The Rejected Alpha

Survival Tactics

TRIGGER WARNING: This section contains themes of prolonged exploitation, forced labor, food deprivation as punishment, physical abuse, sleep deprivation, and systemic dehumanization that some readers may find distressing.

MIRABEL

I do everything. The big chores and the small ones. The endless ones no one else wants to touch. Scrubbing blood from stone floors after a sparring session gone wrong. Polishing silver until my reflection looks back at me like a stranger. Folding laundry that still carries the scent of other people’s lives, perfume, sweat, dominance. And cooking. Always cooking.

Cooking is the only part that feels like mine. In the kitchen, heat wraps around me like a second skin. The sizzle of fat in the pan, the sharp bite of garlic hitting hot oil, the slow bloom of rosemary and thyme, they speak to me in ways words never have. I get to taste as I go. A stolen spoonful of sauce. A corner of crisp bacon broken off while no one watches. A sliver of pastry dough pinched between my fingers and slipped onto my tongue. Those tiny thefts are my meals. The only reliable ones.

Forty pack members demand seven or eight different dishes at every sitting, roasts carved to perfection, stews thick with root vegetables, breads still warm from the oven, desserts layered with cream and fruit that gleam like jewels. For most wolves, that would be overwhelming. For me, it’s routine. A rhythm I’ve carved into my bones over years. When I first started, I was hopeless. Too young, too small, too afraid to ask questions. I repeated the same bland meals, overcooked porridge, watery stew, until portions ran short and tempers flared. Alpha Sebastian sent Agnes, the head omega, to “teach” me. She was patient in her own hard way: sharp corrections, quicker slaps when I burned something, grudging nods when I improved. Three years later, I surpassed her. I create dishes I’ve never tasted in books or seen on plates, spiced lamb with pomegranate glaze, herb-crusted salmon that flakes like silk, chocolate torte so rich it lingers on the tongue for hours. Everyone eats. Everyone praises the food. No one thanks the hands that made it.

They eat like wolves who’ve never known hunger. I wake at three in the morning to start breakfast: thick-cut bacon crisped just right, eggs poached or scrambled to order, toast golden and buttered, coffee brewed strong enough to wake the dead. By seven-thirty everything sits ready on the long table, steaming and perfect. I eat nothing then. Only what I can sneak while stirring, tasting, plating. A bite here. A sip there. If I’m caught, spoon to lips, crumb on my chin, the punishment is swift. A backhand that splits my lip. Hours locked in the pantry without light. A reminder that the food isn’t mine to take. It never has been.

Lunch preparations begin at ten. Dinner at two. By the time the last plate is cleared, the last spill mopped, the last pot scoured, the clock usually reads midnight. Three hours of sleep if I’m lucky. Less if I’ve “committed a crime” that day, spilled salt, left a fingerprint on glass, looked too long at the moon through a window. If I drift off by accident and oversleep, breakfast delays. The pack wakes irritable. The day turns ugly fast. Punishments stack like firewood: no food, no rest, bruises layered over bruises until I move like I’m underwater.

I don’t complain. Complaining earns more attention, and attention is dangerous. I just cook, clean and survive.

In the quiet between tasks, when the house sleeps and the only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator, I sometimes let myself imagine a different kitchen. One where I sit at the table instead of standing at the stove. One where I eat without looking over my shoulder. One where the food is for me. Then I shake the thought away. Dreams are heavy. They slow you down. And I can’t afford to slow down.

My pack is big with a few hundred wolves, maybe four or five hundred. Alpha Sebastian is my uncle, my father's elder brother to be precise. He was once just an ordinary pack member with little to no strength. He is always at loggerheads with my parents and then one night, after my fifth birthday, there was a rogue attack that claimed the lives of many warriors, my parents included. Surprisingly, after the leader of the rogues killed my dad, alpha Cedric, and mum Luna Marie, they all just pack up and left. Then, after everything, Uncle Sebastian claimed victory and challenged anyone who dared him to be the next alpha. Naturally, no one was up for any fight anymore, as they were all too busy nursing their wounded or mourning the death of their loved ones to bother with him, and thus, my nightmare began. He finds solace in just torturing me, giving me chores I couldn't handle. I get beaten for almost anything and everything. He told me later never to show my face around the pack members. He said it was for my protection against the bad wolves that killed my parents, and then later he said everything was my fault and the pack was attacked because of me and the people that died that night were all trying to protect me. I was demoted to pack’s slave as soon as I lost my parents, a position worse than that of an omega. I was treated worse than a stray animal. Everyone tells me I am worthless and will never amount to anything more than their maid and a punching bag to their kids. It's sad, I know, but after holding up hopes to at least get my wolf at eighteen, like everyone else, she refused to surface. Not only did my last ray of hope at surviving get dashed, but my workload increased and so did the punishments I received from everyone daily.

Alpha Sebastian is pure evil and ruthless. He kills those that showed me the slightest sympathy, and those who aren’t so brave were too scared to confront him over many of his atrocious acts. Despite being the pack's alpha, he kept many women and has several children. Sebastian’s rule is a rot that has spread through the entire pack. He is a man who despises the sacred; he mocks the mate bond and encourages debauchery. The most stomach-turning of his laws is his "blessing" a demand to bed every new mate before her partner can touch her. Those who resist are slaughtered; those who submit are broken.

​I see and hear everything from the corners of the kitchen. They think I am a piece of furniture, so they speak freely of his atrocities. They don't realize that even a ghost has ears.

As I got older, I realized that nobody cares about what anyone is going through. I’ve tried to leave this world behind. Twice, I attempted to slip away into the moonlight and join my parents in the stars. Both times, Sebastian found me. He wouldn't even let me have the peace of the grave; he needs me alive to witness his "victory." I realized then that the Moon Goddess was either too busy to hear my "selfish" pleas or she simply enjoyed the tragedy of my life.

​So, I learned to die while still breathing. ​By thirteen, I had mastered the art of the "numb." When the blows fall now, I don't scream. I retreat deep inside a dark room in my mind and lock the door. I close my eyes and wait for the person hurting me to grow bored of my silence. They can bruise my skin and break my bones, but they can no longer reach me. I am already gone.

​I was tucked away in the shadows, exactly where I had been ordered to stay, but the silence was screaming at me.

​This was supposed to be my window, my precious, rare sliver of time to sleep, but my mind was a frantic checklist of potential failures. It gnawed at my stomach like a parasite. Did I smooth the wrinkles on Eve’s bed? Did I separate the linens correctly? Did I lock the pantry? I knew I had done it all. I was double-sure, yet the certainty felt like a house of cards. In this life, "sure" wasn't enough to save you from a bruised rib or a week of starvation.

​The compulsion to check was stronger than the need to rest. It was an itch under my skin, a voice whispering that I’d left a door unlatched or a burner on. If I could just verify everything was in order, maybe the buzzing in my head would stop.

​I crept to the door of my basement cell. Even though the pack-house should have been empty, the festivities of the ball drawing everyone to the arena, I moved with the breath-holding caution of a mouse in a nest of snakes. I eased the door open, the hinge’s faint groan sounding like a gunshot in the hollow hallway.

​I moved through the corridors, a shadow clinging to the walls. I was a ghost haunting her own prison. Every few steps, I glanced over my shoulder, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I knew my place; I knew I was nothing but a slave, a body meant for labor and a mind meant for obedience. But if a quick, terrifying patrol of the house could save me from a single blow tomorrow, it was a risk I had to take. ​I just needed everything to be perfect. If I could control the chores, maybe I could control the pain.