The Alpha’s Rebellious Fiancee novel Chapter 1

Lyra’s POV

“Rogue rat.”

Their voices hit me before the sunlight even does.

I flinch, holding the cleaning bucket tighter against my chest as I pass through the training yard. Warriors are lining up for drills, sneering like I smell worse than the mop water I carry.

“She still limping around here?” one mutters, not even bothering to lower his voice.

“Alpha must like his chambers real dirty,” another chuckles.

“Maybe he likes looking down on her crawling on his floor,” a third snickers.

They all laugh. I keep walking. Don’t speak. Don’t look back. Don’t cry. That’s the rule here in the Hawthorne Pack.

The omegas pass by me like I don’t exist. Even the pups ignore me. I’m the ghost girl, the border-scum. A rogue. That’s what they say I am. And once they brand you that, you’re never anything else again.

I push through the heavy wooden door of the packhouse, keeping my head low. The marble floors gleam even before I touch them—because I scrubbed them just last night. And the night before that. And every single night for the past two years.

Today is no different.

Lucien Asher’s quarters are on the top floor. Of course they are. He’s the soon-to-be Alpha. And I’m his servant.

The hallway leading to his room is empty, quiet. My fingers tremble as I set the bucket down beside his door. I pause. Breathe. I knock softly. No answer.

Of course.

He never answers. Never speaks to me unless it’s through a command.

I push the door open. My eyes instantly go to the bed—massive, unmade, dark gray sheets tangled like he fought sleep and lost. His jacket is slung over a leather chair. Boots kicked off halfway toward the closet. The curtains are drawn, leaving just enough light to see the chaos.

Lucien’s chaos.

And somehow, I know every inch of it.

Every corner of this room—every smudge on the windows, every dent in the wooden desk, every crooked book on his shelf—I’ve cleaned it all.

I’ve lived in it more than I’ve lived in my own skin.

I kneel by the fireplace and start collecting the scattered whiskey glasses, muttering under my breath as I do.

“Drink. Brood. Break things. Repeat.”

He’s never once thanked me. Never once said my name. Sometimes I wonder if he even knows it.

But I know him. Not just the way his jacket always smells like pine and smoke. Or how he leaves the bathroom light on when he showers. I know the way his jaw tightens when he’s angry, the way his fists clench when someone mentions his father.