His Broken Mate

Chapter 2:Crumbs and Cruelty

The sting of icy water jolted Celeste awake long before dawn dared to rise. Her thin blanket was soaked, her cot nothing more than a warped wooden frame tucked into the damp corner of the kitchen pantry. She shivered violently, wrapping her arms around herself in a feeble attempt to trap what little warmth her body still had.

"Get up, mutt," snarled Beta Garren, towering over her with the empty bucket still clutched in his hand.

The coldness of the water was nothing compared to the steel in his eyes. Celeste scrambled upright, bare feet slapping the wet stone floor. She dared not speak. Her voice had long ago been punished into silence, and besides, what could she say? Sorry for being born?

He watched her like one might observe a mangy dog scuttling from underfoot. Then he turned and left without another word, the heavy pantry door slamming shut behind him.

Her body ached from yesterday’s labor. Scrubbing floors, hauling firewood, and washing clothes in the freezing stream had left her hands cracked and bleeding. But there was no time to tend to wounds or wallow in exhaustion. If she didn’t start the kitchen fire before Head Omega Greta arrived, there would be consequences.

She moved like a whisper, careful not to make a sound as she slipped through the back kitchen. Her limbs screamed in protest, but she pushed through it. Pain was a constant companion—it no longer held the same power it once did.

The fire was stubborn this morning. The logs were damp, the kind that smoked but wouldn’t catch. Her fingers trembled as she struck the flint again and again, her breath curling into the air like ghostly mist.

At last, a flame sparked to life, l*****g greedily at the twigs she’d arranged. Relief sighed through her chest, short-lived as Greta stormed into the room moments later.

"You useless girl," the older woman hissed, smacking a spoon on the counter. "You're late again. Breakfast won’t cook itself, and the Alpha’s patrol leaves in less than an hour."

Celeste dipped her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

Greta narrowed her eyes. "You speak now, do you? Brave this morning, are we?"

"No, ma’am." The response was automatic.

“Good. Now clean those dishes, scrub the counters, and then get the hall swept before the warriors return. If I find a single crumb, you'll be scrubbing chamber pots for the next week."

Celeste moved quickly. She always did. There was no safe space in this pack—not even among the omegas, who treated her with the same disdain as the ranked wolves. Perhaps even more. To them, she was a reminder of how far one could fall. She was less than a shadow, less than dirt.

She’d once overheard Greta say, “Celeste is what happens when the Moon Goddess makes a mistake.”

The words had festered in her chest ever since.

By midday, her arms were numb from scrubbing the grand dining hall’s floors. The polished wood gleamed under her sweat, but she knew it would never be clean enough for Greta’s standards. Her shirt stuck to her back, soaked through with sweat, and her hair—once long and honey-gold—was tied up in a frayed knot, darkened with grime.

Two young female omegas entered the hall, both carrying baskets of fresh linens. Celeste recognized them. Marla and Daya. Pretty, high-ranking omegas who took joy in reminding her of her place.

“Oh look,” Marla sneered. “The kitchen rat’s pretending she’s important.”

Celeste said nothing. She didn’t look up. She had learned the hard way that eye contact was a challenge—and challenges brought bruises.

“She’s ignoring us,” Daya said mockingly. “Maybe we should help her remember her manners.”

Marla kicked over the bucket of soapy water, watching gleefully as it spilled across the floor Celeste had just finished scrubbing.

Celeste bit down on her tongue. Hard. If she snapped, if she growled or barked back, even once… she wouldn’t survive the punishment. Not this time.

Marla leaned down until her breath tickled Celeste’s ear. “You don’t belong here, mutt. You’re nothing but a cursed mistake.”

The door slammed behind them as they left, their laughter echoing like knives in her ears.

Celeste dropped to her knees, gathering the spilled water with torn rags. Her body screamed in protest, but she forced herself to keep going. She’d redo the work twice if it meant avoiding another confrontation. She’d clean the same floor a hundred times if it meant she didn’t have to look in a mirror and remember what she’d become.

Evening fell slowly, casting long golden shadows through the trees outside the packhouse. The smell of roasted meat filled the halls, but Celeste knew none of it was for her. She sat at the edge of the kitchen, nibbling on a crust of hard bread left over from the morning meal.

She’d grown used to hunger. It made her lightheaded, yes, but also numb—so deliciously numb. It dulled everything: pain, fear, memory.

A quiet knock came at the side door. Celeste’s heart jumped.

It was Sam, the twelve-year-old stable boy. Kind-hearted. The only one who treated her like she wasn’t invisible.

He held out a napkin-wrapped bundle. “I saved you something.”

Celeste stared at the small package. A roll. Some meat. A few berries.

“I can’t—”

“You can,” Sam insisted. “They had more than enough.”

Her fingers shook as she took it. “Thank you.”

Sam shrugged. “If they catch me, tell them I dropped it.”

She smiled faintly, for the first time all day.

But the warmth didn’t last.

Later that night, Greta found the empty napkin in the trash. Celeste was dragged out into the courtyard and forced to her knees before the other omegas.

"You stole from the pack," Greta spat, her voice like fire.

“No—I didn’t—”

A sharp slap silenced her. Pain exploded across her cheek.

“You think you deserve kindness? After everything your mother did? After the shame you brought?”

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

“Your wolf should have died in the womb,” someone muttered.

She squeezed her eyes shut, tears stinging but never falling.

“She doesn’t even have a wolf,” another voice scoffed. “She’s broken.”

Greta shoved Celeste into the mud, stepping on her back to pin her down.

“Clean the kennels. Now. I want every inch scrubbed by dawn. Maybe if you work like the mutt you are, the Goddess will show you mercy.”

No one helped her up. No one looked at her with pity.

She crawled to the kennels under the silver light of the moon. Her hands were raw. Her eyes burned. Her heart beat against her ribs like it wanted to escape.

She didn’t blame it.

The night stretched long, filled with the stench of animal waste and sour hay. She scrubbed until her knuckles bled until her fingers went numb. The cold was a silent predator, wrapping around her spine and whispering reminders of her worthlessness.

Her wolf—quiet, silent, stifled—remained dormant. As always. As if even her own soul had abandoned her.

By the time the sun peeked over the horizon, Celeste was slumped against the wall, too exhausted to stand. She watched the sky shift from ink to grey, a dull promise of another day.

She wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to run. To truly run. To feel the wind in her fur, to shift and leave the pain behind.

But that wasn’t for her. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.