Family Obligations

Calla

The impact drives the air from my lungs in a sharp, painful gasp.

"Revenge is sweet!" Wyatt yells, his voice booming through the quiet sanctuary of my bedroom.

My eyes snap open. It is the crack of dawn, the sky outside my window still painted in bruised shades of twilight. Wyatt sits squarely on my chest, pinning me to the mattress with a victorious grin plastered across his face. Today is the morning of his long-anticipated heir ceremony, an event the entire pack has prepared for relentlessly. Looking up at his youthful, mischievous face, I swallow my immediate annoyance. I understand that my baby brother desperately needs this brief, playful physical release. The suffocating pressure of his future duties is mounting with every passing second. We spend our lives projecting a proud, unshakeable facade to the world, but behind closed doors, we need to feel normal. If ambushing his older sister gives him a fleeting moment to cope with his anxiety, I will gladly bear the bruised ribs.

I finally catch my breath, planting my hands against his shoulders and shoving him off the bed. He tumbles to the floor with a dramatic thud and a booming laugh.

"Get out of here before I make you scrub the kitchen floors in your ceremonial suit," I warn, though a fond smile tugges at the corners of my mouth.

Once the door clicks shut behind him, the smile fades instantly. The silence of my room rushes back in, bringing last night’s suffocating reality with it. My gaze darts to my nightstand. My cell phone sits there, a sleek black rectangle demanding my immediate attention. I reach for it, my fingers trembling slightly as I unlock the screen. I need to handle Vane before the chaos of the day truly begins. If I leave him in the dark while I work, his controlling temper will ignite, and I refuse to let his rage ruin Wyatt's day.

I tap his contact name and press the phone to my ear, bracing myself. It rings once, twice, three times.

*Please be asleep. Please just let it go to voicemail,* Rhea, my inner wolf, murmurs in my mind.

The automated beep sounds. I release a heavy breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"Hey babe," I say, forcing my voice into a rapid, placating pitch, meticulously explaining my schedule to preemptively soothe him. "It looks like you are still asleep. I wish I were too. Today is going to be incredibly busy. We have a massive amount of preparation for the ceremony, and I will be tied up greeting guests from all over the country. I wanted to call you first thing so you wouldn't worry. I might not be able to check my phone for a while, but I will try calling you later tonight. Have a good day. I love you."

I end the call and toss the device onto my bed. It is a calculated move to keep him at bay. Shaking off the lingering dread, I pull on a pair of worn jeans and a comfortable t-shirt. It is time to step out into the fray.

Downstairs, the bustling main quarters of the packhouse are already a whirlwind of organized chaos. Luna Sabine stands at the center of the grand entryway, her posture straight and her tone commanding as she efficiently assigns the day's tasks to the gathering family and staff members. When I approach, she hands me a detailed clipboard.

I am absolutely thrilled when she gives me total command over the massive Brierwood packhouse kitchen. Cooking is where I find my true peace. I give Sabine a firm nod and weave my way through the busy corridors toward the rear of the primary wing.

The kitchen is an industrial-sized marvel, functioning like the beating heart of the pack. Stainless steel surfaces gleam under the bright overhead lights, and the air is already thick with the scent of roasting meats. The culinary staff moves in a frantic, exhausted blur, clearly feeling the weight of the massive banquet ahead.

I grab a clean apron, tie it tight around my waist, and step into the center of the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" I project my voice over the clatter of pots and pans, rallying the exhausted staff with a joyous, motivating battle cry. "Are we ready to show these visiting packs exactly what Brierwood is made of?"

The staff pauses, their tired faces lifting. A chorus of enthusiastic agreements echoes off the tiled walls, injecting vibrant life back into the sweltering room.

I spot Giles, my anxious head chef, hovering near the walk-in refrigerator. Instead of sharing the renewed energy, he looks physically pained. His shoulders are slumped, and he clutches a crumpled event manifest in his white-knuckled grip. I wave the staff back to their stations and pull Giles aside for a private status report.

"Giles, what is wrong?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

He drags a hand down his face, revealing dark circles under his eyes. "Calla, we have a critical complication. I was reviewing the final guest list this morning, and I noticed a late influx of attendees. I was forced to add significantly more protein to the buffet line, but it is throwing off our entire inventory."

I frown, deeply concerned about both food waste and the political optics. Presenting an unbalanced, excessive menu could make us appear arrogant and frivolous to the visiting packs.

"Why the last-minute menu alteration?" I question, analyzing his numbers.

Giles points a shaking finger at the bottom of the list, his brow deeply furrowed. "The Valerius Guard. They RSVP'd with far more elite members than originally anticipated. Calla, they are a strict warrior Pack. They shift and burn extreme calories daily just running their borders. Protein alone will not suffice for those males. They will tear through the buffet and leave hungry."

The realization hits me like a physical blow. He is right. Shifting warriors require heavy, dense carbohydrates to replenish their massive energy reserves. If Brierwood fails to feed them properly, it will be viewed as a direct insult. We desperately need a massive influx of heavy carbohydrates to properly balance the menu and satisfy the warriors.

"Bread," I say urgently. "What is our current bread supply?"

Giles stares at me with hopeless, wide eyes and shakes his head, indicating we are vastly underprepared.

Panic threatens to spike in his scent. I reach out, placing a firm, reassuring hand on his tense shoulder.

"Breathe, Giles. Look at the clock. It is still early enough in the morning. We have time to pivot, and we are going to fix this." I drop my hand, rapidly rattling off my necessary ingredients. "I need AP flour, yeast, sugar, hot water, milk, eggs, and butter. Every last ounce you can find in the pantry."

Giles nods, reaching for his radio.

"Furthermore," I command, my voice leaving no room for argument, "supply me with two of your strongest sous chefs. Clear the central prep island. We will be putting our absolute all into hand-making hundreds of rolls."

For the next several hours, the kitchen transforms into a grueling battlefield. I roll my sleeves up past my elbows, diving hands-first into the massive mounds of dough. The intense, grueling physical labor consumes me. I push my weight into the metal counters, kneading the heavy dough until the muscles in my arms scream in protest and my shoulders burn. Sweat beads on my forehead, mixing with a fine dusting of white flour that coats my skin and clothes. The heat of the ovens blazes against my back, but I refuse to slow my pace. Alongside my makeshift team, we portion, roll, and proof tray after tray of dough.

By early afternoon, we successfully avert the impending dinner crisis. The air is thick with the mouth-watering aroma of baking yeast and melted butter. We produce hundreds of pillowy fresh rolls and massive pasta servings, ensuring the Valerius Guard will be more than satisfied. I wipe my flour-streaked brow with the back of my wrist, letting out a long, exhausted breath.

Stepping out of the stifling kitchen and into the cooler air of the packhouse hallway, I stumble upon a tense standoff. Luna Sabine stands with her arms crossed, sternly scolding Wyatt for cowardly sneaking away from his mandatory guest greeting duties. My brother looks like a cornered animal.

Recognizing his panic, I smoothly intercept the conversation.

"Sabine!" I announce loudly, stepping between them.

I launch into a rapid report of the kitchen's massive success, detailing the sheer volume of food we managed to produce. I speak directly to my stepmother, effectively distracting her just long enough for Wyatt to slip away and escape into the safety of our father’s private office.

Sabine finishes listening and turns, finding empty air where Wyatt just stood. She watches the hallway, sighing with a fond, knowing laugh. The tension leaves her shoulders before she turns her attention back to me. She takes in my disheveled state—the flour smeared across my clothes, the sweat dampening my hairline.

"You performed a miracle today, Calla," she says. "Now, go shower immediately and bring your formal dress. All the women are going to prepare for the ceremony together in the master suite."

I nod, grateful for the dismissal. I walk alone down the long, quiet corridor toward my personal wing. The packhouse feels unusually still in this section.

Suddenly, a profoundly unusual and strange sensation washes over my body. It is unlike anything I have ever experienced. It feels exactly like a gentle, comforting physical breeze brushing directly against my bare skin, inexplicably urging me to stop walking and turn around. My feet halt on the carpet. Simultaneously, my nose catches an incredibly faint, crisp whiff of eucalyptus. It cuts through the lingering smell of kitchen grease, wrapping around me like a warm embrace.

Inside my mind, I reach out. *Rhea, do you feel that? What is that?*

My inner wolf paces in the back of my consciousness. She is just as deeply perplexed by the sensation. She sniffs the mental air, her tail giving a hesitant sway. *I do not know what it is,* Rhea notes, *but the scent brings a profound sense of comfort to us.*

She is right. It eases the persistent knot of anxiety in my chest. Shaking off the bizarre physical phenomenon, I hurry to my room.

I quickly take a steaming hot shower, scrubbing my skin raw to wash away the sticky sweat and stubborn flour. Wrapping a towel around my hair, I gather my garment bag and head straight to my parents' expansive master suite.

The moment I open the double doors, I step into a buzzing hive of chaotic energy. The massive room is packed with professional hair and makeup artists rushing between vanities. One of the women forces me into a chair, slapping a freezing cold gel mask onto my face that makes me jump. The air is thick with hairspray and the lively chatter of gossipy girl talk.

An unmated makeup artist standing near the window lets out a dramatic sigh, pausing her work on one of the pack females.

"Have you seen the incoming Valerius Guard?" she asks, lustfully swooning as she applies blush. "They are notoriously perfect. I have never seen such heavily muscled male wolves in my life. I hope one of them is my mate."

The room erupts into a chorus of giggles at her lustful comments. I offer a polite smile to the mirror, letting the chatter wash over me.

Once my makeup is flawless and my hair is pinned up loosely in an elegant style, allowing soft curls to fall down my neck, it is time to change. I step behind a privacy screen and carefully slip into my formal attire. The dress is a stunning piece of eggplant purple and nude lace. The under-piece is a fitted nude corset with a sweetheart neckline, while the top overlay features long lace sleeves, a high neckline, and a sweeping A-line skirt that flows gracefully to the floor. The deep, rich shade was specifically chosen by Sabine to visually demonstrate the ruling family's unified solidarity to the visiting packs.

I step out from behind the screen and approach the full-length mirror. For a fleeting second, staring at my reflection, I genuinely feel like a regal princess. The cut of the dress makes me stand taller, projecting the strength required of the Alpha's daughter.

However, the joyful illusion violently shatters when a thought hits my brain with the force of a physical blow. The rush of the kitchen. The grueling hours of baking. The distraction in the hallway.

I have neglected my cell phone for the entire day.

The blood drains from my face, my glamorous reflection suddenly looking pale and terrified. My heart hammers a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs. I practically dive across the room toward my day bag. My hands shake uncontrollably as I frantically pull the device from the fabric, staring at the black screen, bracing myself for the terrifying fallout.