Chapter Three
680 Words
Elara
The kitchen is stifling, the smell of grease and soap thick in the air. My arms tremble, my hands raw from scrubbing, my knuckles scraped. Every muscle aches from yesterday, from the injections, from bruises that never fully fade.
A shadow falls over me.
At first, I think it’s one of the younger wolves delivering food, or maybe an omega coming to carry a basket. Someone harmless.
I glance up.
It’s Maren.
Beta Maren. Tall, broad, and sharp-eyed. A wolf who knows his place — and knows how to take what he wants.
He leans closer, and the heat of him presses against me. “You’ve been hiding in the kitchens all morning,” he murmurs. “Thought maybe you’d let me… help you.”
I jerk back instinctively. “No,” I whisper, trying to sound steady. “Stop.”
A strike lands across my ribs before I can react. Pain explodes, raw and immediate. The plate I was holding slips from my grasp and falls to the floor.
Maren’s eyes flash with anger. “Clumsy,” he snarls. He hits me again.
I fall to the stone floor, chest heaving, cheek pressed against the cold. My breath comes in sharp gasps, but I refuse to scream. I know that only makes it worse.
“Stay down,” he hisses. “Refuse me again, and I’ll make sure no one ever wants you.”
Another blow lands across my shoulder. My vision tilts, stars exploding behind my eyes. I curl in on myself instinctively, trying to make myself small, trying to disappear.
Then… voices. Faint, distant voices drifting down the hallway.
Maren freezes. His jaw tightens. He snarls something under his breath, and without another word, stalks away, disappearing into the shadows.
I lie there for a moment, chest heaving, trying to draw in steady breaths. My hands shake so badly I can barely press them to the floor. Pain radiates through every muscle. Every nerve screams at me to curl tighter, to disappear entirely.
I roll onto my side, wincing, pressing my forehead to the cold stone. The kitchen feels too big. Too loud. Too full of eyes I can’t see, voices I can’t hear. I taste blood and fear. The plate still lies broken near my knees, a small reminder of my failure, of my helplessness.
Slowly, I push myself upright, leaning on the counter. My arms tremble, and my vision swims. Each breath is sharp and shallow, but I force it to calm. I focus on the sound of distant footsteps — ordinary pack movement, nothing threatening.
For a moment, I imagine running. Just slipping out the back door, disappearing into the woods. But the wolfsbane lingers in my veins. My legs would fail me within minutes. My father would find me, and it would be worse.
So I stay.
I try to make myself small, invisible. My shoulders slump, my head bowed. My wolf inside me quivers faintly, restrained by chains I cannot see. I close my eyes, willing the shaking to stop. The ache to dull. The humiliation to fade.
Seconds stretch. Minutes feel like hours. The room is silent except for the hum of the hearth and the distant murmurs of the pack. I think Maren is gone. I think I might survive.
But then heavy boots clang against the stone.
My father.
Alpha. My tormentor. The man who killed my mother.
He stops above me, eyes cold and sharp. “Lazy,” he spits. “Always lazy. Can’t even hold a plate, can you?”
I try to rise, but my muscles tremble violently. Another strike lands. My head snaps back, vision blurring, and I crumble against the hallway wall.
“You’re worthless if you can’t even obey,” he hisses. “Every weakling in my pack would do better than you.”
I slump against the stone, chest heaving, blood running from split knuckles and bruises. Pain and fear threaten to swallow me whole.
And still, I survive.
Even drugged, even beaten, even humiliated beyond measure… I am still here.
- Writer
