Broken Beyond Belief

Chapter 6: Times Ticking!

Mira's POV:

I slipped through the back door, heart pounding as I peered into the hallway. Holding my breath, I listened—ears straining for any sign of movement. Nothing. The house was silent. Dead. My pulse was a drumbeat in my ears as I cautiously peeked into the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Empty.

Relief washed over me for a fleeting second until my eyes landed on Jasper. He was slumped over the kitchen counter, head resting on his arms, a line of drool pooling beneath him. My chest tightened at the sight. Not again.

I didn’t have time to dwell. I turned and sprinted upstairs, clutching the bag of clothes and medical supplies Scott and Ruth had given me. Dropping to my knees, I lifted the floorboard beneath my bed, stuffing the bag inside before pressing it back into place. Safe. For now.

I bolted back down the stairs and into the kitchen. My eyes snapped to the clock. 11:55. A sharp wave of panic surged through me. I hadn't started a single chore yet. I mentally reeled off my to-do list, and my stomach clenched. I had to move. Fast.

“Jasper, come on. Let’s get you to bed,” I murmured, nudging his shoulder. He groaned in response, barely conscious. Swallowing hard, I braced myself as I draped his arm around my shoulders.

"That’s it," I muttered, shifting his weight onto me as best I could. He was heavy, his body like dead weight, and as I took the first step towards the stairs, my knees buckled. My breath hitched as I nearly toppled backward, the sheer weight of him throwing me off balance. I gritted my teeth and planted my foot hard, tightening my grip. The last thing I needed was both of us tumbling down the stairs.

He groaned, his feet barely cooperating, his head lolling against my shoulder. I dragged him up the stairs, each step a battle, sweat beading on my forehead, stinging my stitches. When we finally reached his bedroom, I practically collapsed as I pushed him onto the bed, my arms aching. I pulled a blanket over his frail frame, adjusting him onto his side so he wouldn’t choke if he threw up.

My throat tightened as I looked at him. He was disappearing before my eyes. The strong, protective man who once snuck me food and clothes, who laughed and ruffled my hair, was now a shell of himself—drowning in sorrow and alcohol. The boys didn’t see it. They didn’t care. Too wrapped up in their own self-importance to notice how far he’d fallen. But I saw. And it broke me.

I brushed the thought away and rushed back downstairs. My eyes darted to the clock. 12:05.

First, the kitchen.

I scrubbed the dishes as fast as I could, hands moving on instinct.

The stench of grease, old food, and soap clung to the air. As I worked, memories resurfaced—Hayleigh sneering at my cooking, claiming the food was never seasoned right, never hot enough. How she would wrinkle her nose and remind me, you’ll never get a mate with skills like that. The words used to sting. Now? I just prayed my mate would see my worth. Maybe he wouldn’t mind that I wasn’t educated if I could keep his house clean and his stomach full. Maybe that would be enough….

Once the dishes were done, I wiped the countertops, making sure to move everything—the toaster, the microwave, the kettle—scrubbing underneath each appliance before meticulously wiping them down. Then, the oven. The grill. The fridge. I pulled out the drawers, scrubbing at dried spills and crumbs. The top of the cupboards, thick with dust, required climbing onto a chair to reach. The smell of lemon disinfectant filled the air, making my nose itch.

I wiped down every inch of the room. My fingers ached, but I ignored the burn.

12:25.

I needed to move faster.

Next, the dining room.

The silver cabinet. I pulled out each piece, one by one, polishing them until they gleamed. My arms ached from scrubbing. I could almost hear Hayleigh’s voice in my head, sneering at me. Not good enough, Mira. The Alpha and Luna wouldn’t eat off filth. I grit my teeth, polishing harder. The sharp scent of polish filled the air, mixing with the faint, lingering scent of alcohol from the hallway. I swallowed hard, blinking through the exhaustion creeping further into my limbs. Once they were shining, I put them back in perfect order.

The table was next. Afterwards, I wiped down the remaining furniture, dusted the shelves, arranged the ornaments. Too much dust, Hayleigh would have said. Not good enough, Mira. I bit my lip and kept working. I didn’t have time to dwell.

12:50.

Living room. I moved quickly, dusting everything—ornaments, the fireplace, cabinets, the TV stand. Hoovering the carpet. The sofas, underneath them too. Wiping down the walls where the boys had left smudges, probably with their dirty hands. My breath came faster. My body was screaming for rest, but there was no time. Plumped the pillows, making them perfect. cleaned the windows and disinfected the door handles.

Then the downstairs bathroom—bleach stung my nostrils as I poured bleach over every tile, scrubbing it in until my arms burned, my hands red and raw from the chemicals. The toilet. The sink. The mirror, wiped until spotless. The drains, cleared of hair, gunk, and whatever else had gathered. Fresh towels. Toilet roll restocked. The air freshener replaced.

1:20.

Upstairs.

I started in the boys’ rooms first. Each time I glanced at their bedside clocks, my stomach lurched. 1:40. 2:01. 2:19. Time was slipping through my fingers like sand.

The boys' rooms first. Their beds were unmade, sheets twisted. Clothes strewn everywhere. I gathered the laundry, sorting darks, colours, and whites. . As I gathered the clothes, my mind drifted to the past. When I was younger, I used to wash every item by hand, scrubbing until my fingers cracked and bled. I could still feel the sting, the rawness of my skin. Jasper had bought a washing machine a few years ago. It had been the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me. I ran my fingers along its surface in silent gratitude before tossing in the first load.

I ran back upstairs, stripping and remaking their beds, dusting their desks, cleaning their screens. Their PCs, their expensive clothes, their gym bags—they had everything, and they still acted like they were owed more. The smell of old cologne and sweat filled my nose as I plumped their pillows and set their rooms to order. Their alarm clocks glowed. 2:26.

Jasper’s room.

Still unconscious. I cleaned around him, careful not to wake him. The smell of whiskey was heavy in the air. I dusted quickly, hoovered, then shut the door behind me.

Hallway. Banisters wiped down. Units dusted. Stairs hoovered.

3:00.

Ironing. Folding. Hanging up clothes. My body moved on autopilot. Jasper was still out cold. The boys would be home soon. My stomach twisted.

The last stretch. I mopped, hoovered, disinfected. Every room, every handle, every skirting board. My vision blurred with exhaustion, but I pushed through.

3:30.

I turned to the stove. Vegetable soup for the starter. I chopped, stirred, seasoned. The aroma of leeks, onions, and carrots filled the kitchen. Then, the main course—potatoes peeled, beef browned, stock added. Puff pastry rolled out and placed in the oven. My hands shook as I wiped sweat from my forehead, trying to avoid my stiches. The rich scent of the stew filled the air, making my stomach grumble. But there was no time to eat.

The last load of laundry. The final cleaning. I put away the supplies, cleaned the laundry room hoovered the entranceway, and finished scrubbing the last of the windows.

4:00.

I exhaled, pressing my hands against the counter to steady myself. My muscles ached, my stitches burned, my head pounded. But I was done.

Just as the sound of tires crunching on the driveway made my stomach drop.

Laughter. Female voices. The boys had brought company.

I swallowed hard and turned back to the sink, scrubbing the last of the dishes. My fingers trembled as I heard the front door swing open. Here we go again.