The Scorned Luna-Chapter 65: Interest

Bowing her head, Sofia followed them inside.

​Damien didn’t look at her. He didn’t acknowledge her presence at all. Instead, he smiled at his uncle and gestured for him to join him upstairs, leaving Sofia standing alone in the living room.

​As Damien and his uncle turned to leave, Alaric paused. He looked back. His gaze settled on Sofia, sharp and unreadable. For a brief second, their eyes met. A strange chill ran down her spine, and Sofia quickly looked away, swallowing hard. She didn’t understand why his stare unsettled her so deeply—but it did.

​She had never met Alpha Alaric before, but she knew him through Damien’s stories. Damien spoke of him with respect, even admiration. Alaric had been the one who trained him, the one who shaped him into the Alpha he was.

​But there were other stories too.

​Rumors claimed that Alaric was ruthless. Cold. A man who rarely smiled and never forgave easily.

​Fear crept into Sofia’s chest.

​What if Damien told him everything?

​What if he told him she was a murderer?

​Would he hate her too?

​"Hey! You! I’m talking to you!" Martha, the head of the kitchen, snapped her fingers in front of Sofia’s face.

​"I... I’m sorry," Sofia whispered, clutching the trench coat tighter around her body. She took one last, trembling look up the stairs, but Alaric was already following Damien into the shadows of the upper hallway.

​"Don’t ’sorry’ me," Martha grumbled, grabbing Sofia by the arm and leading her toward the back of the house. "You’ve been gone for days, and the Alpha is back with a guest. That means work. Move!"

​Once they reached the servants’ quarters, Martha shoved a coarse, grey cotton uniform into Sofia’s hands. "Change. Now. And give me that coat and whatever is left of that gown. You look like a harlot who survived a shipwreck."

​Sofia ducked into a small changing room, her hands shaking as she unbuttoned the heavy coat. When it fell away, the cool air hit her skin, making her shiver. She looked at herself in the cracked mirror—her heavy breasts were still flushed from Damien’s mouth, and the full, curvy line of her hips bore the faint red marks of his fingers. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly, brutally claimed.

​She quickly pulled on the drab maid’s dress. It was tight across her ample chest and strained against her voluptuous hips, but it felt like a shield compared to the ruined silk.

​Upstairs, Alaric sat in a leather armchair in Damien’s study, but he wasn’t listening to whatever Damien was saying. His wolf was pacing, growling low in his gut. He had seen many women in his long, brutal life, but none had made his blood boil like that girl.

​"Damien," Alaric interrupted, his voice like grinding stones. "The girl. The one you call a slave. Who is she really?"

​Damien paused, a glass of whiskey halfway to his lips. His eyes darkened. "She’s a murderer. She killed her own sister."

​Alaric felt a sharp pang of disbelief. He had expected Damien to say she was a spy or a common thief. But a murderer? He thought of her sea-blue eyes—they were full of pain, yes, but not the coldness of a killer.

​"She doesn’t look like a murderer, Damien," Alaric said, his gaze narrowing. "She looks like she’s been through hell."

​"She’s a master of deception," Damien spat, the alcohol making him more aggressive. "Don’t let those cute eyes and that innocent face fool you, Uncle."

​Alaric wanted to argue more, but he decided to let things be and not create any tension.

​"So how long are you staying, Uncle?" Damien asked.

​Alaric frowned. "Stop calling me Uncle; it makes me feel so old. I told you, call me Alaric."

​Damien laughed and took a sip of his drink. He knew his uncle hated him addressing him with that title, but what could he do? He was used to it.

​Just then, a knock came on the door. Damien perceived her before she even pushed the door open.

​Sofia kept her head bowed as she set the tray down, her hands still trembling from fear. The grey maid’s dress was so tight it made her ample chest feel restricted, and as she leaned over the mahogany table, the fabric strained dangerously over her hips.

​In her nervousness, her sleeve caught the edge of a glass. With a sharp clatter, the whiskey spilled across the table, soaking into Damien’s shoes.

​"You clumsy bitch!" Damien hissed, his hand flying out to grip her arm, his eyes flashing with annoyance. "Can’t you do one thing right?"

​Sofia gasped, her knees hitting the floor as she scrambled to wipe the mess with her apron. "I’m sorry, Alpha... I’m so sorry."

​"It was a mistake, Damien. Let her be," Alaric’s voice echoed through the walls of the room.

​Damien recoiled slightly at his uncle’s tone, his grip loosening. Alaric didn’t wait for permission. He stood up and reached down, his hand wrapping around Sofia’s forearm. He didn’t pull her roughly; he lifted her with a steady, grounding strength.

​As Sofia stood, her eyes met Alaric’s. Her heart hammered against her ribs—a wild, erratic beat she couldn’t explain. She saw the hardness in his face, the scars of a warrior, but in his eyes, there was a strange, piercing gentleness. He saw the bruises Damien had left on her wrists and the raw pain hidden behind her sea-blue gaze.

​This girl is no murderer, Alaric thought, his wolf humming with a protective ferocity he hadn’t felt in decades.

​"Go," Alaric said softly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Clean yourself up."

​Sofia nodded frantically and fled the room, the heat of his gaze burning into her back until the door clicked shut.

​Alaric turned back to Damien, his expression darkening. He paced the length of the study, his presence dwarfing the room. "I didn’t bring you up this way, Damien," he growled. "You lived with me for three years. You learned the art of war, the art of leadership... but it seems you learned nothing of honor."

​Damien scowled, draining the rest of his glass. "Honor? She killed Lola. She deserves whatever she gets."

​Alaric stepped closer, leaning over the desk until he was face-to-face with the younger Alpha. "You say she is your slave... but what kind of slave is she, Damien? I smelled the air in that SUV when you arrived. I see the way you look at her when you think I’m not watching. Is she a prisoner of your justice, or a prisoner of your bed?"

​Damien’s jaw tightened, his possessive instincts flaring. "She is whatever I need her to be to pay her debt."

​Alaric let out a cold, dry chuckle. "Careful, boy. A man who confuses punishment with passion often ends up a slave to the very woman he’s trying to break."

​Damien didn’t respond; rather, he went for another drink.

​"I’ll see you later. I need to take some fresh air," Alaric said before leaving the room.

​Alaric descended the stairs, his mind a turbulent storm. Every instinct he possessed as an Alpha was screaming at him. He had spent years on the front lines, killing without hesitation and leading men through blood and bone, yet he had never felt a pull as magnetic—or as troubling—as the one he felt for Sofia.

​A murderer? his mind echoed. He didn’t believe it. He had seen the eyes of killers; they were hollow, or perhaps filled with a sick flick of pride. Sofia’s eyes were pools of drowning sorrow, reflecting a soul that had been crushed under the weight of a lie.

​And the scent. God, the scent of her was everywhere. It made his wolf snarl in his gut, a primal urge to rip his own nephew away from her.

​As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the harsh, grating voice of Martha echoed through the living room.

​"You worthless girl! Look at this mess! You spend more time daydreaming than working. If I see you slip up one more time, I’ll have the Alpha put you in the pits!" Martha was towering over Sofia, who was hunched over, her body trembling as she tried to scrub a faint mark off the rug.

​Alaric stopped, his shadow falling over them like a dark omen. Martha froze, her face instantly paling as she realized the legendary, brutal Alpha was standing right there.

​"That’s enough," Alaric said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated the floorboards.

​"Alpha... I was just—" Martha stammered, stepping back.

​Alaric didn’t even look at the head maid. His eyes were locked onto Sofia. She looked up, her lips parted in surprise, her heavy breasts heaving beneath the tight grey fabric of the uniform. The sight of her on her knees, so vulnerable and yet so curvaceous and soft, made a heat flare in his loins that he hadn’t felt in years.

​"Sofia," he said, the name rolling off his tongue. "Forget the floor. Bring a glass of cold juice to my room immediately."

​He didn’t wait for her answer. He turned on his heel and walked back upstairs, his heart thudding a heavy, rhythmic beat. He knew what he was doing was dangerous. He knew Damien was possessive, and he knew the girl was technically "property" in this house. But he didn’t care.

​Alaric entered his guest suite and left the door slightly ajar. He shed his heavy leather jacket, standing in a simple black shirt that strained against his massive, scarred chest. He stood by the window, staring out at the jagged mountains.

​Minutes later, a soft, hesitant knock came at the door. Sofia stepped inside, carrying a crystal glass on a small silver tray. She looked terrified, her eyes darting around the room, but as they landed on Alaric, she seemed to go still.

​"Your juice, Alpha Alaric," she whispered.

​As she walked toward him, the tight maid’s dress rode up slightly, showcasing the voluptuous curve of her hips and the soft, thick line of her thighs. Alaric felt his self-control slipping. He didn’t take the glass. Instead, he reached out and took the tray from her hands, setting it on a nearby table without breaking eye contact.

"Tell me the truth, Sofia," Alaric said, stepping into her personal space until she was pinned between him and the wall. He could smell her clearly now—honey, rain, and the faint, lingering musk of Damien’s recent claim. "Did you kill your sister?"