Chapter 7 The House of the cursed

Mira

The first morning in the Dramen manor arrived in silence.

No knock.

No breakfast, Trey.

No instructions.

Just the distant sound of howling - long, deep, and mournful, echoing across the pine hills.

I sat up slowly, the unfamiliar weight of a velvet blanket falling from my shoulders. The room was dim, the curtains still open from last night, letting in soft grey light.

It took me a moment to remember where I was.

The mark was warm, faintly glowing.

Again.

I rose, washed my face in the marble sink, and changed into a black servant uniform that had appeared outside my door sometime in the night. A small note had been left with it:

"You will report to the west wall kitchen by sunrise. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will avoid contact with the Alpha at all times."

That last line made something twist in my stomach.

Avoid contact?

I hadn't even been allowed to speak to him.

What was I here for then?

Entertainment? Servitude?

Or something worse?

The manor was a living maze-endless hallways of dark, dark stone and moonlit silence. Everything echoed. My footsteps, my breath, even my heartbeat felt loud.

There was no portrait on the walls. No music. No laughter. It was as if joy had been scrubbed from the place long ago.

In the kitchen I met the others.

They didn't speak much.

All wore the same black uniforms, their eyes sunken and quiet. A few had faded bite marks on their shoulders, and I noticed how they flinched every time boots echoed down the corridor outside.

No one said Evan's name aloud.

They called him only "the Alpha".

And when he passed - as he did that day in a flash black coat and silver-ringed eyes - everyone lowered their gaze.

Including me.

His presence didn't just fill a room. It swallowed it whole.

And as he walked past the archway of the kitchen, his gaze flicked in - just once - catching the pale gleam of my hair.

He didn't stop.

But I knew he saw me.

I knew.

Because the mark in my back flared, hot as lightning beneath my skin.

That night, sleep didn't come.

I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, the fire in the heart flickering low. I couldn't stop hearing the words of the staff, whispering under their breath between chopping vegetables and scrubbing cauldrons.

"He's nearing twenty-five."

"I don't think he'll make it past that age."

"He stopped taking the medicine two months ago ... says he doesn't care anymore."

"He shifts now - without warning. No control. No mercy."

Were the rumours real?

Evan Draven... He wasn't just waiting to die.

He was preparing for it.

Sometime past midnight, I slipped from my bed and crept to the window.

The ground outside was glowing under the pale moon. A shadow moved near the cliff edge - broad shoulders, silver eyes reflecting like a mirror in the dark.

Evan.

Standing alone. Shirtless again.

He raised his face to the sky. His body shook-as if something inside him wanted out.

And then.

He screamed.

Not like a man.

Like a wolf tearing through human skin, mourning something I could not hear.

I stepped back from the window, hand over my mouth.

Something cold pressed against the mark on my wrist. It pulsed then dimmed.

And for the first time in years...

I felt something I hadn't felt since my mother died.

Fear.

Real, raw, ancient fear.

Not if being bullied.

Not of being hated.

But if being tied to something I didn't understand.

Something powerful.

Something broken.

And very, very alive.

I remembered I'd met him before the Crescent Hill gala.