REJECTED BY THE ALPHA

CHAPTER TWO

The Next Day

Elena woke before the world did.

There was no splash of cold water this time, no harsh voice dragging her from sleep. Instead, her eyes opened slowly in the dim stillness of the basement, her body rising out of rest as if trained by years of routine.

Her biological clock had learned.

Pain had taught it well.

For a few seconds, she remained still, staring at the cracked ceiling above her. The faint early morning light barely reached her small space, but she could already feel the day pressing down on her.

Heavy.

Demanding.

Unforgiving.

She pushed herself up with a quiet breath.

Her muscles protested immediately.

The bruises from yesterday had darkened overnight, blooming across her skin like shadows she couldn’t escape. Her cheek still throbbed faintly where she had been slapped, and her arms ached from scrubbing, lifting, enduring.

Still, she stood.

There was no time to linger.

Elena stepped into the small corner that served as her bathing area. The water was cold—always cold—but she poured it over herself anyway, biting back the sharp intake of breath that threatened to escape.

The chill seeped into her bones.

But it helped.

It numbed everything.

She washed quickly, efficiently, as she always did, then reached for her clothes.

They were worn.

Faded.

Threadbare in places.

But they were all she had.

She slipped into them without complaint, tying the loose ends where the fabric had stretched over time. Her silver cross necklace rested against her chest once more—a small, quiet comfort she never removed.

By the time she stepped out of the basement, the pack was already beginning to stir.

Yesterday, the pack house butler Mark, had gathered everyone and assigned tasks. His voice had carried authority, even among higher-ranking members.

“Wake by 5 a.m.,” he had ordered. “We prepare for an important celebration.”

But he hadn’t said what the celebration was.

Not that it mattered.

Elena had learned long ago that she didn’t need explanations—only instructions.

The tasks had been divided carefully.

Some were assigned to decorate the pack house—stringing lights, hanging banners, polishing every visible surface until it gleamed.

Others were sent to deep-clean rooms that hadn’t been used in years. Even though they were already maintained, the expectation was perfection.

Everything had to shine.

Everything had to be flawless.

Elena’s assignment was different.

She—and a few others—were to go to the pack’s farm and gather fresh vegetables and fruits for the kitchen.

Fresh.

Not the stored ones.

Not the ones already harvested and perfectly usable.

Fresh.

Because nothing less would satisfy the higher ranks.

As Elena walked toward the farm, she already knew how this would go.

She would do most of the work.

She always did.

The farm stretched far beyond what most would expect.

Rows upon rows of crops lined the land—leafy greens, root vegetables, fruit trees heavy with ripening produce. The early morning mist still clung to the soil, and the scent of earth and greenery filled the air.

It was quiet.

Peaceful.

Almost beautiful.

Almost.

Elena stepped into the tool shed—a wooden structure near the edge of the field. Inside, everything was neatly arranged.

Different tools hung along the walls.

There were hoes, their metal blades slightly worn from constant use, perfect for breaking soil and clearing weeds.

Hand trowels sat in rows, smaller but sharp, used for digging around delicate roots.

Pruning shears, polished but aged, rested in a box—used for cutting stems and shaping plants without damaging them.

Large woven baskets were stacked in the corner, sturdy enough to carry heavy loads of vegetables and fruit. There were also, watering cans, spades and sacks of seeds carefully labeled and stored.

In another section, crates of vegetables harvested two weeks earlier were still stocked.

Tomatoes.

Carrots.

Peppers.

More than enough to sustain a celebration.

Elena ran her fingers lightly over one of the crates.

“They are enough…” she murmured softly to herself. “They could still suffice for the party… but no… they want fresh ones.”

Her voice held no anger.

Just quiet understanding.

She picked up a basket and selected the tools she needed—a hand trowel, pruning shears, and a small hoe. Balancing them carefully, she stepped back into the field.

And got to work.

The sun climbed slowly as Elena moved through the farm.

She started with the vegetables.

Kneeling in the soil, she used the trowel to loosen the earth around the roots, careful not to damage them. Her movements were precise, practiced. She dug gently, then pulled the vegetables free—carrots streaked with dirt, potatoes still clinging to the soil.

Each one she wiped lightly before placing into her basket.

Her hands became coated in earth, her nails darkened, her fingers sore from constant motion.

She moved from one row to another.

Weeding.

Digging.

Harvesting.

With the hoe, she cleared stubborn weeds that wrapped around the crops, their roots tangled deep in the soil. It required strength—more than her thin frame suggested she had—but she pushed through, gripping the handle tightly as she forced the blade into the ground.

The sun rose higher.

Heat replaced the morning chill.

Sweat gathered along her neck, sliding down her back, soaking into her already worn clothes.

Still, she didn’t stop.

Next came the fruit trees.

Elena dragged a wooden crate beneath a mango tree and climbed carefully onto it. The branches stretched wide, heavy with ripe fruit.

She reached up, using the pruning shears to cut the stems cleanly.

One by one.

Each mango fell gently into her basket.

Sometimes, she stretched too far, her balance wavering—but she steadied herself every time.

She couldn’t afford to fall.

Not here.

Not alone.

Hours passed.

Her basket filled.

Then emptied.

Then filled again.

By the time the sun reached its peak, Elena’s arms trembled slightly from exhaustion.

And just as she expected—

That’s when they arrived.

“Hmm… the b***h is already here.”

The voice was sharp.

Mocking.

Elena didn’t turn.

She already knew.

A group of them approached—boys and girls assigned to the same task, their expressions twisted with annoyance.

Before she could react, a hand tangled into her hair and yanked her backward.

Pain shot through her scalp.

“You shameless thing,” one of the boys sneered. “What are you doing? You’re almost done with the work!”

Elena stumbled, her grip on the basket loosening as it fell to the ground, vegetables scattering across the soil.

“I—”

“She wants them to think we’re lazy,” a girl added coldly. “Trying to make us look bad.”

And just like that—

It began.

A shove.

A slap.

A kick to her side.

Elena hit the ground hard, the air knocked from her lungs as dirt pressed against her skin. The blows came quickly, overlapping, giving her no time to recover.

She curled slightly, her arms instinctively moving to shield herself.

But she didn’t scream.

Didn’t fight.

Didn’t resist.

She had learned.

It only made things worse.

Minutes passed.

Or maybe seconds.

It always blurred together.

“Guys—stop! Lady Camila is coming!”

The voice cut through the chaos.

Immediately, everything ceased.

The group stepped back, adjusting their clothes, their expressions shifting into forced normalcy as if nothing had happened.

They scattered, returning to their assigned work.

Just like that.

Elena remained on the ground.

Breathing.

Hurting.

Alone.

Slowly, she pushed herself up.

Her body screamed in protest, but she ignored it. She brushed the dirt off her clothes, her hands shaking slightly as she gathered the fallen vegetables.

She didn’t want Camila to see her like this.

She couldn’t.

“Elena! There you are—I’ve been looking for you.”

Camila’s voice carried across the field, bright and familiar.

Elena turned, forcing her posture to straighten.

“Camila,” she said quietly.

But Camila had already noticed.

Her brows furrowed instantly as she stepped closer, her gaze scanning Elena’s face, her arms, the way she stood.

“Why are there bruises on you?” she asked, her tone sharp with concern. “Did someone—”

Her head snapped toward the others.

But no one reacted.

No one looked up.

It was as if they hadn’t heard anything.

Elena quickly shook her head.

“No… I just fell while trying to pluck some mangoes,” she said.

The lie came easily.

Too easily.

Camila didn’t look convinced.

Her eyes lingered.

Searching.

“Are you sure, Elena?” she asked softly with uncertainty in her eyes

A pause.

Then—

“…Yes.”

Camila hesitated.

For a moment, it seemed like she might push further.

But then she sighed slightly, letting it go.

“Okay,” she said. “If you say so.”

Her expression softened again.

“Come on,” she added, a small smile returning. “I need your help picking a dress for the celebration.”

Before Elena could protest, Camila grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the farm.

Camila’s room was nothing like anything Elena had ever known.

The moment they entered, Elena felt it.

Warmth.

Space.

Comfort.

The room was large, filled with soft lighting and elegant furniture. A wide bed sat at the center, covered in plush sheets and pillows. A vanity table lined one wall, scattered with jewelry, perfumes, and brushes.

A wardrobe stood open—filled with dresses of different colors and fabrics.

Silk.

Satin.

Lace.

Things Elena had only ever touched while cleaning.

“Elena!” Camila exclaimed, throwing herself dramatically onto the bed. “I can’t believe it—I’m finally going to see my brother!”

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, her face glowing with excitement.

Elena stood quietly near the wardrobe.

“Oh… is that what we’re preparing for?” she asked softly.

Camila sat up instantly.

“Look at you!” she said, laughing lightly. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

There was no malice in her tone.

Only amusement.

“All the firstborns are coming back,” Camila said, her voice filled with energy. “From the Alpha’s son to the Head Warrior’s heir. They’ve all been away training for years.”

Her expression softened.

“I’ve never seen my brother before,” she admitted. “He left when he was seven… and I wasn’t even born yet.”

She hugged a pillow close to her chest.

“Twenty-two years…” she whispered. “And now I finally get to meet him.”

There was something deep in her voice.

Something emotional.

Something real.

Elena watched her quietly.

A strange feeling settled in her chest.

She didn’t understand it fully. But she knew one thing—Camila belonged to something.

A family.

A place.

“Elena!” Camila suddenly jumped up again. “Come on! We need to find the perfect dress. I have to look amazing!”

She rushed toward the wardrobe, pulling out one dress after another.

“This one?” she asked, holding up a flowing blue gown.

Then another.

“Or this?”

She turned toward Elena, spinning slightly.

“Well? What do you think?”

Elena hesitated for a moment.

Then, slowly, a small, genuine smile appeared on her face.

And for just a little while—

The world didn’t feel so heavy.