Dinner
1187 Words
The moment I step into the Alpha House, I get to work.
I chop.
I season.
I simmer.
I bake.
Every movement is precise, practiced, desperate.
By the time the sun begins to set, the kitchen is spotless and every dish is prepped and ready. Only then do I allow myself to go upstairs and get ready.
I choose a simple dress — modest, clean, unwrinkled.
Heels that make me stand tall but not too tall.
Hair pulled back neatly.
Face washed, expression neutral.
I must be ready before anyone sits at the table.
I must not keep them waiting.
I must not make a mistake.
When they arrive — Alpha Marcus, Tyler, the Beta, and Mistress Hale — I’m already standing behind the table, hands folded, eyes down.
I pull out each of their chairs in silence.
I serve the first course.
I pour the wine.
Then I step back into the corner, lower myself to my knees, and bow my head.
The room hums with conversation, but none of it includes me.
When Alpha Marcus asks for more wine, I rise instantly.
“Yes, sir.”
I pour his glass, careful not to spill a drop, then return to my corner and kneel again.
Course after course, I serve them.
Plate after plate, I obey.
Every command is met with the same quiet response.
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
My knees ache.
My back burns.
My heart hammers.
But I don’t falter.
I am perfect.
When dessert is finished and the plates are empty, I wait — breath held, head bowed — for Mistress Hale’s approval.
But she doesn’t look at me.
She looks at Marcus.
“Still a long way to go,” she says calmly. “But I’ll get her there. I promise.”
A long way?
The words hit like a slap.
I was perfect.
Marcus doesn’t respond. Tyler doesn’t look at me. The Beta pushes back his chair without a word. They all leave their plates where they are, as if I’m invisible.
As if I’m nothing.
When the room empties, I rise slowly, my legs trembling, and begin clearing the table.
No praise.
No acknowledgment.
Not even a thank you.
Just silence.
And the quiet realization that no matter how perfect I am…
it will never be enough.
The dining room is silent once they leave, the echo of their chairs scraping back still ringing in my ears. My knees ache from kneeling, my back stiff from holding perfect posture, but I don’t let myself sit. Not yet. Not until everything is spotless.
I gather the plates first — Marcus’s, Tyler’s, the Beta’s, Mistress Hale’s — stacking them carefully so they don’t clatter. Noise feels dangerous. Mistakes feel dangerous. I move slowly, deliberately, the way Mistress Hale would expect.
The kitchen is warm from the hours of cooking, but I feel cold. Hollow. I wash each dish by hand, scrubbing until the porcelain gleams, until my reflection stares back at me in warped fragments. I dry them. Put them away. Wipe the counters. Sweep the floor.
Reset the table for tomorrow.
Only when the room looks untouched — as if dinner never happened — do I allow myself to breathe.
I turn off the lights and walk down the hallway, my footsteps soft on the wooden floor. The house is quiet, but not peaceful. It feels like it’s holding its breath. Like it’s watching me.
When I reach my room, I close the door gently behind me and lean against it for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle over me.
Obedience training.
Dinner.
Kneeling.
“Yes, sir.”
Mistress Hale’s voice echoing in my head.
Marcus’s silence.
No praise.
No acknowledgment.
Just… nothing.
I slip out of my dress and hang it carefully, smoothing the fabric so it won’t wrinkle. I place my heels back in their spot in the closet. Everything must be perfect. Everything must be in order.
I crawl into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin. My body is exhausted, but my mind won’t stop replaying every moment of the evening.
Still a long way to go.
Mistress Hale’s words cut deeper than I expected.
I thought I had done everything right.
I thought I had been perfect.
But perfect isn’t enough.
Not here.
Not for them.
I curl onto my side, staring at the wall, and try to steady my breathing.
Tomorrow, I tell myself.
Tomorrow I’ll do better.
Tomorrow I’ll be exactly what they want.
I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come easily.
Not in this house.
Not anymore.
El is halfway into sleep when the soft click of her bedroom door snaps her awake.
She sits up sharply.
Marcus stands in the doorway, the hall light casting his silhouette across her floor. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t ask permission. He simply steps inside and closes the door behind him.
Her breath catches.
“Alpha Marcus?” she whispers, pulling the blanket up to her chest.
“Quiet,” he says, not harshly — but with the kind of authority that leaves no room for argument. “We don’t want to wake the others.”
He moves closer, and El instinctively shrinks back against the headboard. He walks over to her and covers her mouth, his other hand sliding up her side as he looms over her, crowding her space. He feels her breast, like he is assessing her.
“I came to prepare you,” he says. “Tyler may be a disappointment, but he is still your intended mate. And you will not embarrass me again.”
“There are expectations,” he continues. “Rules you will follow when you are alone with Tyler. Rules that ensure he is… satisfied.”
Her stomach twists.
Marcus begins listing them — not graphically, not crudely, but with cold, clinical precision.
Rule Number 1: You are here to serve him in every way he requires.
Rule Number 2: When he enters the room, you will already be kneeling and waiting for him. Naked.
Rule Number 3: You will not refuse him or question his expectations. Obedience is mandatory. Every part of you belongs to him to use as he pleases.
Rule Number 4: You will fulfill your duty to this family and provide the heirs expected of you.
El’s hands tremble beneath the blanket. She nods when he pauses, nods again when he demands acknowledgment, nods even when her throat feels too tight to speak.
When he finishes, he stands.
“You will remember every word,” he says. “Mistress Hale will reinforce the rest.”
He walks to the door, opens it, then pauses without looking back.
“You belong to this pack, El. And you will serve it properly.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
El sits frozen in the dark, heart pounding, the echo of his words pressing down on her like a weight she can’t lift.
She whispers the rules to herself in the dark, trying to memorize them, trying not to break.
- Writer
