Rune
Room 302 was a large, bright space filled with sewing machines, steam and starch. Racks of expensive suits and silk gowns lined the walls.
A woman stood at a long cutting table, a measuring tape draped around her neck. She had a shock of red hair tied back in a messy bun and a face full of friendly freckles. She looked up as Rune entered.
“Ah, you must be him." Her accent was a warm, lyrical Irish lilt. She set down her shears and wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m Iris. The Alpha’s been ringing my ear off about you all morning.’”
She walked around the table, circling Rune slowly.
“God’s sake, you’re a tiny thing, aren’t you? Like a little bird.” She smiled, and for the first time since arriving in London, Rune felt a flicker of genuine warmth from someone. “Don’t look so terrified, lad. I don’t bite. Though I can’t say the same for the man upstairs.”
She winked, reaching for a garment bag hanging on a nearby rack.
“Arms out. Don’t hunch.”
Rune held his arms at his sides while she worked.
“Thirty-one inch chest,” Iris marked something on a small notepad. “Chin up, I need your neck.”
He tilted his head back. Iris looped the tape around his throat and made another note.
“He told me to fit you into something formal. Dark. Nothing that looks like I’m trying too hard.” She pursed her lips. “Those were his exact words. Nothing that looks like I’m trying too hard . As though I’d dress anyone in a way that looked effortful.” She shook her head. “Eleven years.”
“You don’t have to go to any trouble,” Rune said. “I told him I shouldn’t be at the dinner at all. I’m happy to serve if—”
“Oh, put that away.” Iris waved a hand without looking up from her notepad. “You’re not serving tonight, lad. Accept it and save yourself the headache.” She moved to one of the long racks, fingers walking through the garments. “Besides, the Alpha didn’t ask me to dress a servant. He was quite specific.”
“What did he say?”
Iris paused. Pulled out a slim black jacket and held it against the light.
“He said — and I’m quoting now — he’s going to be uncomfortable regardless, so make sure the discomfort isn’t about the clothes. " She looked at Rune over the jacket.
Despite everything, something tugged at the corner of Rune’s mouth.
Iris put him in black trousers cut narrow at the ankle and a shirt so fine it was almost weightless, the kind of fabric Rune had only ever ironed. The jacket was understated and fit. Once Iris had made three rapid adjustments, he stood in front of the long mirror and didn’t recognise himself.
“There,” she said, standing back with her arms folded. “Can’t get better than that.”
Rune looked — not like a servant. Not like someone who had arrived with a worn duffel bag and paperwork that described him as unremarkable. He looked like someone who belonged in a room with district heads and formal china.
“I can’t wear this,” he said.
“You’re already wearing it.”
“Iris.” He turned from the mirror. “I need you to understand that I arrived here yesterday. I have been employed at this pack for approximately twenty-four hours. Whatever he’s — whatever this is —” He gestured vaguely. “It’s moving too fast.”
Iris looked at him for a moment before letting out a small huff.
“Can I tell you something?” she said. “And you can do whatever you like with it.”
Rune waited.
“I have worked for Rowan Blackthorne for eleven years. I have watched him run this pack, negotiate with people who would happily take half his territory if he let his guard down for thirty seconds, and manage a household of forty staff with an iron fist.” She paused. “In eleven years, I have never once seen him do something without knowing exactly what he was doing and why.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I know. I’m not finished.” She tilted her head. “I’ve also never seen him act the way he has toward anyone the way he has with you. He’s different. And I heard all about it from Jonah, who heard about it from Thomas, who says the Alpha is walking around looking—” She searched for the word. “— Unsettled. Jonah said that’s the word Thomas used. Unsettled .”
Rune stared at her, he was going to ask who Jonah was but his mind was already too fuzzy.
He turned back to the mirror.
“That’s what they do. They’re patient and kind and they push until you have no choice and then—”
“And then what?”
He didn’t answer.
Iris was quiet for a moment.
“I won’t tell you not to be careful. You don’t know this place or these people yet, and caution isn’t something you should let go of quickly.” She moved to adjust the set of his jacket collar. “But I will tell you that in eleven years, I have never once heard that man lie. Not to his pack, not to his enemies, not to anyone.” She met his eyes in the mirror. “Make of that what you will.”
“He said I was his omega.”
“Yes,” Iris said. “That sounds about right.”
“We’ve known each other for a day.”
“I know.”
“That’s—”
“Insane?” She smiled. “Completely. Welcome to a mate bond, lad. They don’t tend to wait for convenient timing.”
She stepped back, surveying him one final time, and gave a single nod.
“You look like you belong in that room,” she said. “And I think part of you knows it.” She unhooked the garment bag from the rack and handed it to him. “Dinner’s at eight. Don’t be late. He’ll come and find you himself otherwise.”
Rune took the bag.
“Thank you.”
Iris waved him off, already back at her cutting table as he stepped out the room.
Rune stood in the corridor with the garment bag over his arm and the dinner eight hours away.
Iris’s words sat in his chest.
Unsettled .
He started walking back toward the east wing, and tried not to think about the fact that he knew exactly what that felt like.
Rune
The kitchen was a symphony of clattering copper and commands.
Rune stood in a corner, clutching the edge of a stainless-steel prep table wondering why he'd chosen to drift toward the kitchen when he was suppose to be in the Pack Hall.
The fine black suit Iris had provided felt like a second skin, far too smooth and far too expensive.
"Did you see the state of the Alpha today?" an omega maid whispered to a footman as they loaded crystal flutes onto a tray. "Thomas apparently had to go check on him three times because his scent spike was starting to put the pack on edge."
"It's not a surprise," the footman snickered, sliding a thumb toward the hallway. "It’s the new one. The little omega. Word is, he’s not even on the roster for tonight. He’s guest list."
The maid gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth. "No. After two days? Alpha doesn't even let his cousins sit at the high table."
Rune shrunk further into the shadows of the pantry. He felt sick. He needed something to steady himself, something to numb the fact that in a very short amount of time, he would have to walk into that hall and sit beside a powerful alpha and his powerful district heads.
As the staff surged out toward the dining hall, the kitchen fell into a brief silence.
Rune’s eyes drifted to a small glass cabinet near the chef’s station.
It was filled with heavy decanters for sauces and flambés. He didn't know much about spirits, but he saw a bottle of clear, amber liquid like the honey tea his mother used to make.
He grabbed a stray tumbler, poured a generous splash, and knocked it back.
He gripped the counter and coughed, eyes watering. The liquid burned a clean path from his throat to his stomach in a way that suggested it was neither a reduction nor a flambé component.
It was a high-proof Highland malt, aged and intense.
Within minutes the room began to feel warmer.
His limbs felt looser and the terrifying prospect of the Pack Hall seemed more like a very intense, very smoky dream.
"Right," he whispered to a stack of clean plates. "Right. I can do this. I am... professional."
He straightened his jacket and checked his reflection in a polished soup tureen. His cheeks were dusted pink, and his hazel eyes were bright and sheen.
“Professional,” he told himself firmly.
He walked toward the Great Hall.
The sound almost immediately hit him with a low roar of conversation when he arrived, the clink of silverware, and the unmistakable scent of powerful wolves in one space. The air was thick with pheromones: the spice of Alphas, the steady musk of Betas, all competing for dominance.
But through it all was him .
Rune stepped through the arched entrance. The hall was magnificent, lit by low-hanging chandeliers that cast long, flickering shadows across the stone walls and faces of people who stopped mid-conversation to look at him. At the far end, on a raised dais, the high table ran the width of the room. District heads. Senior wolves. People who made decisions that shaped territories.
Rowan was at its centre.
He was dressed in a charcoal suit that made his shoulders look incredibly broad. He was leaning back, listening to Thomas speak lowly in his ear.
His nostrils flared once and his eyes immediately lifted to find Rune across the full length of the hall.
Rune walked. He focused on keeping his feet operating, but the floor felt like it was made of sponges. He accidentally caught the eyes of several district heads—older, scarred Alphas who were silenced by the omega who smelled like Alpha Blackthorne's private bedsheets and expensive whiskey.
Rowan watched in a way that should have terrified Rune, but the malt in his system just made him want to giggle.
He reached the dais.
Misjudged the first step.
Rowan moved in a blur, one hand closing around his elbow with a firm grip that stopped him entirely from going over.
“Rune—."
A pause.
“Why do you smell like my private cellar?”
Rune looked up at him. A small smile on his lips. "It was... for the nerves, Alpha. The bottle...it looked like tea."
Rowan stared at him.
"Tea?"
He took in Rune’s face, his gaze lingering on the flush.
"Sit," he finally said.
He pulled out the heavy oak chair directly to his right—the seat reserved for a mate.
Thomas, standing just behind the Alpha, didn't move, but his eyes flickered toward Rune with a look of profound, quiet disapproval.
Rune sank into the chair. The leather was cool, but the proximity to Rowan was like sitting next to a furnace. The Alpha sat back down, his thigh brushing against Rune’s under the table.
"Thomas," Rowan said, his voice dropping into a low murmur. "Bring the omega some water. And tell the kitchen to start the first course. Immediately."
Rowan turned his head toward the table of watching dignitaries, his hand moving under the table to rest on Rune’s knee.
"Gentlemen," Rowan addressed the room. "I believe we were discussing the winter borders. Continue."