ALPHA'S SILVER-HAIRED DAUGHTER

The bucket hit me before I even had time to open my eyes. Cold water drenched my face, soaked through the thin cloth beneath me, and spilled across the cold stone floor. I gasped and jerked upright, staggering to my feet. For a moment, I couldn't see. The door to my tiny courtyard stood open, and the first faint light of dawn poured through it, so bright that I had to shield my eyes. My courtyard was at the farthest end of the house, tucked away where nobody cared to look. Except it wasn't really a courtyard. It was a forgotten storage room. A place where broken furniture, useless boxes, torn clothes, and discarded belongings were dumped until someone decided what to do with them. And that was where I slept. There were piles of junk everywhere. My companions were rats. Cockroaches. Tiny insects that crawled across the stone floor while I slept. At first, they had frightened me. Now, I barely noticed them. I had lived with them for so long that they felt more familiar than people did. "You useless brat!" My body froze. There was only one person who would come looking for me at this hour. Lady Farrow. She stood in the doorway, her face twisted with pure anger. Even from where I stood, I could feel the tension rolling off her. She looked beautiful. She always did. Her dark hair was braided neatly down her back, decorated with delicate pieces of gold that caught the faint morning light. Expensive bracelets adorned both her wrists, and her clothes were spotless. They were the kind of clothes I touched only when I was washing them. She looked at me as though I were something disgusting she'd found beneath her shoe. Perhaps, in her eyes, I was no different from the rats that slept beside me. "You are still lying there?" Her voice echoed through the storage room. I scrambled upright. Or tried to. My knees buckled almost immediately. Every part of my body hurt. My ribs ached whenever I breathed. My left leg throbbed from the beating I had received the night before. There was a swollen cut above my eyebrow, dried blood stiff against my skin. I had slept on the floor again. I always slept on the floor. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept on a mattress. Actually... I couldn't remember ever sleeping on one. There had never been a mattress for me. There had never been a proper blanket either. Only an old piece of fabric that was barely large enough to cover my body. I'd made it myself. Whenever the pack discarded old clothes or torn sheets, I secretly collected the pieces. Then, late at night, when everyone was asleep, I stitched them together with a needle I'd stolen from the kitchen. Piece by piece. Rag by rag. Until I'd made something that almost looked like a blanket. It wasn't warm. It wasn't soft. But it was mine. I had once asked Lady Farrow for a real blanket. Once. That was all it took. She had beaten me until both my eyes were swollen and dark. Then she had looked down at me and said, "Bedding is for pack members who matter." She had called me a useless wolf with no power, no bloodline, and no origin worth respecting. I never asked again. "Are you going to stand there staring at me all morning?" I lowered my head. "No, Lady Farrow." "Then move!" She stepped into the storage room. My legs instinctively moved backward. I knew what was coming before she even reached me. Her fingers tangled into my hair. She yanked. Pain shot across my scalp as I stumbled forward. "Kitchen." "Lady Farrow, I—" The slap came before I could finish. My cheek burned. "Don't make me repeat myself." She dragged me toward the doorway. I stumbled over a pile of broken boxes and nearly fell. She didn't stop. My head struck the edge of an old stone wolf statue beside the doorway. Pain exploded through my skull. I reached up instinctively. My fingers tracing the pain. Blood. Lady Farrow barely glanced at it. "Who is going to clean this courtyard?" I swallowed. "Me." "Who is going to clean the house?" "Me." "Who is going to prepare breakfast?" "Me." Her eyes narrowed. "Then why are you still standing here?" I hurried forward. I couldn't run. My body wouldn't let me. I had learned long ago that pain didn't matter. Hunger didn't matter. Sleep didn't matter. Blood didn't matter. Only the pack mattered. If the pack was satisfied, I was allowed to breathe for another day. That was my life. As long as I could remember, that had been my life. I woke before three very early every morning. Sometimes two. Sometimes one. I cooked for eighty wolves or more. Breakfast had to be ready before six. Every dish had to taste exactly the way they expected. The courtyard had to be spotless. The house had to be spotless. Their clothes had to be washed. Their plates had to be cleaned. Their rooms had to be arranged. And I was expected to do all of it alone. If anything went wrong, someone always found a reason to punish me. Last night, it had been Carmel. Carmel is one of the lead warriors in the pack. He had beaten me simply because the soup wasn't thick enough. I still remembered his voice. "How many times do I have to teach you?" I had apologized. I had begged. I had promised to fix it. It hadn't mattered. He had taken his belt from his waist. A thick leather belt he kept specifically for me. Whenever he was angry, frustrated, drunk, or simply bored, I became the easiest person to punish. My legs still trembled whenever I put weight on them. But stopping wasn't an option. Stopping was dangerous. So I dragged myself into the kitchen. The sink was overflowing. Plates. Bowls. Cups. Pots. I stared at them in disbelief. I had cleaned the entire kitchen before going to sleep. I remembered finishing sometime around midnight. Yet the wolves had eaten again after I left. And, as always, they had left everything behind for me. I swallowed. Then I reached for the first plate. One. Two. Three. I washed until my fingers became wrinkled. Then I started cooking. There was a list beside the stove. Eighteen dishes. Eighteen. I knew every recipe by heart. I knew how much salt each meal needed. How long the meat needed to cook. How thick the soup should be. Which spices the warriors preferred. Which dishes the elders refused to eat if they weren't prepared perfectly. One mistake could mean hours of punishment. So I worked faster. My hands shook. My eyes burned. My stomach growled. I ignored all three. Time disappeared. When I finally looked toward the window, sunlight was beginning to spill across the compound. Six o'clock. The pack was awake. I heard footsteps. Voices. Laughter. Warriors preparing for the day's activities. My heart dropped. The courtyard. I hadn't cleaned it. And the clothes Lady Farrow had ordered me to wash yesterday— I hadn't washed those either. I closed my eyes. Just for one second. I wanted to sit down. I wanted to sleep. I wanted someone to tell me that I didn't have to do this anymore. But no one ever did. Nobody came. Nobody asked. Nobody cared why a girl who was barely old enough to remember her childhood was covered in bruises. Nobody asked why I limped. Nobody asked why I never smiled. Nobody asked why I flinched whenever someone raised their voice. They simply added more bruises. I opened my eyes. Then I heard laughter outside. "Where's the food?" My blood ran cold. Carmel. I had forgotten to serve the food. I grabbed the nearest tray and rushed toward the courtyard. But before I could reach the door, I heard footsteps approaching. Slow. Heavy. Familiar. My hands began trembling. I knew that walk. I knew that silence. I knew what came after it. Carmel appeared in the doorway. His eyes moved from the untouched trays to my face. He smiled. Not kindly. Never kindly. "Forgotten something?" I couldn't breathe. "I'm sorry." He stepped closer. "You've been saying that your whole life." I lowered my head. "I'm sorry, Carmel." His hand closed around my chin, forcing me to look at him. "You know what happens when you make the pack wait." Tears filled my eyes. "I'll fix it." "You always say that too." He released me. The tray slipped from my trembling hands and crashed onto the floor. Food scattered everywhere. Silence fell. I stared at the mess. Then at carmel. As expected, Carmel brought out the leather belt. My body went completely still. I knew what was coming. The first strike landed across my back. Pain tore through me. Then another. And another. He didn't stop. The thick leather cut across my skin repeatedly, leaving angry red marks that burned against my flesh. My already-torn rags offered almost no protection. With every strike, another part of the thin fabric ripped apart. I curled into myself, trying to protect the most vulnerable parts of my body. "Please..." My voice broke. "Please, Carmel. I'll fix it. I'll serve the food. I'll clean everything." He ignored me. The belt came down again. And again. He struck me as though I wasn't a person. As though I couldn't feel pain. As though I wasn't human—or wolf—but merely something that belonged to him. Then the door opened. Lady Farrow walked inside. She glanced at the overturned food. Then at me. Her expression didn't change. "You." I lifted my head. "You stupid little bastard!" Her voice echoed across the room. "Look at this mess!" "I'm sorry." "Sorry?" She pointed toward the floor. "Carmel, don't dirty your hands because of her." Carmel finally lowered the belt. Lady Farrow walked toward me. I tried to push myself up, but my arms trembled beneath me. She grabbed my hair. "Get up." I couldn't. She pulled harder. A cry escaped me as I forced myself onto my feet. My legs shook violently. She looked at the food scattered around Karma's boots. "Clean it." I stared at the floor. "Yes, Lady Farrow." I dropped to my knees. With trembling hands, I gathered the pieces of food that had fallen onto the floor. Then Lady Farrow looked toward Karma's boots. "Make sure you clean those too." My stomach twisted. I knew better than to argue. I lowered my head and obeyed. When I finished, Lady Farrow shoved the serving tray into my hands. "Now serve the pack." I could barely stand. But I walked. I carried the tray through the dining hall, keeping my eyes firmly lowered. That was when I began noticing the looks. The pack members were staring at me. Not with concern. Not with pity. With the kind of attention that made my skin crawl. My clothes were torn from the beating, exposing far more of me than I wanted anyone to see. I desperately tried to hold the fabric together as I moved from table to table. But I could feel their eyes following me. Whispers began spreading across the room. Frederick leaned back in his chair, his eyes traveling over me. "Well, well." His mouth curled into a smile. "Looks like our little servant is growing up." A few wolves laughed. I kept walking. Frederick wasn't finished. "Don't you think she's changed?" Another wolf glanced at me. "She's certainly not the little girl who used to run around the kitchen anymore." Their laughter grew louder. I tightened my grip around the tray. "Maybe she's becoming useful for something other than cooking." My stomach dropped. I knew exactly what they were implying. I hurried toward the next table. "Frederick," Jasper said with a laugh, "there are plenty of beautiful women in this pack. Why are you bothering with her?" He glanced at me. "She's a servant." Frederick shrugged. "So?" Jasper laughed. "She has no family. No status. No origin anyone knows about." "Exactly." Frederick's voice became colder. "Who would care what happens to her?" The table erupted in laughter. I felt something inside my chest collapse. Who would care? Nobody. That was what I had always believed. Nobody cared when I was hungry. Nobody cared when I was beaten. Nobody cared when I slept on stone. Nobody cared when I cried. So why would anyone care about what happened to me now? I lowered my head and continued serving. I pretended I couldn't hear them. Pretended their words weren't crawling beneath my skin. Pretended I wasn't afraid. But every laugh followed me. Every stare. Every whisper. By the time I reached the kitchen again, my hands were shaking so badly that I nearly dropped the tray. I hurried to the little corner I called mine. Hidden behind an old cupboard was the needle I kept tucked away. I pulled it out. Then I sat on the floor and began stitching my clothes back together. One stitch. Then another. My fingers trembled. The fabric was old and worn, but I kept sewing anyway. I needed something between me and the world. Even if it was only a few pieces of cloth. I looked down at myself. Then a strange thought crossed my mind. I didn't even know how old I was. eighteen or nineteen, perhaps. That was what someone had once guessed. But I wasn't certain. I had never celebrated a birthday. Not once. I'd never woken up to someone wishing me happiness. I'd never received a birthday gift. I'd never had a cake with my name written across it. I didn't even know the exact day I had been born. Who would remember? Nobody. I had stopped asking questions about my age years ago. I'd stopped asking questions about everything. All I remembered was being five years old. Five years old when I was brought here. Five years old when I was sold. I was five years old when my biological parents sold me to the Sukarmos Pack. Even after all these years, I still didn't know why. I had a twin sister. My childhood was nothing but a collection of blurry memories—fragments that came and disappeared whenever I tried to hold onto them. I remembered my parents' faces only in pieces. I remembered my sister more clearly. They always favored her. She was the one they held close. The one they protected. The one they smiled at. And I was the one they sold. Maybe they never loved me. Maybe they never wanted me. Maybe, from the moment I was born, they had already decided that my sister was the daughter worth keeping and I was the daughter they could live without. I didn't know. I had spent so many years wondering about it, and I still had no answers. All I knew was that when I was five years old, they gave me away. I lowered my eyes to the torn fabric in my hands and continued sewing. The needle passed through the cloth. In. Out. In. Out. I kept stitching until every torn part of my dress was joined together again, covering the places Karma's belt had exposed. But as I worked, I imagined I wasn't stitching fabric. I was stitching myself. Every stitch felt like I was trying to close one of the wounds inside me. The emotional pain. The loneliness. The humiliation. The fear. The years of being beaten until I forgot what gentle hands felt like. The countless nights I had cried silently because I knew nobody would come if I screamed. The memories I couldn't remember. The questions nobody answered. The pieces of my heart that had been ripped apart so many times that I wasn't even sure there was enough of me left to put back together. I kept sewing. Faster. Harder. As if one more stitch could close everything. As if I could sew my childhood back together. As if I could stitch away the pain. As if I could somehow repair the little girl my parents had abandoned. But wounds inside the heart don't close as easily as torn cloth. When I finally finished, I stared down at the dress. It was ugly. Uneven. Covered in crooked stitches. But at least I was covered again. I slowly let the needle fall from my fingers. My body felt strangely light. Then the room began to spin. My vision blurred. I tried to steady myself against the wall, but my strength was gone. I couldn't fight anymore. I couldn't think anymore. I couldn't even cry. My knees gave out beneath me. And I collapsed onto the cold stone floor. For a moment, I simply lay there, staring into the darkness. Wondering how much longer a person could survive when every part of them had already been broken.