Isabella and the four Alphas

Isabella's Pov, "You call this clean, slave?" Lazarus roars as he flings the pile of wet laundry at me. I shrink instinctively, stooping in resignation and taking bruises to protect vitals. Lazarus always searches out some pretense for his assaults. Great swaggers up, his pretty features twisted smug. “Can’t expect a cursed half-breed to work properly like civilized wolves!” He punctuates his point with a swift kick behind my knee that drops me yelping. Tristan and Owen linger close, a half-moon of looming threats. The gathering pack keeps well clear of their thrashing range but soon begin adding their vocal scorn from behind shoulders, bolstering the show. “Dirty mongrel probably soils the washing herself to shirk duties!" "Chase the cur out to fend for itself if useless!" "Someone discipline this wretch again!" I focus numbly on refolding small tunics, movements automatic after seasons of practice blocking their bile. But response or struggle only ever spurs greater fury. Lazarus proves that again now, fisting my braid to yank me off-balance and set the pace of abuse. They continue raining lazy insults between open-palmed slaps, kicks driven casual as chatter. The workings of full bellies and hard beds leave hands eager to vent frustration. Owen’s boot slams the delicate ridge of my spine, driving air out in an agonized gust. Brandon shoulders in, proving his dominance with rough kicks that knot tender organs. I huddle tight, smoked to stillness like prey animals before the predator tire of their sport. Eyes down, breathing shallow, willing myself limp as creek reeds that sway and rise again. Their knuckles split skin readily but nothing mends slow as spirit. Tristan leans against a wide oak, content for now to watch me be reduced towards an animal’s dumb cowering. The crawling things nested in Lazarus’s brain take longer to tire. He continues applying boot and fist in creative patterns, seeking new cries. My head rings deaf but still he hisses venom. “Look at me when I talk to you, cur!” Rough hands force my chin up though lips stay pinned bloodless. One eye already swells shut but the other meets Lazarus's swirling rage devoid of sense. Bedlam and brutality married. Great grabs a stick to join the assault. Lazarus continues taunting, demanding answers or begging as the self-made whip falls in random tempos. Rhythm itself becomes torturous. They pause once so Tristan can crouch close and detail his plans for me later. His damp, grave dirt breath withers hope in my guts. Owen takes the chance to relieve himself hot over my legs and neck-scruff, marking perverse claim. The acid stench curls my nose but I hold lifeless as spilled entrails under the pack’s roaring stamp of approval... Only when Lazarus finally grows bored and nods permission do the other Alphas relinquish prime position. Owen departs last, dealing a few more contemptuous kicks. The pack drifts, some sparing furtive pitying glances if sure their rulers don't look. I wait long minutes more playing perfect corpse before daring to unfurl and assess the damage. Gingerly wiping sour piss from my skin seems itself a sweet stolen victory. I gain my feet, swaying but stubborn, to resume the waiting chores. "Hurry up, slave!" Tristan backhands me without warning as I kneel washing the stone floor. "The Gather starts and we cannot be late hosting!" I swallow protests that all dens have been scrubbed spotless, bowing silent to haul buckets out the way as warriors stomp past. Any hesitation earns worse than blows. I shadow the pack at Gather in my usual corner, granted brief respite with Cora and the low-ranked. We witness the warriors boasting recent exploits, the elders striking political deals. None acknowledge us servants except to toss gnawed bones or broken platters. "Might steal us some proper meat tonight when they're well in their cups," Cora whispers conspiratorial. My answering nod goes sharp as Alpha Owen lurches near, his glare promising eavesdroppers no kindness. We shrink smaller, passing familiar warnings in fleeting narrowed eyes. The Alphas soon take stage, assumed grandness lending them illusion of wisdom and leadership they lack. But none here dare speak such treason. So we spectate their peacocking, awaiting cues when empty mugs need filling. At least the beaten dirt proves softer than the stone floors I knelt scrubbing all day... until a negligent kick or bored cuff reminds my lowly station. As the night wears, Alpha Great stumbles over snoring Betas to haul me rudely upright. "Come play with us, half-breed! You must be starved for fun, eh?" His pretty features leer close and I fight not to recoil from wine-sour breath. Their Sport never bodes well for me. Still I shuffle obedient to their ring, remembering past defiance earned only worse abuse. Facing the Alphas I stand mute, braced for both boredom and blows. Lazarus speaks loudest, invention fueled by drink. "Think we can make the witch b***h dance? A slave's jig might entertain!" Raucous laughter greets his mockery. Tristan twists my ear painfully, growling low. "Well? You hear your Alpha give order, half-breed!" Their circle tightens expectant when I shake my head, defiant. But seizure of stubbornness proves brief shield. The rules established long ago leave only two roads - submit or suffer for defiance. My shivering dancer's spectacle or another round of assaults for denying them. Neither promises dignity. Owen strikes first when I stay frozen, his ham-sized fist plowing my stomach. Lazarus's boot crunches my knee next, dropping me to wheezing all fours at which they cheer louder "...Make the dog dance proper now!..." Their circle-kicks thud rhythmically against ribs, thighs, spine.