The Messenger( Iva) novel Chapter 49

The Thread-offate

+25 Points

The Thread of Fate

The moment the guests arrived, the restaurant changed.

It wasn’t loud chaos-no shouting, no running, no clattering panic.

It was worse.

It was silent chaos.

The kitchen doors swung open and shut with controlled precision, the usual chatter dying instantly. No jokes. No snide remarks. No smug laughter from the waiters who usually looked down on her like she was dirt under their shoes.

Every movement became deliberate.

Every breath measured.

You could taste the tension in the air, metallic and sharp, clinging to the back of the throat.

Iva kept her head down at her station, hands moving automatically as muscle memory took over. Rinse. Scrub. Stack. Repeat. Her world narrowed to porcelain, steel, and steaming water-but even that couldn’t drown out the oppressive weight pressing against her senses.

The Lycans were here.

She didn’t need to see them to feel them.

Their presence bled through the walls, through the floors, through her bones. It was like standing too close to a storm-electric, heavy, promising destruction if you dared step out of line.

Avalon stayed coiled tight inside her, silent but alert.

Stay invisible, her wolf murmured. Do not draw attention.

Iva obeyed.

The kitchen moved like a perfectly oiled machine. Orders were called in low, clipped voices. Plates flew out in flawless formations. Knives flashed. Flames roared. No one made a mistake-because mistakes weren’t allowed tonight.

Especially not with Lycans involved.

Her stomach twisted painfully.

Hunger gnawed at her with cruel insistence, sharp enough to make her hands tremble for half a second before she forced them steady. She hadn’t eaten properly in days-scraps here and there, half-portions she’d managed to save for later. She had dreamed of a real meal today, something warm and filling.

That dream was gone.

There was no slowing down now. No breaks. No mercy.

She swallowed hard, ignoring the dizziness creeping at the edges of her vision. Hunger was a luxury

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< The Thread-etfale

problem. Survival wasn’t.

The Lycans stood at the top of the food chain.

At the very peak of the hierarchy.

Stronger.

Faster.

Enduring beyond anything a werewolf could achieve.

Superior in combat, in stamina, in dominance.

+25 Points

They were the reason packs existed the way they did. The reason Alphas bowed. The reason laws were obeyed even when they tasted like ash or some tried to rebel.

They ruled not just through tradition-but through absolute power.

The Adama Royal Family, the absolute rules.

Even thinking the name made something cold slide down her spine.

Iva had grown up hearing stories-whispered legends told in low voices, warnings wrapped in reverence and fear. Lycans were not simply leaders. They were enforcers of order. When they appeared, something was about to change-or something was about to end.

Water splashed against her arms as she scrubbed harder than necessary, grounding herself in the burn of heat and soap.

Focus.

A tray slammed onto the counter nearby. She flinched before she could stop herself.

“Careful,” someone hissed sharply-not cruel, not mocking. Just tense.

She nodded quickly, eyes down, throat tight.

This wasn’t the restaurant she’d come to know over the past days. This was something else entirely. A battlefield disguised as fine dining.

Relief came in waves once the last entrées left the kitchen.

Only dessert remained.

The pressure that had crushed the room for hours finally loosened its grip, and one by one shoulders dropped, breaths released, jaws unclenched. Someone leaned against a counter. Someone else wiped their face with their sleeve. The storm had passed-almost.

They were this close to being done.

Iva turned off the tap and rested her hands on the edge of the sink, chest rising and falling. Her arms ached. Her back burned. Hunger twisted viciously inside her-but beneath the exhaustion, something else

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