Lyra’s POV
The truth of it stung, though she’d already known it.
“If I had been wrong,” Lyra said, “I would have been punished.”
“Yes.”
“If I had stayed silent,” she went on, “no one would have noticed.”
“Yes,” Ash agreed.
Lyra sighed.
“Then whoever did this assumed no one like me would ever speak.” She muttered.
A dark look crossed his face.
“That’s a dangerous assumption.
Do you think the poisoner knows you saw it?” Ash asked suddenly.
Her pulse jumped.
“I don’t know.
It was only a second.
He was helping me out of the crate.”
“That second may have saved his life,” Ash said.
“Or put yours at risk.”
She lifted her chin.
“Then I’ll be careful.”
A corner of his mouth twitched.
“You’ll need to be more than careful.”
They reached the next turn in the corridor.
“From now on,” Ash said, lowering his voice, “assume someone is always listening.”
Lyra nodded, her resolve hardening.
“Good,” he said.
“Because Blackthorn doesn’t forgive weakness.
But it rewards courage.”
They reached a set of wide doors at the end of the corridor.
Warm air drifted through the cracks, carrying the smell of bread, herbs, and simmering meat.
“The kitchen,” he said, reaching for the handle.
Then he paused and glanced at her.
“It’s almost time to start dinner prep.
And you’re the head cook.
Remember.”
Lyra let out a slow breath.
Head cook.
The words felt too big for her, borrowed clothes from someone else’s life.
A few hours ago she’d been on her knees begging for her life.
Now this.
“It should be easy,” she murmured, more hope than confidence.
Ash pushed the doors open, and the kitchen revealed itself in a rush of warmth and space.
Lyra stopped short, eyes widening.
Nothing like the cramped, smoky kitchen she’d known back home.
Long stone counters stretched across the room, polished smooth by years of use.
Multiple hearths burned clean and steady.
Copper pots gleamed on overhead racks.
Shelves lined the walls, packed with jars of spices, grains, dried herbs, and preserved fruit.
Then she noticed the people.
At least twenty cooks and kitchen hands stood in neat rows, hands clasped in front of them, eyes fixed on her.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
She took an instinctive step back, but Ash’s steady presence beside her kept her rooted.
“Everyone,” Ash said, his voice cutting through the room with calm authority.
“This is Lyra.
She is the new head cook.
She’ll oversee all meals prepared for the Alpha and the pack.”
Murmurs rippled through the room, surprise and doubt tangled together.
Ash raised a hand, silencing them.
“She’s also the one who noticed the Alpha had been poisoned.
And the one working on his recovery.”
The murmurs died instantly.
Faces shifted.
Respect replaced skepticism.
A few heads dipped low.
“You’ll answer to her as you would to me,” Ash added.
“Or the Alpha.”
Several people straightened like they’d been struck by lightning.
“If you need anything,” Ash told her, “you ask.
Supplies, help, time.” His gaze softened just a fraction.
“I’ll return later.”
Then he left, boots echoing briefly before the doors closed behind him.
The silence that followed pressed down on her.
Lyra swallowed and stepped forward, forcing her legs to move.
She’d survived worse than a room full of strangers.
Hunger.
Cold.
Cruelty.
She wouldn’t let this undo her.
“My name is Lyra Storme,” she said, keeping her voice steady.
“I worked in the kitchens of my old pack for many years.”
A young man near the front shifted, dark curls messy, flour dusting his sleeves.
“I’m Marley.
I handle prep and stocks.”
“Thank you, Marley.”
Another woman stepped forward.
“I’m Lysa.
I manage the kitchen and make sure everything is ready for each day.”
One by one they introduced themselves, and Lyra listened carefully, filing away names and roles.
Lyra took in a deep breath, summoning a confidence that she had seen in Eamon several times.
“We’ll start with dinner,” she said.
“I prefer calm kitchens.
No shouting unless there’s real danger.
If you have questions, ask.”
Several people exchanged surprised looks, but no one objected.
She moved through the kitchen, running her fingers along the counters, opening jars, checking herbs.
Fresh vegetables.
Whole cuts of meat.
Spices she’d only smelled once or twice in her life.
This pack ate well.
“We’ll make something warm and nourishing,” she said, thinking aloud.
“Easy to digest.
Rich in warmth.”
Lysa hovered nearby, eager to help.
“Want me to start on the root vegetables?”
“Yes.
And fetch fresh thyme and juniper.”
She grinned and hurried off.
As the kitchen came alive around her, Lyra assigned tasks with quiet confidence that surprised even herself.
Her hands remembered what her heart doubted.
Lysa returned later, arms full of herbs, and leaned in close.
“Can I tell you something?
The Alpha likes simple food.
Stews, roasted meats, warm bread.
Nothing too spicy.
He hates bitter greens.
And anything overcooked.”
She filed it away carefully.
That matched what she already sensed about Ronan.
Strength without excess.
“He snacks late at night,” Marley added, lowering his voice further.
“Dried apples.
Honeyed nuts.
Sometimes dark chocolate from the southern traders.”
Her hands paused.
“And sweets?”
His eyes lit up.
“Berry tarts.
Blackberry especially.
Cinnamon rolls, but only if they’re soft.”
Lyra tucked the knowledge away.
Information was power, even here.
They worked through the afternoon.
She oversaw a slow-simmered venison stew with root vegetables and herbs chosen for strength and recovery, and kneaded fresh bread dough herself, adding just enough honey to balance the salt.
As the food cooked, the smell crept through the kitchen, then spilled into the halls.
Rich.
Warm.
Comforting.
Conversations faded as people breathed it in.
“What is that smell,” someone whispered.
Marley inhaled deeply.
“Stars above.”
Lyra stirred the pot gently, tasting, adjusting, her focus narrowing to just this.
This was where she belonged.
Where rank didn’t matter.
Where skill spoke louder than blood.
When the bread came out golden and crackling, the whole kitchen went silent.
Lysa stared at it.
“I’ve never seen bread like that.”
Lyra smiled faintly.
“It listens if you treat it right.”
They plated the meal with care, every detail deliberate.
When the trays were lifted and carried away, the kitchen staff stood back, eyes wide, pride blooming on faces that hadn’t expected this from an omega outsider.
For the first time since arriving at Blackthorn, Lyra let herself breathe.
For the first time, she felt something close to hope that she could actually do this.