Chapter 3
The sun blazed through my window, a cruel reminder that another day of servitude had begun. I checked the clock: 6:45 AM. My body ached before I even moved. I pulled on a pair of thin, grubby leggings and an oversized grey t-shirt that was more holes than fabric. Six months. It had been six months since the "rogue attack" that took my father, and in that time, I had gone from the Gamma’s daughter to a ghost in my own home. Julianne didn’t even pretend to care anymore. While Louisa draped herself in silk and designer labels, I was left with the rags of my former life.
Then there was James. Julianne’s new "mate"—a word I used loosely, because there was nothing fated about the way he looked at her, or me. He was a bloated, tattooed man with a permanent cloud of beer breath and a bald head that glistened under the kitchen lights. He was the polar opposite of my father’s leonine strength, yet Julianne was obsessed. And when James drank, his hands got heavy. Lately, his gaze had turned from hateful to something much more sickening—a predatory hunger that made my skin crawl.
The official story of Dad’s death felt like a fever dream. The Alpha had confirmed it: a rogue ambush, high casualties, bodies dragged away into the night. They told me the rogues sold werewolf remains to the Black Witches of Winterhole for their rituals. The thought of my father being dismantled for spells kept me awake at night, but a darker part of me—the part that remembered the constant fighting between him and Julianne—wondered if the "attack" had been a little too convenient.
Now, I was a live-in slave. My day was a checklist of back-breaking labor: cooking, scrubbing, weeding, and tending to the whims of two women who hated my very existence. I opened my bedroom door gingerly, my heart hammering against my ribs. The hallway was narrow, and James was already there. He stood in nothing but his boxers, his massive beer belly protruding over the elastic. He didn't move as I tried to pass. I pressed my back against the wall, eyes down, trying to be invisible. He stepped into my path, his enormous frame pinning me against the plaster. I could feel the heat coming off his skin, the sour stench of stale lager filling my lungs. Then, his hand snaked down, his fingers bruising as they gripped my thigh, sliding upward.
"Now, now, Libs," he hissed into my ear, his voice a wet rasp. "Don't be scared of Daddy. I’m going to take real good care of you soon. Our little secret, right?"
A surge of pure, icy revulsion gave me a burst of strength. I shoved his chest with both hands. He stumbled back, surprised by the resistance, and I bolted. I took the stairs two at a time, my lungs burning, Mya howling with a murderous rage in the back of my mind. How dare he touch us. How dare he. I reached the kitchen, desperate for a glass of water to wash the taste of fear out of my mouth. I didn’t see Julianne until she cleared her throat. She was leaning against the counter, dressed in a sharp power suit, her red hair pinned back perfectly.
"What is wrong with you?" she asked, her voice like a winter frost.
"Nothing," I whispered, staring at the floorboards. "I just... I feel sick."
"Well, don't do it on my floor." She straightened her cuffs, her eyes cold. "I’m going to the packhouse for a meeting. The garden needs mowing, the beds need weeding, and the garage is a disaster. I want it all finished before I get back. Only then do you get to eat."
"But that’s a whole day’s work!" I protested, the hunger in my stomach sparking a rare moment of defiance. "I worked fourteen hours yesterday, I can't—"
In a blur of unnatural speed, Julianne was on me. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my face into the cold marble of the countertop. I cried out as her nails dug into my cheek, pinning me down like a specimen.
"How dare you argue with me," she hissed, her eyes flashing a jagged, predatory orange. "I keep you under this roof out of charity. I could throw you to the rogues tomorrow. You are ungrateful, pathetic, and lucky I don't chain you in silver just for the tone of your voice."
She shoved me away, my head ringing from the impact. I slumped against the worktop, tears blurring my vision. The door creaked. James walked in, his evil smirk back in place as he watched Julianne adjust her coat.
"James is in charge while I'm out," Julianne said, not looking back as she headed for the door. "Any problems, he’ll handle them. I want those jobs done, Libby. Every. Single. One."
She stepped out, and the click of the lock sounded like a death sentence. I was alone in the house with a man who had spent the morning trying to mark me, and a wolf that I wasn't allowed to let out.
