Their Fated Mate

Charlie was no stranger to the cold. The frigid air would seep through her barely there window and lurk in the shadows of her room. But when she was awoken well before dawn with a rather nasty chill, she knew it wouldn't be a good day. The bed she lay on was barren. All she had to keep warm throughout the year were the clothes on her back, thin and tattered. So, she learned to accept the cold. To not be weighed down by the pressure of stiff bones and aching joints. But this early in the morning, Charlie allowed herself to feel. She forced herself out of bed, giving herself time to grow accustomed to consciousness. As quickly and quietly as she could, she dressed herself in some clothing that had spent years in a lost-n-found. They didn't really fit, but they didn't need to. Perhaps someday she could escape to the countryside. Tend some little farm and be happy. But today was not that day. Charlie worked her way up the steps, wincing at every movement and avoiding every creaky floorboard. The triplets were going to be awake soon and she couldn't be late. She had to make their breakfast- and inevitably remake it, start on some household chores and somehow find the time to do her statistics homework all before 7:30 AM. She started with toast, dropping slices into the toaster before grabbing eggs and bacon from the fridge. Ben and Milo liked their eggs over easy; Ian only ate scrambled. Ben and Ian wanted regular bacon, but Milo insisted on turkey bacon. Ian and Milo preferred butter on their toast, while Ben always demanded avocado—mashed, seasoned, and served just right. It was ridiculous how picky they were, especially considering the Alpha and Luna didn’t complain nearly as much. But it didn’t matter. Charlie had learned a long time ago that satisfying the triplets meant surviving another morning. She’d just plated the first of five breakfasts—scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and regular bacon—when Milo strolled into the kitchen. He glanced at the plate for half a second before a sneer twisted across his face. "You've been here how many years and still can't get it through your thick fuckin' head that I don't like that sh!t?" he snapped. Charlie barely had time to react before he slapped the plate from her hands. The ceramic shattered across the floor, echoing through the room. She flinched instinctively—long before the crash met her ears. "Make it again," Milo growled, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Y-yes, Alpha," Charlie whispered, eyes lowered. She moved quickly, replacing the plate, carefully assembling his turkey bacon, over-easy eggs and buttered toast. She set it at his spot at the table and pulled out the chair. Milo dropped into it with a grunt, glare still simmering as Charlie rushed to clean the mess and remake Ian’s food. She hadn’t finished by the time Ian walked in, which made her stomach twist. "Ugh, we do this every day, Rags, and you still can’t get it done on time? Are you stupid or something?" “S-sorry,” she muttered, scrambling to plate his scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and bacon. She pulled out his chair like always, careful not to meet his eyes. Finally, she exhaled a shaky breath and set Ben’s plate at the head of the table, then carefully laid out the Alpha and Luna’s breakfast at their places. - Her fingers ached with every scrub, joints stiff and raw from the cold water and harsh soap. With each swipe across the fabric, she was sure her bones would snap. The grease stains clung stubbornly to the fibers, and she didn’t have the time—or the strength—for a losing battle. But she also couldn’t risk the punishment that came with doing a poor job. So she let her mind drift, untethered, as her hands kept working. It wandered, as it always did, to a better time. A softer one. Springtime. Sunshine. Her parents laughing. She could almost smell the wildflowers in that distant memory, even if they always made her sneeze. Her mother used to warn her to keep a fair distance, but she never listened. She’d creep closer, fingers twisting delicate stems into lopsided little crowns. Her mother would always sigh—half amused, half exasperated—then take a photo. While the Polaroid dried in the sun, she’d press the flowers Charlie picked into an album. Each page a tribute to moments that had once felt infinite. That album was gone now. So was the laughter. The sun. The warmth. All that remained was Charlie, kneeling on the cold flooring, her fingers rubbed raw and red. Her flower crowns replaced with dirty clothes. Her childhood replaced with silence. - Spoiler: she didn’t have time for her homework. It was no surprise, really. The triplets went through clothes like they were paper towels—blood, grease, sweat, and God knew what else—and they demanded everything be hand-washed. Stains that would’ve made bleach cry and, of course, she had to finish it before school, alongside breakfast and dishes and scrubbing Ian’s boots because they’d gotten “too dusty” from walking. By the time she made it to the bus stop, her lungs were heaving. She jumped on just as the doors hissed shut, collapsing into the empty window seat no one ever inhabited. No one sat by her. Not unless they wanted to be a punchline—or deliver one. Being seen near Charlie Hughes meant social suicide at Silver Hollow High. She was the cautionary tale no one dared touch. Or the perfect scapegoat if they wanted to impress a Hawthorne. Her locker never disappointed. Slurs decorated the dented gray metal like graffiti, written in what looked like eyeliner and something vaguely red that she didn’t want to identify. Typical. Charlie took a deep breath and twisted her lock open. Boom. A burst of flour exploded into her face like a bad sitcom gag. It clung to her eyelashes, coated her tongue, and caked into her tangled hair. Her eyes stung. "Fantastic," she muttered, coughing softly and blinking past the fog of powder. She grabbed her first two textbooks with flour-covered fingers and slammed the door shut, not caring who flinched from the sound. The bathroom was predictably useless. Damp paper towels barely scraped the flour from her skin, only turning it into glue with every swipe. The water in the sink was icy, but she kept scrubbing—at least until her knuckles burned and she couldn't even look at herself in the mirror anymore. She gave up. It wasn’t like anyone would notice the difference between "a mess" and "a disaster." In first period, she sat in front of Milo Hawthorne and beside Ben’s latest girlfriend—Mandy? Mira? One of those vapid names that clung to power like perfume. "Ew, what is that?" the girl gasped, scooting her desk an exaggerated two feet away. A clump of flour drifted from Charlie’s hair onto the desk between them. "She asked you a question, b!tch," Milo growled from behind, shoving Charlie so hard her shoulder nearly dislocated on the edge of the desk. "Flour," she muttered, blinking rapidly as she opened her textbook. She didn’t look at him. Looking at him made it worse. "Oh, honey," the girlfriend drawled with fake sweetness, reaching across the aisle, "Let me help you with that." Her hand curled into Charlie’s hair and yanked. Charlie gasped, her scalp screaming in pain, warmth prickling up the back of her neck. Instinct took over and she slapped the girl’s hand away, shielding her head like she’d been burned. Her heart thudded in her ears. Wrong move. Pain exploded through her ribs as Milo’s boot connected with her back, hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs and send her face-first into her desk. "How dare you slap her?!" he shouted, face twisted in outrage. Her ears rang. Her cheek struck the desk with a dull thud, the impact bouncing her head back before she let it fall forward again, resting against the cool surface. Charlie didn’t answer. She didn’t move. The door opened. The teacher walked in. Milo leaned in close and hissed, “We’ll settle this later,” his voice thick with promise. Charlie barely registered the lesson. The words on the board blurred, doubling and shifting no matter how hard she blinked. Her notes were a mess—crooked lines and half-finished sentences, ink smudged where her hand trembled over the page. Her skull throbbed from where it had struck the desk, each heartbeat pounding behind her eyes, making it impossible to focus. She couldn’t remember what the teacher had just said. Her ribs ached with every shallow breath, each inhale tight, each exhale worse. All she could do was keep her head down and pretend she was still there—still trying. She didn’t dare ask to go to the nurse. There was no point. The pack wouldn't protect her. Not if it meant going against them.