Chapter 3
Kara
The dining room is a cathedral of wealth I'll never belong to.
Morning light filters through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the long mahogany table laden with everything I spent two hours preparing. Blueberry waffles stacked like golden towers. Maple bacon glistening with fat. Scrambled eggs so fluffy they practically float. Fresh-squeezed orange juice in crystal pitchers that cost more than my entire existence.
I stand at the threshold between kitchen and dining room—my permanent position in this house. Not servant enough to stay hidden. Not family enough to sit down.
Alpha Marcus cuts into his waffle without looking up. Luna Victoria sips her coffee, green eyes scanning her phone. The triplets are a wall of black hair and perfect jawlines, attacking the food like starving wolves.
Which is ironic, considering I'm the one who hasn't eaten in twenty-four hours.
My stomach clenches so violently I have to grip the doorframe. The pain from this morning has settled into a persistent, bone-deep ache. My hands are still shaking. Sweat soaks through the back of my worn thermal shirt even though I'm cold, so cold my teeth want to chatter.
Just get through breakfast. Then you can collapse in the pantry for five minutes before school.
"Kara." Asher's voice cuts through the clatter of silverware. "The forks have water spots."
I blink at the table. The forks are perfect—I polished them for twenty minutes last night, buffing each tine until it gleamed. But when an Alpha speaks, you don't argue.
"Yes, Alpha," I whisper. "I'll redo them."
Blake snorts into his orange juice. "Carrot's losing her touch. Maybe the debt's making her sloppy."
Don't react. Don't give him the satisfaction.
I move toward the table to collect the silverware, and that's when Blake's hand shoots out—a blur of supernatural speed I can't track even when I'm healthy. His fingers close around the last waffle on the serving plate, the one I'd been eyeing, the one I thought maybe, just maybe, they'd forgotten about.
He lifts it to his mouth, takes an enormous bite, and grins at me around the mouthful.
"Mmm. Delicious, Carrot." He chews slowly, deliberately. "You've really outdone yourself."
My hand freezes mid-reach. For one second—just one—our eyes meet. His are the color of Arctic ice, beautiful and empty of warmth. And I see it there, that flicker of satisfaction. He knows exactly what he's doing.
He knew I was hungry. He knew that was the last piece. He took it anyway.
Enough. Enough enough enough—
"Thank you, Blake," I force out. The words taste like glass. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."
Cole laughs, bright and musical. "Look at her face. I think she's actually pissed."
"Language, Cole," Luna Victoria says without feeling. Then, to me: "Clear the table. And do try to look less... resentful. It's unbecoming."
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. Unbecoming. As if I'm the problem. As if wanting to eat food I cooked is some kind of character flaw.
Blake takes another bite, slower this time. Savoring it. His tongue darts out to catch a drop of syrup at the corner of his mouth, and I swear to God he's doing it on purpose, drawing it out, making sure I see every second of him consuming what should have been mine.
"省省吧，Carrot," he says, switching to that fake-sympathetic tone that makes my skin crawl. "You're already chunky enough. I'm doing you a favor."
Chunky. I'm a size four. I have curves because I'm a woman, not a prepubescent boy. But in his world—in their world, where ex-girlfriends are size zero and built like expensive mannequins—having an ass and tits makes you "fat."
The waffle is gone in four bites. He wipes his hands on a napkin, crumples it, and drops it on my freshly cleaned floor.
"Oops," he says. "Guess you'll have to mop again."
Asher stands, adjusting his black cashmere sweater. "We're leaving in five minutes. Don't make us late." He pauses, those ice-blue eyes finally landing on me. "And Kara? Next time the silverware isn't perfect, you'll redo the entire breakfast. Understood?"
"Yes, Alpha."
Cole trails after his brothers, but he stops at the doorway. Turns back. For a moment—just a moment—something almost human crosses his face. Almost like guilt.
Then he smiles. "Don't worry, Carrot. Only one more day of this, right? Tomorrow you're free."
He says it like it's a comfort. Like the ten years of systematic dehumanization can be erased by a fucking countdown.
They leave. The front door slams. Through the window, I watch their black Cadillac Escalade roar to life, spitting gravel and exhaust as Blake peels out of the driveway.
They're going to Northern High. The same place I'm going.
But I'll be walking.
December in Alaska doesn't fuck around.
At 6:45 a.m., the sky is still that deep, bruised purple that passes for morning during the long night season. Temperature: negative fifteen Fahrenheit. The wind cuts through my secondhand parka—one of Luna Victoria's cast-offs from three years ago, the zipper broken, the down feathers clumping and useless.
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and start the two-mile trek to the bus stop.
Snow is piled knee-high on either side of the road. My boots—bought at a thrift store when I was sixteen and already too small—let in water with every step. My toes go numb within five minutes. By minute ten, I can't feel my face.
This is fine. This is normal. You've done this a thousand times.
Headlights appear behind me. For one stupid, hopeful second, I think maybe they're coming back. Maybe one of them looked in the rearview mirror and felt a shred of human decency—
The Escalade roars past, close enough that I have to throw myself into the snowbank to avoid being clipped. A wave of slush and ice water explodes over me, soaking through my jeans.
Through the tinted windows, I hear music. Laughter. Blake's voice shouting something crude.
They didn't even slow down.
I drag myself out of the snow, legs shaking. My jeans are frozen solid below the knee. Water squelches in my boots with every step.
I hate them. I hate them so much it's like a second heartbeat. I hate them I hate them I hate—
Tomorrow.
The word cuts through the rage like a blade. Tomorrow I turn eighteen. Tomorrow I shift for the first time, my wolf finally waking up inside me. Tomorrow I'll have my own scent, my own strength, my own agency.
Tomorrow I find my mate—or I leave and never look back.
Either way, I'm done being their punching bag.
Northern High looks like a winter wonderland threw up on it.
Silver, blue, and white streamers hang from every available surface. Giant banners proclaim: "CELEBRATE SILVER FROST PACK'S NEW ALPHAS! ONE DAY UNTIL THE STERLING TRIPLETS TAKE POWER!"
The main entrance is flanked by ice sculptures of wolves. Someone set up a digital countdown clock in the lobby: 23:14:37... 23:14:36...
Students mill around in expensive winter gear, chattering excitedly about tomorrow night's party. The girls are a sea of Canada Goose parkas and UGG boots. The boys wear letter jackets and designer sneakers that cost more than I've ever owned in my life.
I drip melted snow onto the polished marble floor and try to make myself invisible.
"Oh my God, can you even imagine?" A girl near the lockers squeals to her friend. "They're going to be official Alphas. Like, actual pack leaders. That's so hot."
"I heard Blake is finally single," her friend whispers back. "Do you think there's a chance—"
"You? Please. He dates models."
I slide past them toward my locker—number 237, tucked in the far corner where no one has to see the scholarship kid. My combination sticks like it always does. I yank the door open and nearly jump out of my skin when two figures appear on either side of me.
Sophia and Emma.
Both tall, both blonde, both dressed like they walked out of a winter fashion spread. Sophia in a pink cashmere sweater . Emma in a white puffer vest over a black turtleneck, her hair in a perfect high ponytail.
