During the day, I worked. Hard. Scrubbing floors until my hands bled, carrying heavy buckets of water that sloshed over my feet and soaked through my thin shoes, washing clothes in the icy river until I could no longer feel my fingers. If I faltered, if I paused for even a moment to catch my breath, I’d feel the sharp sting of a cane across my back or the scornful laughter of the pack members. They thrived on my suffering. To them, I was a broken creature, unworthy of the name I once bore with pride.
“Hey, wolf-less girl!” a servant sneered one morning, throwing a pile of muddy boots in my path. “Clean these. And make it quick, unless you want to be our new chew toy.”
I lowered myself to the ground, my knees hitting the cold stone, and reached for the boots. My hands were trembling, not from fear but from sheer exhaustion. I could feel their eyes on me, the snickering, the whispers. I was a spectacle, a source of cruel entertainment. 'How far the Alpha's daughter has fallen', I imagined them saying. But I gritted my teeth and kept scrubbing. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of breaking.
And then there was Lucas.