The Lycan's Stolen Bride

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Morning came too fast. Callie had barely slept, her body aching from the night before, her mind still turning over the sitting room and the general and the strange assignment waiting for her once his stay properly began. She lay on the narrow cot staring at the ceiling until a sharp knock rattled her door.

"Get up," a maid's voice called from the hall. "You're needed."

Callie sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes. "Needed for what?"

The door opened without waiting for an answer. It was one of the older maids, a tired looking woman named Greta who had worked in the house longer than Callie had been alive. She held a folded bundle of gray fabric in her arms and tossed it onto the cot without much care.

"There's a small gathering tonight," Greta said. "Some of the Madam's friends, some of Rowena's friends, a few guests still staying from the ceremony talks. The family doesn't want to pay for outside help, so you'll serve."

Callie looked down at the bundle. It was a uniform, plain and gray, the kind worn by the lowest staff in the house. She picked it up and held it against herself. It was too big in the shoulders and too short at the hem, like it had been made for someone else entirely and only handed down because no one cared enough to find her a proper size.

"Wear it," Greta said, already turning to leave. "Be ready by six. You stay in the back rooms unless you're carrying a tray. You don't speak unless spoken to, and you don't linger by any of the guests. Understood?"

"Understood," Callie said quietly.

Greta paused at the door, glancing back at her once, something almost like pity crossing her face before she smoothed it away. "It's just a party, girl. Keep your head down and it'll be over before you know it."

Then she was gone, and Callie was left alone with the uniform in her hands.

She dressed slowly that evening, tugging the fabric into place as best she could, rolling the sleeves so they did not hang past her wrists. She looked at herself for a moment in the small cracked mirror propped against the wall, barely recognizing the girl staring back. Thin face, tired eyes, a uniform that did not fit, hair pulled back plain and practical. Two years ago she would have cried at the sight of herself dressed like this. Now she just tied her hair tighter and walked out the door.

The main house had transformed by the time she reached the kitchen. Candles lined the hallways, soft gold light spilling across polished floors. Laughter drifted from the sitting room and the garden terrace, glasses clinking, music playing low from somewhere near the back of the house. Servants moved briskly through the halls carrying trays of food and wine, and Callie was handed one almost immediately, a silver tray lined with small glasses of pale gold wine.

"Terrace first," another maid told her, pushing past with her own tray. "Then the sitting room. Don't stop moving."

Callie nodded and carried the tray out toward the terrace, stepping carefully so nothing spilled. The garden had been strung with soft lights, guests scattered in small clusters, laughing, talking, dressed in fine clothes that cost more than Callie had earned in her entire life at the camp. She kept her eyes low, offering the tray politely whenever someone reached for a glass, careful never to linger, never to be seen as more than a hand holding silver.

She spotted her mother first, laughing warmly with a cluster of older women, playing the picture of a devoted mother thrilled to have her daughter home safe. She spotted her father next, deep in conversation with two men Callie did not recognize, nodding along seriously, the picture of a concerned patriarch. Rowena stood near the center of the terrace, glowing under the string lights, surrounded by friends who fawned over her like she was the only person in the world worth admiring.

Callie moved past them all without a flicker of reaction on her face. She had learned that much in two years, how to become invisible in plain sight, how to let cruelty and falseness wash past her without letting either one land.

She was refilling a glass near the edge of the terrace when she saw him.