Chapter 3 - THE LAUNDRY CHUTE
The tolling bells shook the frosty window panes.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Three strokes meant an Alpha had fallen.
Throughout the estate grounds, howls erupted from the barracks.
Dozens of wolves lifted their muzzles to the winter sky, answering the signal with raw, primal mourning.
"Dr. Aris," Gideon barked, stripping Desmond’s charcoal coat and tossing it to the floor.
"Sire?" The doctor was still trembling on his knees.
"Strip Desmond down to his undershirt."
"Place him in my bed."
"Pull the sheets up to his chin."
Aris blinked, his hands fluttering in panic.
"They will see his face!"
"They won't look closely until morning," Gideon said.
"Desmond’s men will assume my body has already been covered."
Gideon walked to the mahogany wardrobe in the dressing alcove.
He pulled out heavy black tactical wool trousers, combat boots, and a fur-lined winter coat.
He dressed in twenty seconds with practiced military efficiency.
He strapped a combat blade to his right thigh.
Then he reached into the secret compartment behind the wardrobe mirror.
He withdrew a leather holster holding a heavy silver-plated revolver.
Silver-tipped hollow points.
The weapon designed specifically to put down rogue Alphas.
Gideon turned to Hazel.
"Take off the apron."
Hazel unpinned the crooked name tag.
She tossed the stained linen onto the floor beside the broken washbasin.
Beneath the gray uniform, she wore a simple dark wool sweater and worn denim pants.
Her boots were old, the leather scuffed from scrubbing kitchen flagstones.
Gideon reached out with his bare hand.
"Show me your palm."
Hazel hesitated.
For twenty-four years, her mother had drilled a single commandment into her mind:
Hide the scar.
Hide the light.
If a royal wolf touches your open wound, you are his slave forever.
"Hazel," Gideon said, his deep voice softening by a fraction.
"I owe you my life."
"I do not take what is not freely given."
She lifted her trembling right hand.
The linen bandage was soaked with dark crimson.
Gideon gently took her wrist.
His touch was boiling hot, searing against her chilled skin.
A low, comforting hum vibrated through his fingers, calming the frantic pounding in her chest.
He unrolled the linen.
The cut across her palm was three inches long, deep and ragged from the kitchen paring knife.
Gideon looked at the wound.
Tiny silver motes of light danced along the edges of her flesh, already trying to knit the skin back together.
Aurelian regeneration.
"You bled for an ungrateful king," he whispered.
He pulled a clean silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and bound her hand with firm, gentle precision.
"We cannot use the main stairs," Hazel said, pulling her wrist back slightly.
"The north corridors are patrolled by Lord Kaelen’s southern guards."
"They stationed two sentries at every landing before dinner."
Gideon smiled.
It was a cold, wolfish grin that showed the sharp points of his canines.
"You know the estate better than my seneschal."
"I clean it," she replied simply.
"Every stone."
"Then where do we go, Hazel?"
"The laundry chute in the east linen closet," she said.
"It drops straight into the boiling vats in the sub-basement."
"The vats are empty tonight because of the banquet."
"And from the sub-basement?" Gideon asked.
"There is an old drainage culvert built by the third dynasty," she said.
"It empties into the river three hundred yards beyond the outer perimeter wall."
Heavy footsteps echoed down the grand hallway outside.
Shouts.
Armor clattering against the walls.
"Open the royal chamber!" a voice bellowed.
Lord Kaelen.
Gideon grabbed Hazel’s uninjured hand.
"Run."
They slipped through the private dressing room door into the narrow servants' corridor behind the walls.
The corridor was dark, smelling of dry plaster and ancient dust.
Gideon closed the hidden panel just as the royal bedroom doors blew inward with a splintering crash.
Through the wood slats, Hazel heard Lord Kaelen’s booming voice:
"Where is the girl?!"
"Check the bed! Where is the King's body?!"
Dr. Aris’s terrified stammering was cut short by a brutal thud and the sound of shattering glass.
Hazel flinched, but Gideon’s grip on her hand tightened like an iron vise.
"Keep moving," he breathed into her hair.
They sprinted down the narrow corridor.
The air grew colder as they reached the eastern wing.
Hazel pushed open the door to the linen closet.
Towering stacks of white sheets and woolen blankets lined the pine shelves.
In the corner sat the brass-rimmed chute, its square door open to the black shaft below.
From four floors down, the smell of damp stone and lye soap drifted up.
"It's a sixty-foot drop," Hazel said, her voice catching.
"There's an iron brake slide halfway down, but it's rusted."
Gideon looked down the shaft.
He didn't blink.
He wrapped his left arm securely around her waist, lifting her feet off the floor.
He pulled her flush against his broad chest.
Her face buried into the hollow of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of pine, woodsmoke, and royal wolf power.
May you like
"Hold your breath," Gideon whispered.
He jumped.
