EMMA
I woke up with a jolt. The silence was too loud. I sat up slowly, my bones still aching, my body heavy, my mind foggy.
My wolf was silent now, but the memory of that night still clawed under my skin.
They hadn't even given me the quarters assigned to the Luna to be. I was stuffed into a servant's closet, dressed up with a single cot. Like, I didn't belong. Like I wasn't supposed to exist while my half sister made my life a living hell.
I hadn't really seen any of them since that night. Each time, they ignored me like I was nothing but dust in their path.
Xavier walked past me once, his steps stiff, shoulders squared like the very sight of me was an offense. He didn't look at me, didn't speak. But his presence was a storm—cold, crackling, dangerous. His silence felt heavier than words ever could.
Xander wasn't subtle. His glare hit me like claws across the skin, sharp and accusing, like he was blaming me for something he couldn't say out loud. Every time our paths crossed, his jaw tightened, and I could swear his wolf stirred beneath his skin. Ready to bite.
And Xerxes... he was the worst. Not because he shouted. Not because he sneered. But because he didn't. He watched me with an unreadable calm, his expression smooth as polished stone. No hatred. No warmth. Nothing. And somehow, that unnerved me more than the others. Because silence from a man like Xerxes meant calculation.
He was waiting.
And I didn't want to find out what for.
I caught sight of the red bag Vera had so
kindly handed me before being dragged into the ceremonial humiliation in the corner of the room. I hadn't dared open it until now. My fingers tugged it open, and inside lay…
A used lipstick, a broken mirror, and a pack of mismatched socks?
I let out a bitter laugh. What else had I expected? Love from someone who'd hated me since my first breath?
I shoved the bag under the bed just as the door creaked open.
"Breakfast," Sharon announced with a sneer, dropping a tray on my table like she was throwing scraps to a mutt.
Her gaze dropped to the marks on my arms—raw, red, angry scratches I had left on myself two nights ago when the heat threatened to kill me.
I could feel her gaze crawling over them like ants. She didn't ask how they got there. She didn't need to. The whole Packhouse had heard my screams that night.
"How the mighty hath fallen," she muttered, arms folded. "From mopping floors to sharing quarters with Alphas. You must be really proud." I didn't miss the mockery in her tone and the lopsided grin on her face.
I eyed the grey sludge on the tray. It was supposed to be oatmeal, I think. Cold. Sticky. Dusted with what looked like salt instead of sugar.
"Was the cook on strike?" I asked dryly.
She smirked. "He made that specially. Said it suits your kind. Omega heat and all."
The heat in my body stirred again, unwelcome. My wolf, Moon, gave a low whine inside me—but not from longing. From humiliation.
Sharon leaned in close, her breath fanning my ears as she delivered her final strike: "They'll tire of you soon. They always do. And when they do... you'll be right back here, scrubbing toilets."
I said nothing because arguing would be giving her power. And right now, I have none to spare. She snapped the door open, leaving me with a tray of burnt toast, clumpy oatmeal, and cold eggs.
I scraped the last of the cold food off the tray, my stomach knotting around each bite. It tasted bland, and as my stomach growled in protest, I pushed the tray aside, the heaviness in my chest returning. My fingers itched for something—someone—to hold onto. Aunt Layla. I hadn't seen her since the Red Moon. Every time I asked, I was met with clipped answers.
"She's resting."
"She's not seeing anyone."
"She's fine."
But even her warm lavender scent had vanished from the halls. I wrapped my arms around myself as panic stirred in my gut. Something was wrong. I could feel it pressing at the edge of my skin.
I slipped out quietly, avoiding the open corridors and sticking to the back servant routes I knew so well. Maids passed me, some with wide eyes, others with narrowed glares. None of them spoke.
When I tried to stop one, she turned her head and kept walking.
Another paused long enough to murmur, "We're not supposed to talk to you," before darting away.
Whispers followed in my wake.
"She doesn't even wear the mark properly."
"Look at her arms…"
"Still bleeding? Pathetic."
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted iron, trying to push away the rising wave of shame. I needed to find her. I needed my aunt.
I crept forward at the corridor leading to the servant's quarters until a figure stepped into my path. It was Nina, one of the cruel maids.
"Looking for your little auntie?" Her voice was syrupy and cruel. "You're not the only one with secrets now, Luna."
Luna. The way she said it made my skin crawl.
"What do you mean?" My voice came out rough, hoarse from disuse.
Nina leaned in closer. "Maybe she's hiding from you. Or maybe someone decided she talks too much."
My breath hitched.
"You're lying," I whispered.
She shrugged. "Believe what you want. But you won't find her down here. And if I were you, I'd stop asking. The walls in this house have ears."
I stumbled back, heart pounding, throat tightening. I could feel tears brimming, but refused to let them fall in front of her.
I turned away quickly, the hallway blurring.
If Aunt Layla was really gone—or silenced—then I was truly alone.