“Baby,” she called with a laugh, “you’re gonna give yourself a stomachache if you eat all that girl. And there’ll be none left for your school bake sale.”

“It’s so good, Mom,” she responded, stuffing another cookie in her mouth. “Last one, swear.”

Her mom laughed while swapping the kitchen towel at her, she laughed around a mouth full of cookies before picking up the piping bag full of icing to help her mom decorate the cookies. She wasn’t as good at it as her mother, but she did her best. Her mom, however, still complimented her decorating skills.

“Hey,” her mom called her.

“Hey baby, you have to wake up before-“

The ice-cold water hit her, startling her awake and stealing her breath all at once. The hand gripping her thick course hair yanked her hard, slamming her onto the hard concrete floor. But it was the backhand across her face that drove the most shock into her system, fully waking her up.

“Do you have any idea what time it is, Trash?”

She didn’t bother to answer because it wasn’t meant to be a question, even if it was phrased as one. Trash knew it didn’t matter what she did. The beating and everything else would still come anyway.

Luther snarled at her, “What time are you supposed to have breakfast ready, Trash?” His blue eyes burned into her dark ones.

She stayed curled on the floor; her arms instinctively wrapped around her head to protect it. She grunted when the kick landed on her belly, bile rising up her throat. She wanted to grab her stomach to protect it, but her head was more important. The last time she was kicked in the head, she blacked out, waking up to her pants and underwear gone and soreness and pain radiating from her crotch. It would have mattered either way; Luther took what he wanted from her regardless.

Most times, she didn’t feel anything; it was just a way of life for her. She didn’t know any difference, even if she knew it existed. Kindness and happiness were never a part of her existence.

She was five years old when the Alpha beat her mother to death for simply not making his steak the way he liked it.

Six years old when she learned her name was Trash. From the small bits she remembered of her mother, she always called her baby. Never knowing if her mother had given her a name or not.

Nine years old when she was allowed out of the basement to clean up after every meal and help clean up the pack house kitchen. Her room in the basement was just below it.

Eleven, when she took over cleaning the pack house's main areas. Along with catching Luther the Alpha son’s attention.

At thirteen, she took over the cooking of the pack member meals, all kitchen duties, and laundry duties. Also, when she woke, startled to see Luther staring at her with a deadly smile on his face.

Fifteen, when he and his best friend beat her so badly, she cracked several ribs and fingers.

Sixteen, when she became the pack’s punching bag, and Luther forced her to her knees and came down her throat.

Seventeen, when she became numb to it all, and he forced her to her hands and knees. From then on, that life was all Trash knew.

Ten years later, she’d taken her mother’s place even if her mother hid it well. But what they didn’t know, what they didn’t suspect, was that Trash had a plan.

She didn’t know much but did watch and listen secretly. She learned that the blues, the reds, and the grays paper with numbers she always found when doing the pack’s laundry were important and could buy things with them.

And she could hide her scent with Bloodleaf Extract to hide her scent. Once she learned that, she carefully took one bottle every three months so that it wouldn’t be noticed. She learned that if she used plastic, she could protect her things from water.

She learned all these things because she was invisible for the most part, only being noticed when someone wanted and needed to vent their anger and frustration. Luther’s parents, the Alpha and Luna of the Morgrave pack, didn’t care about her. The Luna especially hated her because of the mate's fixation on her mother before her death. He thankfully wasn’t Trash’s father, who had been a Delta who, in a moment of drunken lust, had forgotten that Trash’s mother belonged to the Alpha.

He was executed, his head severed from his body by the Alpha himself, and Trash’s mother was pregnant. It was a miracle that Trash was born. The Alpha had beaten her mother almost daily, but Trash survived the four months in the womb before she was born in the very basement, which she called home.

Luther grabbed her hair again, not satisfied with her non-response, even when he had never gotten one. He forced her head up, slapping her across the face again. Blood flooded her mouth, and her jaw ached from the force of the strike. She could already feel the side of her face swelling. Her already dark skin would darken even further from the bruises.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he growled at her. His five-eleven frame towered over her tiny five-two height.

She did as she was told, fighting it would only make things worse. His grip on her hair tightened as he thrust into her mouth with reckless abandon. She knew to keep her teeth away from his cock or he would beat her until her face had swollen beyond recognition. He had done it before.

She retreated into herself, her wolf taking over. Her wolf often took the beatings and abuse for her. She claimed it was because she was a wolf, she could handle the pain better. But she knew that that wasn’t entirely true. They didn’t heal as fast as they used to. Bruises remained, taking weeks to heal. Breaks took even longer. Her healing abilities had become like those of a human.

She felt when her wolf closed her eyes tightly, a tune played in her head to drown out his grunts and groans. The feeling of disgust crept up her throat. His thrust grew faster and harder as he slammed into her mouth. Her wolf and her both praying he would finish soon. His hips stuttered and he still before shooting his load down her throat with a groan.

He pulled out of her mouth, shoving her back hard. “Get the fuck upstairs and start breakfast. The Pack's been waiting.” He pulled up his boxers and pants, then ran a hand through his dark hair.

She pressed her lips tightly and nodded. He looked at her with disgust, mumbling worthless as he left. She carefully picked herself off the floor, hissing from the pain running through her body. She limped towards the utility sink. She stared into the broken piece of mirror she kept on the sink, seeing the bruises that painted her face. She gingerly bent down, moving the paneling from the wall and pulling out the bottle of water she kept hidden.

She quickly and carefully brushed her teeth and splashed water on her face, wincing as the sting of split skin flared under her fingertips. She poured a small amount into her palm and ran it over her hair. Then pulled out the small coconut oil she had and smoothed it over her coily hair. When she was done, she hid the rest of the water. The half-empty bottle she kept hidden behind the wall was precious; she tucked it back into its space, resecuring the panel with quiet precision. She’d need to refill it soon. Maybe tonight, if the house stayed quiet.

Bathing was always saved for after midnight. When the pack slept and the silence made her presence easier to erase. No one ventured to the first floor, then there were no bedrooms down there, no ears to hear the splash of water.

She dabbed a thin layer of face lotion over her skin, careful not to use too much. Rations like that had to last. Face products weren’t stocked regularly. The pack women bought their own, flaunting creams and perfumes she would never afford. This little bottle had been forgotten or discarded, she didn’t know. She only knew it was hers now, and it made her feel almost human.

She limped up the stairs, keeping her eyes to the floor. Her body screamed with every step, but she silenced it, like always. Outside the kitchen window, the sky was a dull navy blue, the sun just beginning to rise, painting the horizon with a faint smear of gold.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. She didn’t know how to read it. No one had ever taught her.

The long hand was on the three. The short one hovered between four and five. That meant she was late.

She usually started when the short hand touched the four, her one hour of quiet, when Luther was still asleep, and she could pretend the world was softer. That time was gone now. She would pay for it all day.