
"No excuses." The woman shoved a folded bundle into her arms. "Uniform. Schedule. Map. You'll address me as Mrs. Flint. I run this household, and if you value this job, you'll follow my rules."
Zaria's lips parted, but she thought better of speaking. She only nodded.
"Good." Mrs. Flint's gaze turned colder still. "And one more thing. You will never step foot in the East Wing. That part of the estate is forbidden. Do you understand?"
Zaria frowned. "What's in the East Wing?"
The woman's spine stiffened, her expression tightening. "Nothing you need concern yourself with."
With that, she turned sharply, heels clicking against the marble as she led Zaria to the servants' quarters.
The room was tiny. A cot, a dusty desk, and a window that refused to open. The air smelled faintly of mildew.
Zaria set the bundle down and unfolded the uniform. Gray slacks, black blouse, estate crest stitched at the chest. It was too tight, of course. Life seemed determined to make a joke of her at every turn. She changed quickly, tying her damp curls into a bun, breathing through the knot in her stomach.
You've survived worse. You can survive this. Clean. Work. Survive.
⸻
By noon, her hands were raw.
She had vacuumed three sitting rooms, polished wooden banisters until her reflection gleamed back at her, dusted sculptures worth more than her father's entire house, and scrubbed a bathroom until it sparkled.
Still, she had not glimpsed Lucien Wolfe.
The mysterious, cold-blooded billionaire who owned half the city. The man who had ruined her father's name, destroyed her own future, and made her untouchable to every other employer.
She should hate him. She did hate him. And yet… curiosity burned hotter than rage.
What kind of man lived in a fortress like this?
By the fifth hour, her legs ached so badly she thought they might give out. She pushed open the last guest room door—
And froze.
A sound.
Low. Feral.
A growl.
It rolled through the floor like thunder trapped in stone.
Her breath caught.
Another growl. Louder. Closer.
Her eyes flicked toward the hallway. Toward the forbidden East Wing.
Her pulse stuttered.
No. Don't. Don't even think about it.
But her body betrayed her.
Step by step, she followed the sound down the corridor. The deeper she went, the darker the house became. Wallpaper peeled from damp walls. Floorboards groaned beneath her weight. The luxury of the estate melted away into something older, hungrier.
She reached the double doors at the end. Black. Slightly ajar.
Her fingers trembled as she pushed them open.
⸻
Lucien Wolfe was on his knees.
Shirtless. Drenched in sweat. Muscles trembling with strain. His hands clawed at the marble floor as though fighting something inside himself.
Then his body convulsed. His spine arched with a crack. Skin rippled. Fingers twisted into claws. His jaw stretched impossibly wide.
Zaria's breath snagged in her chest.
Golden eyes blazed in the dark.
Lucien's head snapped toward her.
In a blur, he was across the room, his hand slamming the wall beside her head, caging her in. His body radiated heat, so scorching she could feel it in her bones. His chest heaved, breaths ragged, animal.
"I didn't mean—" she whispered, voice breaking.
He inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. His gaze dragged down her neck.
"You shouldn't smell like that," he rasped, voice low and hoarse.
Her lips trembled. "Smell like what?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, his head dipped, his lips brushed her skin—
And then his teeth sank into her throat.
Zaria gasped, a cry torn between fear and something she couldn't name. Fire ignited in her veins, searing, endless. Her knees buckled, the world spinning out of control.
Heat spread from the wound, golden, burning, alive.
And then it seared into permanence.
A mark.
A crescent brand glowing faintly against her skin, pulsing with unnatural rhythm.
Lucien staggered back, horror etched across his face.
"No," he choked. "No, no, no. This can't be happening."
Her fingers pressed the mark, her chest heaving. "What… what did you do?"
His golden eyes darkened with torment. "I didn't mean to. It was instinct. The bond—" His breath hitched. "You're not supposed to be my mate."
The word ricocheted inside her skull. Mate.
Her father's destroyer. Her enemy. Her fated mate?
Her throat tightened. "Undo it. Take it back."
His jaw clenched. "It doesn't work that way."
She stumbled back, chest heaving.
His voice dropped to a growl. "Forget this happened. I'll pay your father's debt. You're free to go."
"I don't want your pity!" she snapped.
"It's not pity." His golden eyes burned. "It's protection."
"From what?"
He leaned closer, his voice a whisper of danger. "From me."
⸻
That night, Zaria curled into her cot, shaking. The mark throbbed like a second heartbeat.
Sleep was no escape. Her dreams spun into shadows and wolves, eyes gleaming gold, a voice whispering her name.
When she woke gasping, her hand shot to her neck. The mark pulsed beneath her touch.
Something inside her had changed.
Something dangerous.
She wasn't just Zaria Blackwood anymore.
She was marked. Bound.
And Lucien Wolfe—the man who had ruined her life—had just sealed her fate.