Claimed By The Ruthless Alpha Devils

More humiliation

MIRABELLA

I’m so startled I let out a tiny squeak, and immediately the sound leaves my lips, I curse myself for it, because the sound sets off another round of laughter behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut, blinking hard against the tears that burn at the back of them, desperate not to let them spill.

I don’t want them to see me crying.

I don’t want them to know just how much this has gotten to me.

My shoes squelch as I shift on the wet tile. Something slimy slides off my sleeve and lands with a sickening slap against the floor. A banana peel lies at my feet, yellow gone brown, edges curling in on themselves. I nudge it away with the tip of my shoe, breathing through my mouth instead of my nose so the smell doesn’t send me over the edge. The stench is rancid—rotting food, sour milk, something metallic. My stomach heaves when my gaze snags on a bloodstained tampon stuck to the corner of my locker door, dangling like some cruel punchline.

I roll my tongue against the roof of my mouth, willing my breakfast to stay down.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

The laughter doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows sharper, cutting into me from all directions. But I refuse to give them what they want. I keep my chin high, even as garbage drips down my arm and soaks into the fabric of my skirt. With trembling fingers, I snatch up my bag, my one shield, my one lifeline, and push through the crowd toward the nearest bathroom.

The mirror greets me with a version of myself I don’t want to see. Hair matted, shirt plastered to my skin, streaks of brown and gray running down my neck. I look like a punchline in one of their cruel little jokes. My throat burns again, but I swallow it down.

I thank every star in the sky that I shoved a spare shirt into my bag this morning. I peel the filthy clothes from my body and shove them into the trash can, skin crawling as I strip down to nothing. The shower stalls are cramped, probably the smallest part of this school. The water is lukewarm, but I don’t care, as it cascades down my body. I scrub my body so hard it’s aches, but I don’t stop as I try to erase the entire moment, as I try to wash away their laughter and the humiliation along with the grime.

I don’t stop until my skin is pink, until the air smells only of cheap soap instead of rot.

Finally, shaking, I step out. I glance toward the door where I left my bag and spare shirt. Relief flickers for one heartbeat—then dies.

They’re just gone.

My clothes. My bag. My phone. Everything.

The realization slams into me like a punch. I stumble back a step, hand flying to my mouth as if I can hold the panic inside. For a long moment, I just stand there, dripping, bare except for a thin towel clutched tight against me. The silence of the bathroom presses in, heavier than the laughter outside ever was.

Of course they wouldn’t stop with garbage. Of course they’d take more.

Time loses shape after that. I sit on the edge of the bench with my knees pulled up, waiting for… something. For help, for rescue, for this to stop. No one comes. No one even knocks.

It feels like hours before a voice finally cuts through the thick silence.

“Bella? Are you here?”

Sophie.

My shoulders sag with relief so fast it makes me dizzy. “Yes, I’m here,” I call back, my voice hoarse.

She pushes the door open, gasping when she sees me. I tell her everything—about the garbage, the laughter, the bag. The words spill out jagged, tumbling over each other, and I hate the way they sound. Weak. Broken. Pathetic.

“Oh, you poor baby,” Sophie murmurs, her voice thick with pity. “I waited for you to show up in class, and when you didn’t, I went to look for you and overhead some girls talking about stealing the new girl’s clothes and immediately suspected what could have happened. Don’t worry. I have spare clothes in my locker. I’ll bring them.”

She disappears and returns five minutes later with a black top and leggings. They’re a little big on me, hanging loose around my waist and arms, but I don’t care. I’m too grateful to care. I pull them on quickly, feeling like I’ve been given armor after being stripped bare.

Sophie sighs as she helps me gather myself. “The twins must have made it clear where they stand. That’s why people are going after you.”

The words make my chest tighten. “What can I do?” I whisper.

Her answer is blunt, but not unkind. “Nothing, Bella. Just endure it. They’ll get bored eventually. They always do.”

I nod, even though the thought of enduring feels unbearable.

By the time I leave the bathroom, the halls are empty. The day drags on in a blur, and when the final bell rings, I head outside to find the Windsor car waiting for me at the curb. Cassian isn’t here—just a driver with a stiff nod and an open door.

The ride is quiet, the hum of the engine the only sound. I stare out the window, watching the world blur past. My mind is still heavy with the bathroom, with Sophie’s words, with the weight of everything pressing down on me.

And then I see it.

A small coffee shop tucked between two brick buildings, its windows glowing warm, a chalkboard sign propped outside. In loopy handwriting, the words stand out to me like a beacon:

Help Wanted.

My pulse stirs for the first time all day.

“Stop the car,” I say quickly, leaning forward.

The driver glances back, startled. “Miss?”

“Please. Stop here.”

Because this—this could be exactly what I need.