Blood and Breakfast

Elara’s POV

A heavy, suffocating sense of dread filled both me and my inner wolf as I approached the looming silhouette of the pack house. The crisp, freezing air of the morning run was entirely gone, replaced by the crushing reality of the heavy wooden back door. Slipping inside, I made sure the hinges didn't emit a single squeak. Silence was my only armor. As long as the elite members of the pack were still asleep upstairs, I was momentarily safe.

But the safety was an illusion, a fragile pane of glass waiting to shatter. My inner wolf paced nervously at the edge of my consciousness, her tail tucked firmly between her legs. We both knew exactly what today was going to bring. We knew that we had to keep our head down, swallow our pride, and take the slaps, the kicks, and the endless barrage of name-calling. It was just one more day of survival. One more day of desperately wishing we were absolutely anywhere else but trapped within these walls.

Yet, we both knew today was going to be infinitely worse than a standard day of torture. My eighteenth birthday was rapidly approaching, a date that loomed over my head like a descending guillotine. To other wolves, an eighteenth birthday was a joyous milestone, the sacred time when they might finally find their fated mate. For me, it was a dark, infuriating reminder to my parents and the entire pack. My birthday was the exact anniversary of the day I survived, and my twin brother perished. I was the Kinslayer. I had stolen the heir’s life in the womb, and my very existence was a walking, breathing insult to the Alpha’s legacy.

I forcefully shoved the dark thoughts aside. I didn't have the luxury of wallowing. I quickly turned on the two massive industrial coffee makers we kept in the kitchen, the low mechanical hum vibrating against the cold tile floor. I frantically opened the heavy stainless-steel cabinets, hauling out the massive cast-iron skillets I would need to prepare the pack's breakfast.

Most members of the Azure Peaks pack had their own modest homes scattered throughout the territory. The only people who resided in this massive, oppressive estate were the elites: my father, Alpha Garrick; my mother, Luna Sloane; Beta Vance and his mate; a select group of our most lethal, high-ranking warriors; and a handful of senior pack council members. And then there was me. The pack’s designated slave. The punching bag.

As I began cracking dozens of eggs into a massive glass bowl, a brief, sharp ache surfaced in my chest. My older sister, Rowan. She used to live here. She was the only person in this entire goddess-forsaken territory who had ever shown me an ounce of genuine affection, who had ever bothered to wipe the blood off my face or sneak me extra food. But eight years ago, she had met her destined mate. Shortly after their mating ceremony, she packed her things and moved to his territory along the coast of California. I knew her mate, Malik, loved her fiercely. I knew she was safe and happy. But in the darkest, most selfish corners of my battered heart, I hated him just a little bit for taking away my only shield, leaving me entirely defenseless against the monsters that raised us.

I forcefully shoved the memories of Rowan down, burying them beneath the immediate, frantic need to focus. Even though only a fraction of the pack lived in this house, they were massive, muscle-bound male warriors with bottomless appetites. I had to be flawless. I whisked the eggs violently, preparing them exactly how they demanded—some scrambled with heavy cheese, others perfectly poached. I threw thick slabs of ham, endless strips of bacon, and heavy links of sausage onto the sizzling iron skillets. The popping grease burned my forearms, leaving tiny red blisters, but I didn't dare flinch. I immediately started mixing the batter for the pancakes, my arms burning from the sheer physical exertion of cooking for a small army.

Then, my heightened werewolf hearing picked it up. Heavy footsteps thudding against the hardwood floors of the grand staircase. They were coming down.

My heart hammered violently against my ribs, but I forced my breathing to steady. I was ready for them. I grabbed the heavy silver serving trays, loading them with the steaming carafes of coffee first. Years of serving as their indentured servant had trained me to memorize their exact preferences. Alpha Garrick always took his coffee pitch black, a reflection of his soul. Luna Sloane demanded heavy cream, perfectly stirred.

I pushed through the swinging wooden doors into the grand dining room. The immediate shift in the atmosphere was physically heavy. The Alpha’s oppressive aura flooded the room, a thick, suffocating pressure that instinctively forced my knees to buckle slightly. I fought against it, keeping my steps rapid and completely silent.

My only meager defense against their daily cruelty was sheer efficiency. I poured the coffee with trembling hands, desperate not to spill a single drop on the immaculate mahogany table. I didn't speak. I didn't breathe too loudly. I just served everyone’s beverages and immediately retreated to the kitchen to haul in the massive platters of meat and eggs. The faster I was in and out of their sight, the less chance they had of deciding to use me for morning target practice.

I carefully, silently set the final platter of pancakes in the center of the table. I was just turning on my heel, ready to vanish back into the shadows of the kitchen, when it happened.

"Elara."

My father’s icy, commanding voice froze me dead in my tracks. My worn sneakers locked onto the expensive rug. He didn't yell. He didn't roar. But the quiet, deadly timber of his voice was infinitely worse. My entire body began to tremble uncontrollably, no matter how hard I clenched my jaw to hide it. Out of everyone in this hellhole, Alpha Garrick was the most vicious. He was the one who had inflicted the most agonizing pain on me, both physically and mentally.

I slowly turned around, dropping my chin until it practically rested against my collarbone.

"Yes, Alpha," I answered subserviently, my voice a hollow, raspy whisper.

I kept my gaze strictly locked on the polished toes of his expensive leather boots, adhering to the absolute, unbreakable rule of the pack: I was forbidden from looking any member in the eye. To meet the gaze of a superior was a challenge, a sign of disrespect. For me, a creature so deeply hated, looking an Alpha or Luna in the eyes was a crime punishable by a fractured skull or broken ribs.

"We will have neighboring packs visiting us tomorrow," Alpha Garrick announced coldly, his deep voice vibrating through the silent dining room. "This is an extremely important meeting. I want this entire estate sparkling for their arrival."

I stared at the floor, absorbing the information. We rarely had visitors. Usually, our pack ambassadors traveled outwards for peace talks or trade negotiations.

"We will be hosting three additional packs here," Garrick continued, the ice in his tone hardening into a jagged threat. "Therefore, you will be preparing dinner for our esteemed guests as well. Ensure that the meal is absolutely delicious. If it is anything short of perfect, or if you show even a fraction of disrespect, I will murder you right in front of them. Am I completely clear?"

The sheer terror of the impossible task crashed into me like a physical blow. Cooking breakfast for twenty warriors was exhausting enough. Cooking an elite, flawless dinner for three entire visiting packs? It was a guaranteed death sentence. I didn't know the first thing about high-society catering. I would fail, and my father would gleefully tear my throat out as the evening’s entertainment.

Before the panic could fully paralyze my lungs, another voice cut through the heavy silence.

"Alpha, I must protest."

It was Beta Vance. He scoffed loudly, the sound grating and harsh. I could feel his disgusted glare burning into the top of my bowed head.

"I do not think that this pathetic wretch could cook anything capable of satisfying our guests," Vance stated brutally, not bothering to hide the absolute venom in his words. "I highly recommend that we look into having this event professionally catered instead. Having this dumb brat even attempt to meet Alpha Kaelen’s high standards would only humiliate our pack and display exactly how pathetic she is."

Alpha Kaelen. The name echoed in my head, though I didn't dare react. He was an Alpha of immense power from the northern territories, known for his ruthless efficiency and terrifying strength. The fact that he was coming here meant this was no ordinary trade meeting.

Vance continued his verbal assault, his fierce, unyielding loyalty to my father’s dead heir fueling his constant mission to punish me. He despised my presence just as much as Garrick did. Vance took every available opportunity to remind me that I was a murderer, a freak of nature who had stolen the life of the true son.

"You may be right, Vance," a third voice chimed in.

It was Luna Sloane. My own biological mother.

Her voice dripped with a familiar, toxic hatred that flowed straight into my veins. "By the Goddess, just having her standing there in my dining room is turning my stomach." I heard the scrape of her silverware against her porcelain plate. "I should have smothered her with a pillow the very day she was born."

I didn't flinch. I didn't cry. Never once in my miserable eighteen years of life had that woman uttered a single kind word to me. Her hatred was a slow, agonizing poison that I was forced to drink every single time she opened her mouth. I just kept my eyes glued to the floorboards, counting the grains in the wood, praying to a Goddess who had long abandoned me that this nightmare would end.

Alpha Garrick sat in silence for a long, agonizing moment, deliberating. The fate of my life hung precariously in the balance of his mood. I was terrified. The only outside wolves I had ever interacted with were Rowan’s mate and his small guard eight years ago. I had absolutely no idea what kind of extravagant culinary masterpiece would be up to par for an Alpha like Kaelen.

"Unfortunately, you are all correct," Garrick finally spoke, his tone filled with disgust. "This event has been years in the making, and absolutely everything needs to be flawless. We cannot risk it on her incompetence. We will need to have it catered."

A massive, overwhelming wave of internal relief washed over my trembling muscles. The execution threat was momentarily lifted. I had survived the morning. I surely would have failed and ended up a bloody corpse on the dining room floor had he forced me to cook that meal.

"But do not think for a single second that you are off the hook," Garrick snarled, shattering my brief moment of relief. "You will have this entire house practically glowing before our guests arrive. You will scrub every floor until it shines. All of the spare bedroom linens need to be changed immediately, and you will personally prep the pack meeting house for the negotiations."

Because my head remained deeply bowed in forced submission, staring blindly at the floor to avoid their wrath, I never saw the heavy ceramic coffee cup he hurled across the table.

It came fast and completely without warning. The solid, reinforced ceramic violently clipped the area right above my left eyebrow.

The heavy object shattered against my skull with a sickening crack, the jagged pieces bouncing off my forehead and clattering onto the hardwood floor. A blinding flash of white-hot pain exploded behind my eyes, knocking me slightly off balance. I stumbled back half a step, my hands instinctively twitching upward, but I immediately forced my arms to remain glued to my sides.

The skin tore open instantly. I could feel the deep, jagged gash parting, and within a second, warm, thick blood aggressively surged from the wound. It immediately began tracking down my forehead, heavily threatening to drip straight into my left eye and blind my vision. The metallic, copper scent of my own blood hit my heightened senses, mixing sickeningly with the smell of the bacon and eggs I had just cooked.

I didn't reach up to wipe it. I didn't whimper. I had learned a very long time ago that crying over their abuse, showing even a fraction of pain, only guaranteed significantly more severe beatings. If I showed weakness, Beta Vance would likely stand up from his chair and kick my ribs in for bleeding on the Luna’s expensive dining room rug.

"Yes, Alpha," I muttered in a flat, compliant whisper.

I slowly shuffled backward, keeping my head bowed low, and retreated through the swinging doors back into the kitchen.

The moment the heavy wooden doors swung shut behind me, the suffocating pressure of the Alpha’s aura lessened just a fraction. I moved quickly, my heart still racing with adrenaline. I dumped the remaining dirty prep dishes into the massive stainless-steel sink and immediately grabbed a rough cotton hand towel.

I pressed the towel firmly against my throbbing forehead. The pain was sharp and intense, radiating down into my jaw, but it was nothing I hadn't survived a hundred times before. Leaning over the counter, I grabbed the polished silver tea kettle, using its highly reflective, curved surface as a makeshift mirror.

My distorted reflection stared back at me. My pale skin was smeared with bright crimson. I hurriedly wiped the thick trails of blood away from my eyelid, inspecting the damage. I felt a grim, pathetic sense of relief wash over me. The laceration was deep, but it was small enough. Thanks to my accelerated werewolf healing—the only biological trait of my species that actually served to benefit me in this house—the torn flesh was already beginning to knit itself back together. It would be fully closed in an hour, leaving nothing but a faint pink scar to join the dozens of others hidden beneath my messy hair.

As I aggressively scrubbed the drying blood off my face and tossed the stained towel into the laundry bin, my mind began to race. I silently wondered why our relatively small, isolated pack was suddenly hosting such major, highly unusual inter-pack events. What could possibly bring three separate packs, including a notorious powerhouse like Alpha Kaelen, to the Azure Peaks? We didn't own a large territory. We weren't a massive superpower. Something incredibly significant was shifting in the werewolf hierarchy, and the sheer scale of this meeting terrified me.

But I violently shook the dangerous curiosity from my head. It didn't matter. Pack politics were strictly forbidden to me. I was a slave. My only purpose was to survive the day.

I forced my battered, aching body to turn back toward the kitchen sink. I needed to hurry and finish scrubbing the heavy iron skillets and bleaching the countertops. The Alpha had made his orders explicitly clear, and I was acutely aware of the grueling, backbreaking day of cleaning that lay ahead of me. The massive estate had to be flawless, and the clock was already ticking.