The kitchen was quiet now, the kind of quiet that only came when the house had been fed and settled. Trash moved through it with careful steps, wiping down the last of the counters, putting away what little hadn’t been used. The scent of roasted meat and baked bread still clung to the air, a cruel reminder of what she had not had.

The clock on the far wall ticked on, the long hand resting on the twelve, the short hand wedged between the ten and the eleven. Late. Her stomach twisted, hollow and aching. She had made it through another day on scraps, small tastes stolen during cooking, barely enough to keep her upright.

No one noticed. Or cared.

Throughout the day, wolves drifted in and out of the kitchen, workers, scouts, and a few Deltas grabbing snacks or filling water. She had flattened herself against the walls when they passed, pressing her body into shadows. She had learned that lesson early, burned into her skin and bone.

The Delta, who had dislocated her jaw, hadn’t even looked angry when he’d struck her, just irritated, like swatting a fly. A month of healing with no medicine, no doctor, no kindness. She learned quickly after that: stay out of the way. Stay small.

She looked around now, scanning every doorway, listening for footsteps. Nothing.

The silence was good, but it meant she had to pay extra attention. Listen carefully to every sound, every noise that could be someone coming to hurt her.

She moved toward the old cabinet in the far corner, the one no one touched but her. Inside, wrapped in dull foil and tucked beneath an old lid, was her dinner. A piece of biscuit, some roasted beef, and a few bites of potato. Cold now, but food was food. Her stomach growled softly as she reached for it.

She slid it into the pocket of her oversized sweater, along with the bottle of bloodleaf she had stashed earlier. The glass felt cold and smooth against her ribs.

Time to move.

She slipped through the kitchen’s rear hallway and down the narrow stairwell that led to the basement. The old door creaked a little, always did, and she winced, waiting.

No footsteps. No angry voices. No Luther. Not yet.

Her heartbeat was louder than her footsteps as she descended. She didn’t let herself feel safe. Not until she was there, and even then it wasn’t.

The air in the basement was always damp. Cold. Smelling of mildew and rust and time. She walked quickly, her bare feet practiced and silent on the concrete floor, heading toward the boiler.

That corner had become hers. Not by choice. It was just the furthest from everything else. The darkest. The most forgotten.

She knelt beside the wall and reached up, finding the loose brick near the base of the boiler. She pried it free with steady fingers, even as her ribs ached from the blows Luther had given her that morning. She gritted her teeth, pushing the pain aside.

She slid the bottle into the small space behind the brick, adding it to the others she had started collecting. She was careful, deliberate. Lined them up and then gently replaced the brick, pressing it down and smoothing the edge with her palm until it looked undisturbed.

She backed away slowly, scanning it like she always did, memorizing every edge. If someone noticed it was different… she couldn’t even think about that.

She turned back to the far side of the basement, to the heap of clothes and tattered blankets that made up her bed. She slipped the foil-wrapped dinner underneath, hiding it away. It would be cold when she ate, maybe dry, but she didn’t care. It was hers.

She sat for a moment, leaning against the wall. Breathing. Not a sigh of relief. Just enough to steady herself.

Her water from this morning was running low, but she still had two bottles left. One she’d use for a bath tonight, if the house stayed quiet. The other she’d keep for brushing her teeth, maybe a few sips if she couldn’t sleep through the hunger.

She would need to replace them in the morning before anyone else woke.

She prayed, begged that Luther wouldn’t wake her first.

But she knew better than to hope too hard. He never forgot. He just waited.

Waited until she thought she was safe. Waited until she allowed herself to breathe, to relax, even for a second. Then he reminded her to whom she belonged. And what it cost to forget that.

Trash sat cross-legged on her pile of clothes, the soft rustle of foil in her hand, the only sound in the room. She ate quickly, biting off pieces with mechanical precision, chewing just enough to swallow. Her eyes flicked constantly toward the stairs, toward the door.

Just a few more bites. That’s all she needed.

When she was done, she wrapped the foil back into itself tightly, her fingers trembling from nerves rather than the cold. She crawled to her makeshift bed, shoved the foil deep beneath the layers of fabric and old sweaters, pressing it into the hollow beneath her pillow of bundled clothes. Hidden. Like everything else.

She gathered one of her water bottles, the one she had rationed for her nightly bath. Quietly, she stood, pausing with each creak of the basement as if it might betray her. She tiptoed toward the side of the room where an old drain had been installed long ago, beside the utility sink that no longer worked.

She undressed in the shadows, listening.

Silence.

She crouched beside the drain and poured water over herself in quick passes, shivering as it trickled down her back and legs. She scrubbed with a rag, fast and rough. There was no soap tonight, just water. But it was something. A moment of stolen cleanliness. She would have to remember to sneak a bar of soap.

That was when she heard it. The soft click of the basement door unlatching.

Her blood ran cold.

She froze, breath caught in her chest, heart slamming behind her ribs.

No.

She yanked the rag from her skin, grabbed the sweater from the floor, and scrambled back to her bed. Her limbs screamed in protest from the bruises, cuts, and deep aches from the morning’s punishment, but she forced them to move.

She threw herself down, curling onto her side, pulling the filthy blanket over her mostly naked body. She pressed her back hard against the wall, trying to still her breathing.

Pretend. Pretend you’re asleep. Pretend.

The stairs creaked. Each step is a deliberate threat.

She didn’t have to see him to know.

His scent filled the space before his body did, sharp, heavy, suffocating. She knew it better than she knew her own. It clung to her skin after he touched her and never fully washed away.

Luther.

“Do you know why I’m here?” he asked.

His voice was smooth. Calm. That was worse than shouting. The quiet was always a lie.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Everyone assumed she couldn’t anyway.

A mute. Just like her mother. Easier to ignore that way.

But he knew better.

“I know you’re not asleep.” He was closer now, standing at the edge of her space, just behind her.

She didn’t move.

“Your heart’s beating too fast.” He laughed, just a little. “That’s how I know.”

Still, she stayed silent.

“You were sloppy today,” he murmured. “Dropped the jar. Didn’t clean it up properly. Embarrassed me in front of Gabrielle and the pack. You knew better, I trained you better than that.”

He knelt beside her bed.

She didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. But her fingers dug into the fabric beneath her, anchoring her to something.

“You think you’re clever,” he said softly. “Hiding. Pretending. But I see you, Trash. I always see you.”

His breath was warm against her shoulder.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“You belong to me.”

Still, she said nothing. Her wolf stirred weakly inside her, but even she was battered, exhausted from the morning’s punishment. 

Trash sent her a quiet message, “It’s okay. Rest." Her wolf whimpered back, "Sorry," and retreated into silence.

Luther crouched beside her. His presence filled the space like a choking fog.
"You need to do better. Mistakes? They get you hurt. You don’t want that again, do you?"

She kept her eyes shut tight, forcing her breathing to steady, to be slow. If she didn’t react, if she didn’t give him anything, maybe he’d leave.

But he didn’t leave.

He grabbed her arm, dragging her across the floor roughly, turning her body as if she were a rag doll. Pain flared through her side and shoulder. He’d noticed that she was naked from the waist down and wicked lust gleaming across his face. He ripped the sweater from her body and pushed her onto her belly. Her ribs flared in pain. She braced herself for the hit, for the words, for whatever came.

And then she drifted, not out of the room, but deeper inside herself.

She wasn’t on the cold floor anymore. She was in the woods, hidden in a thick fog, her feet light and bare against damp moss. A figure waited for her there, faceless, safe. Her wolf. A promise. A future she hadn't yet seen.

"I will get out," she whispered to herself in that inner place. "I will leave. And I will never come back."

The first strike of the crop came, but she didn’t scream. She bit into her arm, body curling tighter, eyes never opening. She was in the woods. She was somewhere else. She was surviving.

She would survive this, too.

By the time he was done, her back felt bloody and raw. Her eyes burned from the tears that streamed down her face, but she didn’t scream out. She wouldn’t give him that. She heard the unmistakable sound of his zipper opening. She didn’t fight as he pulled her back and slammed his cock into her.

“Fuckkk, that’s so fucking good,” he groaned. He pushed her head into the cold floor, pounding into her. His fingers digging into her hips, she knew it would be bruised in the morning. She drifted back into her mind; he dragged himself slowly out of her before slamming back in with a force that knocked the air out of her each time. He groaned each time, enjoying the pain he was inflicting and the sensation he received.

“Is it good for you, Trash? You love this, don’t you? You’re never going to leave me; do you hear me?” he grunted harder now.

His breathing was ragged as he pushed harder in and out of her. He groans and moans, the only thing filling the air. “Fuck, Trash gonna come.”

He fucked her harder until his hips stuttered and he stilled; a deep growl pulled from his throat. She felt him pulsing inside her, his warm spent coating her insides, and she tried her best not to throw up.

He fell onto her back, and her eyes widened as the pain shocked her. His breathing coming heavy, and his hands still had a tight grip on her waist. Her silent tears fell unstopably. He finally got up, pulling out of her.

He wiped himself off with her sweatshirt before tossing it to the ground, the fabric landing like a flag of defeat on her makeshift bed. He crouched beside her, fingers brushing her matted hair in a sick mimic of affection.

"I didn’t want to have to do this, Trash. But you didn’t leave me any choice," he whispered. His voice was soft, almost gentle, but it sent fresh waves of nausea rolling through her.

She flinched.

It was always her fault. No matter how hard she tried, she always failed. Perfection was expected. Mistakes were punished. And salvation? That didn’t exist for someone like her.

“You understand, right? You’re mine. An extension of me.” His words curled like something slick, black, and oily around her. “I need you to be obedient. Faithful. Dedicated to only me. My good, good girl.”

Then he stood, like he hadn’t just broken something sacred.

"Make those blueberry muffins again," he said, like he was talking about the weather. "The ones from a few weeks ago. They’re my favorite."

The door creaked shut behind him.

Trash didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her body screamed with pain, her back slick with blood and sweat. But the worst agony came from the silence inside her, where her wolf had gone quiet.

She bit her lip, holding back a scream that would never change anything, and sobbed onto the cracked floor.

She didn’t know how long she lay there, the chill of the concrete seeping into her skin, mixing with the fire burning across her back. Every breath hurt. Every heartbeat felt like it could split her in two. But she couldn’t stay here. Not like this. If she didn’t tend to the wounds, infection would set in, and no one would waste a healer on her.

With trembling arms and legs that barely obeyed, she rolled to her side, gasping from the movement. Gritting her teeth, she began to crawl slowly, dragging herself across the floor toward the far wall. Each inch felt like a mile, her limbs screaming, blood dragging across the floor behind her.

She reached the panel. Her fingers fumbled at first, too slick and weak to grip properly. But then, the wood gave way. Behind it, wrapped carefully in a strip of torn linen, was her hidden salvation: a small tin of healing salve. It was nearly empty.

She held it to her chest, curling around it for a moment before pushing herself backward toward her pile of bedding. Once there, she reached under her pillow for a relatively clean t-shirt and shoved it into her mouth. She’d learned long ago that her screams carried too far in the quiet of the night. Someone might come to silence them.

With a shaking hand, she pried the lid off the tin and scooped out a small bit of the salve. The moment she touched her back, a bolt of agony shot through her. Her vision blurred. She sobbed against the cloth between her teeth, the sound muffled and raw.

Again. And again. Each time the salve made contact with the open welts, her body jerked involuntarily, her breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself through it. She had to. There was no one else. No help. No kindness.

When the tin was empty, she let it fall from her hand. Her body gave out with it. She collapsed face-first onto the pile of thin blankets, the t-shirt still clenched in her teeth. Her back throbbed like it was alive with fire, but the salve had begun to dull the edges of the pain.

Sleep didn’t take her gently. It dragged her under like a tide, cold and consuming.