A Wolf's Heart, A vampire's Vow

The iron gates of the Thorne estate creaked open with a sound like bones grinding in stone. Lydia kept her head lowered as she stepped through, her boots crunching softly against the gravel path. The estate loomed ahead,three stories of dark timber and stone, with tall windows that watched like eyes and a long verandah draped in ivy. The Thorne family crest, a silver wolf mid-howl, was carved into the front doors. She'd dreamed of this place before. Or maybe feared it was more accurate. Not even the cloak of illusion the witch's necklace gave her could calm her nerves now.

The charm had hidden her scent as promised, masking her as human, muting the thrum of undead blood in her veins. But it couldn't hide the truth from herself. She was a vampire walking into the heart of a werewolf sanctuary. If even one rune on this estate was designed to detect her kind... She gripped the strap of her satchel tighter. Breathe. One step at a time. Play the role. The massive oak doors opened before she could knock. A woman stood there, tall and unsmiling, with auburn hair pulled into a severe bun and a posture as stiff as polished wood. "You must be Lydia Morn," she said crisply. Her eyes flicked over Lydia's figure in a professional scan.. not cruel, but not warm either. Lydia bowed her head slightly. "Yes, ma'am." "I'm Mrs. Whitlow. Head of household. You will report to me every morning at six. You will not speak unless spoken to by the family. You will not go upstairs without permission, and you will not ask questions." She stepped aside. "Come." The interior of the Thorne estate was less brutal than Lydia expected, but no less intimidating. The entrance hall was cathedral-high, with black stone floors and tall chandeliers that cast golden pools of light. A grand staircase spiraled up to the second floor, and the air held a faint scent of pine, firewood, and something deeper, something animal. It prickled her instincts. She kept her breathing steady as Mrs. Whitlow led her through the hall, past portraits of Alphas long dead, their golden eyes painted with too much realism. The house was alive with quiet movement ,other servants hurrying with trays and linens, guards in dark uniforms posted at doors, their senses sharpened. Wolves. All of them. Lydia had never been surrounded by so many werewolves in her life. Her muscles remained tense beneath her plain gray dress, each footstep measured. "Your quarters are in the east wing," Mrs. Whitlow said. "Shared with the junior staff. You've been assigned as a personal maid to Master Duncan. He prefers his space kept orderly, and his routines are to be learned quickly. You'll be working under Mrs. Halston, the senior personal attendant." Lydia's mouth went dry. Assigned to Duncan Thorne himself. She had hoped desperately to be given some distant post: laundry rooms, kitchens, even stable cleaning. Anywhere else but this. "Yes, ma'am," she murmured. Mrs. Whitlow stopped outside a small room with a narrow bed and a tall window that faced the edge of the woods. "You'll find your uniform inside. Be in the kitchens at five-thirty tomorrow. Dismissed." The door shut behind her, and for the first time since entering Ravenglade, Lydia let herself breathe fully. She crossed the room in two steps and sank onto the edge of the bed. Her hand went to the necklace beneath her collar, fingers pressing against the pulsing charm. Still warm. Still cloaked. You're safe for now. But how long can you keep it up? That night, Lydia didn't sleep. She lay in the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling while the sounds of the manor whispered around her ,footsteps above, doors creaking down the hall, the howl of a distant wolf echoing through the trees. She hadn't heard that sound in years. And it was beautiful. Not because it was mournful or wild, but because it was alive. So few of her kind remained now. Vampires didn't howl. They hid. They whispered. They ran. But werewolves ..they had been given the freedom to live, to sing under the moon as if the night itself belonged to them. She didn't realize she was crying until she tasted salt on her lips. Her first morning in the estate began before dawn. The uniform was simple, a charcoal dress with white cuffs, a high collar, and an apron tied at the waist. She pulled her hair into a braid, slipped on black shoes, and stepped into the halls with her head down and her eyes open. The kitchen was bustling. Steam hissed from pots. A heavy-set woman with broad shoulders barked orders at a line of maids and kitchen boys. "You're the new one?" she snapped when she saw Lydia. "Don't just stand there like a ghost. Chop those carrots!" Lydia obeyed without protest, sliding into rhythm as if she'd done this her whole life. She'd learned a thousand practical skills under Isolde, chopping, sewing, cleaning, blending into a room. A vampire couldn't afford to be noticed. Especially not now. At seven o'clock sharp, she was summoned to the main stairwell where Mrs. Halston, a sharp-eyed woman in her forties, waited. "Master Duncan has returned from patrol," she said. "He'll expect his study aired, his breakfast delivered by eight, and his armor cleaned by noon." Lydia nodded. "Yes, ma'am." Mrs. Halston gave her a long look. "You're quiet." "I prefer to listen." "Good. You'll last longer that way." Duncan Thorne's study was on the second floor, a large, wood-paneled room lined with bookshelves and weapon racks. The scent of wolf was strongest here, leather, steel, and something pine-wild and electric beneath it all. Lydia paused at the threshold. Her heart thrummed once, hard. No footsteps. No breathing. He wasn't here. She moved quickly, opening the tall windows, sweeping the hearth, arranging the cushions on the wide armchair that sat by the fire. She spotted a half-polished dagger on the desk and hesitated. The steel gleamed with ancient runes. Silver. She could feel it in her bones. She used a cloth to gently move it aside, careful not to touch the metal directly. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but she stayed calm. Stay unnoticed. Stay harmless. The door opened. She froze. He didn't speak at first. Just stood in the doorway, still and tall, his presence filling the room like a shift in pressure. Lydia didn't look up. She could feel him though ,the power rolling off him in quiet waves. His scent was sharper than the others. Clean, crisp, edged with something darker. Moonlight and storm winds. "Continue," he said after a pause. His voice was deep, low-pitched, but not unkind. She resumed her work ,fluffing the final pillow, adjusting the curtains. Still not looking up. "You're the new maid?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "You smell like rain." Lydia's breath caught. "I was caught in a drizzle this morning," she lied smoothly. Silence. Then: "Hm." He crossed to the desk. She turned slightly, enough to glimpse him without being obvious. Duncan Thorne. He was... striking. Not just handsome, but carved ,as though he'd been shaped by the wind and war. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark patrol leathers with the Thorne crest stitched across his chest. His jaw was dusted with stubble, his hair dark and tousled as if the forest still clung to him. But it was his eyes that unsettled her. Gold. Bright, burning gold - the kind only an Alpha's heir could carry. They were intelligent, alert, and far too perceptive. She lowered her gaze quickly. "Name?" he asked. "Lydia, sir." "You've worked in estates before?" "Yes." "Ever served a wolf?" Every day I've feared them, she thought. "No, sir." He watched her for another long moment, then gave a single nod. "Mrs. Halston will give you your rotation. You're dismissed." She bowed her head and turned to leave. Just before she reached the door, he spoke again, more softly this time. "Be careful with the dagger. It's not for humans." She nodded once. "Yes, sir." And stepped out Back in the staff wing, Lydia sat on her bed, her fingers shaking slightly as she unclasped the necklace and whispered a quick recharge spell. Not for humans, he had said. Had he known? Had he sensed something beneath the illusion? No. The charm was still working. Her scent was clean. Her pulse steady. But Duncan Thorne... was not a man easily fooled. She would have to be more careful. Far more careful.