Chapter Two
819 Words
Elara
The door to the lower den scrapes open sometime after dawn.
I don’t bother looking up at first.
If it’s one of the warriors, they’ll kick me to make sure I’m conscious. If it’s my father, he’ll pretend not to see the blood.
Instead, a softer scent reaches me.
Linen. Ash. Fear.
Omega.
“Get up,” a quiet voice says.
I lift my head slowly. It’s Tomas — shoulders narrow, eyes downcast. He can’t be more than nineteen. An omega by designation, which means he cleans, carries, and keeps silent.
Which means he still outranks me.
“They’re calling you to work,” he adds.
Of course they are.
I push myself up carefully this time, biting back the tremor in my muscles. The wolfsbane still lingers, thick in my bloodstream. My wolf feels distant but aware — coiled beneath the poison.
Tomas notices the way I sway.
He hesitates.
“You’re… bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically.
We both know that’s a lie.
He shifts awkwardly. “Beta Maren said if you don’t report to the kitchens in five minutes, he’ll have you dragged there.”
Ah.
So today it’s the kitchens.
Better than the training yard.
“Tell him I’m coming,” I say.
He nods quickly, relieved to have delivered the message without incident. Omegas are taught to avoid conflict at all costs.
He pauses at the doorway.
“They gave you wolfsbane again, didn’t they?”
I don’t answer.
He doesn’t need me to.
Even he can smell it.
The door closes.
I take a breath and force myself upright. Every movement feels like dragging a body that isn’t mine. Without the injections, I would already be healed. The swelling in my cheek would be gone. The split in my lip sealed.
Instead, I feel fragile.
That’s how they want me.
I step into the corridor.
The pack house hums with morning life — warriors moving through halls, laughter spilling from the dining chamber, the scent of roasted meat heavy in the air.
Conversations falter as I pass.
Eyes follow.
No one greets me.
They never do.
I reach the kitchens just as a sharp voice cuts through the air.
“Well, look who decided to crawl out of her hole.”
I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
Lyria.
Beta Maren’s only daughter. His daughter from his mate whom died a bout a year ago.
Golden-haired. Perfect posture. The kind of wolf who’s never doubted her place in the world. She’s the only person he cares about anymore.
She stands near the prep tables, arms crossed, a smirk curling her lips.
“You’re late,” she says.
“It hasn’t been five minutes,” I reply quietly.
Her eyes flash.
Around us, the kitchen staff go still.
“You speak when spoken to,” she snaps, stepping closer. “Or have you forgotten your rank?”
I lower my gaze.
I know the script.
Lyria circles me slowly, nose wrinkling. “You smell disgusting.”
Wolfsbane.
Blood.
Humiliation.
She leans in slightly. “Did my father hit you again? Or was it yours this time?”
A few snickers ripple from the younger wolves nearby.
My wolf stirs — a low, dangerous vibration.
I swallow it down.
“Get to the sinks,” Lyria orders. “You’ll scrub the pots. All of them. And if I find a single spot left on anything, I’ll make sure they increase your dosage tonight.”
There it is.
The real threat.
Not claws.
Not fists.
The needle.
I move toward the wash basin without another word.
Water sloshes as I plunge my hands in. The sting of soap against split knuckles makes my breath hitch, but I don’t react.
Behind me, Lyria continues.
“You know,” she says loudly enough for everyone to hear, “if I were you, I would’ve thrown myself off the cliffs by now.”
Silence follows.
She’s testing me.
Waiting.
I focus on the pot in my hands.
“I suppose even dying would require strength,” she adds lightly.
Something inside me shifts.
Not my wolf.
Something deeper.
Older.
Heat flickers faintly beneath my sternum — a pulse against the binding.
Lyria’s smirk falters for half a second.
She feels it.
Even drugged. Even bound.
She feels it.
Her chin lifts. “Careful,” she warns softly. “We all know what happens when you lose control.”
Yes.
I do.
The binding tightens faintly in response, as if reacting to my emotion. A phantom pressure around my ribs.
I dip my head again.
Submission.
It’s easier.
Safer.
But as I scrub the pot and listen to Lyria’s laughter fade back into the rhythm of the kitchen, one thought refuses to quiet.
They fear what I might become.
Even she does.
Especially she.
And fear, I’m beginning to realize —
is power.
- Writer
