She moved fast. The moment the last biscuit was pulled from the oven, she grabbed the trays, one after another, and rushed toward the dining room. The familiar ache in her ribs throbbed with every step, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

If she were late, she'd pay for it. Again.

She laid the table in silence, her fingers flying. Scrambled eggs in the large ceramic bowl, bacon stacked in a curled, glistening pile. Sausages next, split open and steaming, then toast, biscuit, and golden hash browned just enough to crisp the edges. Jelly and butter went in their little bowls, placed at even intervals like she’d been taught. Or beaten into remembering.

Back to the kitchen.

She sprinted, ignoring the sharp stab in her hip. The juice. She grabbed two jugs—apple and orange—filling them almost to the top. They were heavy. She hated how they shook in her thin arms as she turned.

A glance at the clock.

The long hand was nearly on the twelve. The shorthand just past the six.

She could make it if she ran.

She took off again, one jug in each hand. The first trip went smoothly, and the orange juice was safely on the table. She dashed back for the apple.

On her return, her foot caught on the edge of the rug. Her ankle twisted and the jug slipped from her grip.

CRASH.

Glass shattered. Juice exploded across the tile floor and splashed her bare legs. She froze.

No. No, no, no—

She dropped to her knees, sweeping the pieces into a towel with shaking hands, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood. There was no time to clean it all properly. No time for a second jug. She stuffed the broken towel into the trash bin, heart hammering.

The floorboards above groaned.

They were waking up.

She ran.

Back into the kitchen, breath ragged, limbs trembling. She darted into the cleaning closet, shoved the mop bucket aside, and dropped into the far corner. The door shut with a soft click.

She buried herself into the shadows of the narrow space, knees to chest, arms wrapped around them, forehead pressed to the wall. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps.

She’d made it.

Barely.

But the image of that jug, of the crash, of the mess, clawed at her.

Would they notice? Would someone tattle? Would Luther be in one of his moods?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus on her breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Just stay quiet. Just survive the morning. One day at a time

Trash held her breath in the dark, the small closet pressing in around her like a coffin. She could hear them now, chairs scraping, laughter echoing, silverware clinking as the pack filled the dining room just beyond the thin wall.

She closed her eyes. Maybe today they wouldn’t notice.

"Where's the apple juice?"

Gabrielle’s voice was sharp, saccharine-laced venom with just enough bite to make everyone else at the table freeze.

Trash flinched.

A pause.

Then the voice of Luther’s best friend, Cassian the soon-to-be Beta, slick and steady as always, cut through the silence.

“I noticed the jug was missing. Only orange this morning.”

"Maybe it was a mistake,” someone else muttered.

But Gabrielle scoffed, loud and dramatic. “It’s never a mistake when it comes to her.”

Trash knew who 'her' was.

"She probably did it on purpose,” Gabrielle continued, her tone rising just enough to pull the whole room in. “She didn’t even clean it up, did she? No respect for you, for your position. You’d think the Alpha heir would be afforded a little more courtesy.”

Trash could picture her flipping her golden hair over one shoulder, fake concern twisting her perfectly made-up features.

On the other side of the wall, a glass shattered.

The sound made Trash jump.

Then silence.

Heavy. Loaded.

Luther’s voice came a moment later, smooth but cold.

“I’ll handle it.”

He said it with a smile, no doubt.

But everyone at that table knew what “handle it” meant.

No one said a word. No one ever said a word.

They didn’t stop him. They never had.

Trash gripped her arms tighter, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from whimpering. She couldn’t afford to cry, not now, not ever. Crying made it worse.

She’d dropped the juice. Gabrielle made sure Luther knew it. And now… now she had to survive whatever “handling it” meant this time.

Maybe he’d wait until after dinner. Maybe after dark. Maybe right away.

But he would come.

And he’d make sure she remembered who she belonged to.

He’d said it before.

"You’re mine, Trash. You’ll always be mine. The Moon Goddess could drop a mate in front of you, and I’d gut him before he got the chance to look at you. You think anyone else wants you? You’re nothing. You belong to me."

Her breath shook, chest rising and falling in silence.

Maybe today he’d forget. Maybe Gabrielle would distract him. Maybe…

But hope was dangerous. Hope could get her killed.

Trash buried her head against her knees, listening to the laughter resume like nothing had happened. Like she wasn’t there. Like she wasn’t real.

She was a ghost in her own body, trapped behind a closet wall, praying to be forgotten by a monster who never did.

The day moved on with cruel normalcy. Trash moved through it like a shadow, silent and unseen until someone wanted something. She carried the weight of whispered laughter and knowing looks as she placed the dishes for lunch in the dining room.

A pair of teenage she-wolves passed by, one of them barely hiding her grin.

“Did you hear what happened this morning?” she whispered, elbowing her friend.

“Luther was pissed,” the other replied, drawing the word out with breathless glee. “He’s gonna handle her. Wish I could watch.”

Trash didn’t look at them. She didn’t need to.

She kept her head down, tightening her grip on the front of her apron to hide the tremble in her fingers. Her heart pounded like it was trying to break free of her ribs. But she moved. She had to move. Slowing down meant someone else might say something worse or do something worse.

By the time she made it back to the kitchen, the world outside the windows had brightened, sun filtering in through the slats like it had the right to be warm. She started prepping dinner in the familiar rhythm of chopping and stirring and measuring with her eyes. There were no recipes. No instructions. Just survival. Just muscle memory and fear.

She was halfway through peeling potatoes when the front door thudded open.

“Special delivery,” a voice called out, male, bored, not from here.

Trash quickly dried her hands and stepped into the hallway. The delivery guy, a lean wolf from the outpost, had dropped a medium-sized box on the nearest table.

“Some of this was custom requested. Marked for supply storage.”

Trash nodded, but she didn’t speak. She never did and reached for the box. He didn’t offer to help. None of them did.

She dragged the box through the back hall, down to the supply closet, her haven of sorts, where no one watched her too closely. The room was quiet, a little musty, lined with shelves of soaps, dried goods, and unlabeled boxes that she had memorized by shape and scent.

She opened the delivery with a pocket knife she kept hidden in the folds of her apron. A whisper of cardboard, the sharp tang of something herbal.

She sorted in silence. Packs of dried meat. Soap refills. Medical bandages. Bottles clinking in wrapped paper.

Then she saw them.

The bloodleaf extract.

Her hand froze mid-reach.

Four bottles nestled in a padded slot, the wrapping a mix of the blues, reds, grays, and blacks.

Her breath caught.

The bottles gleamed like secrets. Dangerous and promising.

She didn’t fully know colours. She had learned colours the hard way through bruises and shame and the crack of a stick across her back when she’d ruined a load of whites her first week doing laundry.

Whites were sacred. Whites were separated from the blacks, from the coloureds, the reds, blues, and grays. Every colour fit into them for Trash; she knew nothing else. She had bled all over the white linens once and had to sleep outside that night.

But these bottles, these she knew. Not from anyone telling her, but from listening. From watching. From scraps of overheard medical talk, and the younger wolves trying to hide to sneak off to different places.

Bloodleaf was potent. It hid a Lycan’s scent. They were mainly used by the Delta, the warriors that went out on special missions or patrolled the pack boundaries to ensure that rogues didn’t enter into pack land.

She stared at it, a strange calm rolling over her like cool water. One day, these would be her escape. Not today. Maybe not for weeks. But one day.

She carefully placed the bottles on the shelf and then slipped one into the pocket of her sweats. She would hide it in the cupboard under the sink. No one ever checked there. She could slip it out and into the basement when she was done for the day.

She exhaled shakily and turned to leave. Five bottles she had, five bottles now. That should be enough to get her far away, and if she used it sparingly, then she should be able to stretch it even further. Especially if she lived amongst humans, then she wouldn’t have to worry about hiding her scent much. Humans had weak noses, she had learned that from conversations.

She went back to dinner. But as the bloodleaf burned in her pocket. She heard a whisper of hope. Saw something that no one thought she could imagine.  And maybe, maybe one day she’d never have to hear Luther’s voice again.