Chapter 553
The words twisted the knife Gigi had already planted in my chest. Braydon’s rumors were malicious, but they perfectly mirrored the tragic truth Gigi had fed me. Dallas truly believed he was a monster stripped of Ragnar — unworthy of our mate-bond, unworthy of everything.
“It’s his choice, Azalea,” I forced the words out, though my soul wept. “I have to go.”
I ended the call just as Martha, the Omega housekeeper, shuffled into the kitchen. She carried a large thermal shipping box plastered with overnight freight stickers. Inside were dry ice packs and several soup containers bearing the logo of a famous Pack restaurant in New York.
“Miss Azalea sent this,” Martha murmured, setting a steaming bowl in front of me. “To keep your strength up.”
I offered a weak smile, desperate for any comfort from home, and brought a spoonful of the rich broth to my lips.
My brow furrowed immediately. The taste was exquisite, but something was missing — the faint, herbal tang of Moon-Cress, a staple of this specific recipe, was completely absent.
My blood ran cold.
Just three days ago, standing in this exact spot, I had complained to Martha about my pregnancy-altered senses. The Moon-Cress tastes like soap now, I had told her, pushing a salad away.
Azalea was in New York. She couldn’t possibly know about a microscopic shift in my palate that had only developed seventy-two hours ago.
Azalea didn’t order this soup.
Someone who had been listening to my private conversations inside this safe house did.
The comforting warmth of the kitchen vanished, replaced by a creeping, paralyzing dread. I wasn’t in a sanctuary. I was in a panopticon, and a ghost was watching my every move.
Dallas POV
Rain hammered against the magically shielded roof of the black surveillance van parked on a logging trail just outside the safe house perimeter. Inside, the cramped space reeked of ozone and leather.
On the tactical tablet resting on the console, crisp thermal and optical feeds from the kitchen played in high definition. I watched Adella’s spoon freeze mid-air. I watched the exact moment the realization struck her — the way her posture stiffened and her eyes darted toward the hidden camera in the smoke detector.
“She noticed the Moon-Cress, Alpha,” Weston said quietly from the driver’s seat, his eyes fixed on the audio waveform monitor.
A sharp pang echoed in my chest, a phantom ache of the mate-bond protesting her fear. I crushed it down.
Good. It means she’s paying attention. She’s learning, I whispered through the Mind-Link to Ragnar. The massive beast pacing in the dark corners of my mind let out a low, approving rumble. If I was going to tear the world apart to secure her throne, she needed to be sharp enough to hold it.
Weston glanced at me through the rearview mirror, a flicker of unease in his Warrior eyes. He didn’t understand this particular brand of cruel affection.
“The next delivery,” I commanded, my voice devoid of warmth. “Include a small portion of the Everett Pack’s traditional honey cakes. The recipe died with her mother.”
Weston blinked. “Sir?”