Cassia And the Alpha Triplets

chapter 2.

Chapter 2: The Burden of Another Morning

The sound of the clock ticking steadily on the wall is the first thing I hear as I wake up. It’s always the same. The air in my room is cold and stale, and the darkness feels heavier as I lie there on the thin cot. I can’t say I slept well—nightmares have become routine, always the same ones where I’m trapped in this house, chained to a life I never asked for. The sheets are scratchy, and the room is dimly lit by a small, cracked window that overlooks the back of the pack house. It’s barely enough to let any light in, but I suppose that’s for the best. I don’t need any extra attention drawn to me, not here, not in this place.

I stretch my arms out, feeling the stiffness in my joints. Another day. Another day of being the invisible girl who lives in the shadows of the house, the girl who serves but never receives. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to steal a few more minutes of sleep, but I know it’s useless. I can’t afford to waste time. Not with the amount of work I have ahead of me today.

I push myself out of bed with a groan, my bare feet landing on the cold wooden floor. My room is nothing more than a small, cramped storage closet—one of the many spaces in the pack house that are used to house the low-ranking wolves or anyone who isn’t important enough to have a real bedroom. It smells faintly of old books and cleaning supplies, the mixture of scents reminding me that this is my life now. The cot is the only luxury I get—no frills, no softness, just a mattress that’s barely better than the floor.

I stand for a moment, looking around at the clutter that’s accumulated over the years. A small shelf sits by the wall, filled with second-hand books I’ve managed to collect over the years—anything to distract me from the endless grind of work. There’s also a single drawer where I keep my clothes, most of them hand-me-downs from other pack members who were kind enough to give me their old stuff. I’d call it a wardrobe, but that would be too generous. It’s just enough to cover me, nothing more.

The only real possession I have in this room is my cleaning supplies. I keep them neat and organized, as if the ritual of cleaning gives me some sense of control over my otherwise chaotic existence.

Sighing, I grab a worn towel from the edge of my bed and make my way to the common bathroom down the hall. It’s one of those small luxuries I’m allowed—along with the rest of the pack members, but at least it’s not something I have to scrub or clean. The water’s always cold in the mornings, and I can’t help but wish I could be somewhere else—anywhere but here.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I wash my face, the harsh lighting revealing every flaw. My dark blonde curls, tangled and messy from sleep, fall in waves to my waist, but they’re always tied up in a tight bun to keep them out of the way. I can’t risk the triplets pulling on them like they used to. That’s something I don’t want to relive. I’ve tried to hide the exhaustion in my eyes, but it’s impossible. The dark circles beneath my eyes tell the story of too many sleepless nights spent worrying about everything.

My skin is pale—almost sickly looking. I’ve spent so much time indoors, working in the kitchens or cleaning, that I barely see the light of day. Even the slightest attempt to look healthy is futile. The constant pressure from the triplets, the endless demands of the pack, the emotional toll—it all shows. I look tired. Broken.

But there’s no time to feel sorry for myself. No time for reflection. I have work to do.

I finish quickly, wrapping my hair back into a tight bun, and then head back to the kitchen. The smell of bacon, eggs, and pancakes fills the air, and I can almost taste the food before I’ve even started. It’s part of the triplets' "birthday week" celebrations, the week where they are treated like kings, where the entire pack caters to their every whim. And today, it’s my turn to make sure everything goes perfectly.

The kitchen is already warm from the oven, and I can see the ingredients I need spread out on the countertops. Waffles, pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, butter, maple syrup, and coffee—all lined up, ready for the morning feast. The smell of the sizzling bacon and the thick, rich coffee is enough to wake me up completely. For a moment, I lose myself in the motion of cooking, the rhythmic action of flipping pancakes and frying eggs, the smell of the warm food filling the space around me.

But the moment is short-lived. As soon as I finish cooking, I begin the arduous task of setting the table. I place the plates, pour the coffee, set the butter, and arrange the syrup with the precision of someone who knows the routine too well. The triplets expect nothing less than perfection, even if it’s for a meal they won’t appreciate.

I’m finishing up when I hear the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. The unmistakable sound of high heels on the wooden floor, slow and deliberate. Luna Lyra enters the room, her eyes immediately scanning the table. She’s tall, with dark brown straight hair that falls gracefully down her back, and her green eyes are sharp, calculating. She carries herself like she’s above everyone else, and most of the time, she is. The Luna of the pack. The wife of Alpha Magnus.

Her eyes flick over the spread before she gives a nod of approval. “It looks... nice.”

I almost freeze, unsure if I heard her right. Compliments from Lyra are rare, and even rarer are ones that feel genuine. Her voice carries a hint of indifference as she surveys my work, but for once, it’s not laced with cruelty. Maybe it’s the holiday season, or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t feel like adding to my misery today.

But it doesn’t last long.

“Don’t forget to wash the dishes afterward, Charity,” she adds, her tone suddenly sharp again, as if the compliment had never happened. “We wouldn’t want the pack to think we’re running a sloppy kitchen.”

Charity. The name that’s become my identity over the years. It was never meant to be a compliment. The triplets coined it when I was a child, calling me Charity because I was always the one doing everything for everyone. It was meant to be a joke, but it’s stuck. The entire pack uses it now, like a reminder of how little I mean to them. I used to hate it. I used to correct people when they called me that, but over the years, it’s become the name I respond to, the name I’ve learned to accept because it’s easier than fighting it.

“Of course,” I say, my voice flat. I don’t need to fight it anymore. I’ve learned that fighting only makes things worse.

Lyra gives me one last look before she turns on her heel and walks away, her heels clicking sharply on the floor. She doesn’t look back, and I don’t expect her to. I return to the table, sitting down for just a moment, allowing myself to inhale the smell of the food before I take a small sip of my coffee. It’s sweet, rich, and comforting. But it doesn’t fill the emptiness inside.

My mind drifts again, like it always does. Seven months. That’s all I have left. Seven months until I graduate. Seven months until I turn eighteen. And then, I’ll be free. I’ll leave this place. The pack. The triplets. The house. The shame.

I have to.

I can’t stay here. Not another day. Not another year.

With one last, deep breath, I stand up and start clearing the table. It’s not the life I dreamed of, but it’s the life I’m stuck with for now. Seven months. I can make it. I will make it. And once I’m free, I won’t look back.

No more "Charity." No more hiding in the shadows.

Just Cassia. And that’s all that matters.