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7
Unnatural
Noah
There’s something eerie about Sage House today.
Outside, it’s a normal summer evening—the sun is still shining, birds are singing, and the sounds of children playing drift up from town. But inside, the air is heavy. Sunlight oozes through the open window, hanging like smoke in the dark study.
I swirl around in the desk chair until I’m staring outside at the leafy, lime-green hydrangea bush under the window. There are about a million different things that I should be doing right now, but I can’t be bothered.
I feel itchy—like my skin is too tight.
Distractedly, I rub my thumb and forefinger together, remembering the satiny feel of Hetty’s skin, the thump of her pulse.
Why did I touch her like that? Say those things? Kiss her neck?
There was something different about her—she smelled good, and there was a … fire in her eyes. She’s never looked at me like that before, and I’ve never put my hands on her. I’ve never felt much of a reason to touch her.
But now, I’m wondering when I’ll have the excuse to do it again.
I scowl, disgusted with myself. She’s a beta, and alphas who use betas to satiate their mating urges are the worst of our kind.
Unlike omegas, betas aren’t built to accept an alpha. To lie with one would leave her scarred and ruined. I’ve seen it happen before.
When I was about six, I walked into this very room—my father’s study. I should have knocked, but I was excited to tell him something … I can’t remember what. I probably beat or bettered Wyatt somehow. That kind of thing would always make him proud of me and disappointed in Wyatt, which I enjoyed.
But he wasn’t sitting at his desk like usual—reading a stack of papers or writing something urgently. Instead, he was buttoning his pants, his hair hanging in front of his sweaty face while Carrie, a beta servant, lay in front of his desk, curled in the fetal position.
She wasn’t crying, but her face was pale, and her eyes were open and unblinking. Her stockings were around her ankles and her skirt was tucked between her legs, a bright red blood stain spreading over the gray material.
A stomach-churning scent hung in the air—the rusty tang from the blood mixed with a mysterious salty aroma. I’d never smelled anything like it before.
I stared at Carrie, shocked. But she was in some sort of trance and didn’t seem to notice me. My father did, though. His pale green eyes were sharp when they shot up to meet mine.
“Get out,” he bit out thickly, his voice unrecognizable.
He didn’t have to tell me twice. Like lightning, I turned on my heels and ran.
We never spoke about it, and I never saw Carrie again. It wasn’t until years later that I understood that he’d mated with her, and it had left her, at best, damaged or, at worst, dead.
Whether it happened against her will or not, I couldn’t say. But it was enough that the Order forbade it—for good reason apparently—and he did it anyway. Each time another beta servant disappeared, I wondered if he was responsible.
So, no, I won’t be touching Hetty again.
But I can’t stop myself from closing my eyes and picturing her. She’s down in the basement right now—just below me, lying in her narrow bed in that filthy, dark room. She shouldn’t be in such a place; she should be somewhere sweet-smelling and bright with flowers and colors—
“Why was Elizabeth Cypress’s mate here earlier? What’s his name? Bill?”
Jolted from my thoughts, I swirl in my chair. My mother, standing in the doorway, looks as pristine and put together as ever in a silky green dress, her dark hair fixed on top of her head in elaborate braids.
If my relationship with my father was shadowed by what I’d seen that day with him and Carrie, my relationship with my mother was shadowed by the intense desire to pretend nothing as unsavory as that ever happened.
“Rill,” I correct her with a forced casualness, turning toward her fully and straightening my posture. “Yes, that was him. He’s angry.”
“About what?”
“I won’t let him forsake the Order.”
