The Traitor's Daughter

Freya's P.O.V:

I jolted awake, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The early morning sunlight sliced through the thin curtains of my cramped servant’s quarters, striking my eyes with a harsh glare. I scrambled to sit up, tossing the frayed blanket aside. My gaze locked onto the small, battered digital clock resting on the floor.

6:05 AM.

A cold wave of dread crashed over me. Panic immediately seized my chest, stealing the air from my lungs. I was exactly five minutes late. In this packhouse, being five minutes late wasn't just a mistake; it was an invitation for agony.

A ragged sigh tore from my lips as I threw my legs over the edge of the narrow mattress. My bare feet hit the freezing floorboards, and I rushed frantically to get dressed. I grabbed my faded gray shirt and my worn black leggings, pulling them on with trembling hands. I moved with frantic urgency, brushing my teeth in a blur and dragging a comb through my unruly hair. My fingers worked numbly to weave the strands into a tight, secure braid.

I didn't dare risk tying it up in a simple ponytail. The memory of the last time I left it loose still made my stomach turn. One of the pack women, driven by some twisted, lingering jealousy despite my slave status, had cornered me and hacked off chunks of my hair with a pair of kitchen shears. I loved my hair. Watching those dark strands fall to the ground had felt like losing another piece of my identity, but I had swallowed the tears. I had no right to argue. I had no right to object. I was the lowest form of life in this pack. A slave. A punching bag.

I bounded out of my room and took the back stairs two at a time, whispering frantic prayers to the Moon Goddess with every step. I prayed to slip into the kitchen unnoticed, to blend into the shadows before anyone realized I had missed the start of my shift.

The moment I crossed the threshold into the massive, gleaming packhouse kitchen, my prayers shattered.

Standing in the center of the room, positioned right beside the sprawling granite island, was Dante.

The eldest of the Alpha triplets.

His broad, muscular back was rigid, his posture radiating a lethal tension that sucked the oxygen out of the vast space. As I froze in the doorway, he turned his head slowly. His dark brown eyes locked onto mine, fixing me with a glare so venomous it felt like a physical blow to my sternum. A violent shiver traced its way down my spine, frosting my nerve endings. He stood there with his massive fists clenched tight at his sides, his chest rising and falling with heavy, controlled breaths.

I knew in a single blink that my morning was about to become a living nightmare.

I inhaled deeply, forcing air past the tight lump in my throat. I gathered every shred of courage left in my battered soul and held my breath, stepping forward to bow low in front of him. Submission was my only shield.

"Sorry, Alpha," I kept my voice soft, my eyes cast downward at his heavy boots. "I became late because—"

He didn't let me finish.

"Because you were fucking some man till late night, right?" His voice was a guttural snarl, dripping with pure disgust. "You're such a worthless piece of shit."

Without an ounce of hesitation, he slammed his heavy fist against the solid granite counter. The loud, sharp crack echoed through the cavernous kitchen, bouncing off the stainless steel appliances. The sound made me flinch hard, my shoulders jumping toward my ears.

The unjust, filthy accusation stung worse than a physical strike. Over the last two years, the triplets had escalated their torment. They had moved past simple cruelties and started attacking my character, throwing disgusting insults that tore my heart into jagged ribbons. Their relentless assumptions about me were becoming unbearable.

Unshed moisture began to gather hot and thick in the corners of my eyes. I fought to blink it away, but my control was slipping. The tears threatened to spill.

Seeing my reaction, Dante closed the distance between us with slow, dangerous strides. He lunged forward, moving with the terrifying speed of an apex predator. His large, rough hand shot out and gripped my face with brutal force. His long fingers dug into my flesh, squeezing my cheeks together so hard my teeth ground against the soft lining of my mouth.

He leaned in close, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over me. He stared into my wet eyes, completely repulsed by the sight of my incoming tears.

"I didn't want to see your crocodile tears, you Traitor's Daughter," he spat, his breath hot against my face. "Just stop these fake tears and get to work."

He lifted his free hand and roughly dragged his index finger across my cheek, wiping away a single tear as if the moisture itself contaminated him. Then, with a scoff of raw disdain, he shoved me aside. The violence behind the push was immense. I lost my footing and stumbled back, collapsing hard against the cold kitchen wall. My shoulder absorbed the impact, sending a dull ache radiating down my arm.

Dante didn't even spare me a second glance. He turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen, leaving the air thick with his oppressive aura.

Left alone, my legs gave out. I slid down the smooth, freezing surface of the wall until I hit the floorboards. I pulled my knees to my chest, pressing my back flat against the wall, and began to sob quietly. I buried my face in my arms, desperate to muffle the sound. If any other mean-spirited pack member heard my cries, they would drag me out and make a spectacle of my misery.

My mind was dragged back, pulled beneath the surface by the agonizing memories of how my life had shattered into this inescapable hell. The words 'Traitor's Daughter' echoed in the hollow space of my skull, a title I never deserved.

Six years ago, my world had been bathed in light. My father, Beta Arthur, was a man of honor. He had not betrayed our pack. He had loved Alpha Hector. He had been devoted to Luna Helena.

Helena. The memory of her bruised, lifeless body still haunted the darkest corners of my mind. After my own mother died protecting her from a rogue attack years prior, Helena had taken me in. She had treated me like her own flesh and blood. I missed her warm hugs, her gentle voice. Alpha Hector had been a second father to me. And the triplets—Dante, Silas, and Gideon—had been my protectors, my best friends, the boys who used to look at me with adoration and fierce loyalty.

I lost them all in a single, blood-soaked night.

I vividly remember the devastating night the triplets returned from their training trip. I had spent the entire day curled on the floor, clutching the cold ceramic urn holding my father's ashes. My chest felt hollowed out, scraped raw by grief. When I heard the rumble of their vehicles outside the packhouse, I scrambled to my feet. I ran out into the cool night air, desperately seeking their warm comfort.

They stepped out of their cars, laughing, their faces lit with carefree happiness. They didn't know. No one had told them yet.

I saw Silas first. I ran to him, throwing my arms around his waist, burying my face against his chest as violent sobs tore from my throat.

"What happened, Freya? Why are you crying?" Silas asked, his voice thick with instant, protective concern. His hands hovered over my shaking shoulders.

Dante stepped forward, his eyes dropping to the state of my clothes. "Why is there so much blood on your dress and body? Did someone hurt you?" he demanded, scanning the tree line, ready to kill whoever had made me bleed.

"Aunty... Uncle..." I wailed, the words choking me.

Gideon pushed past his brothers, his face paling. "What happened to mom and dad? Freya?"

"Let's go to Arthur, guys," Dante suggested urgently, reaching for my arm.

"Dad..." I whimpered. I held up my trembling hands, presenting the ash-smudged urn. The traces of my father. The only thing I had left of the man who had raised me.

The color drained from the faces of all three brothers. They stood frozen, looking as pale as ghosts. My knees buckled under the weight of the tragedy, and I fell to the gravel, hugging myself to find some phantom warmth.

Dante dropped to his knees in front of me, his large hands shaking as he reached out to pull me up. "Freya, tell us what happened," he pleaded.

Before I could form a single word, a heavy voice boomed from the shadows of the porch.

"I'll tell you all what happened."

My head whipped around. Gamma Malachi stepped into the moonlight. His disgusting, calculating green eyes locked onto me, hiding a reservoir of pure evil beneath a mask of profound sorrow. He walked closer, and I watched in stunned silence as genuine-looking tears slid down his weathered cheeks. It was a flawless performance.

"Her father killed Our Luna brutally," Malachi shouted, his voice cracking with feigned agony. He pointed a condemning finger squarely at me.

Dante, Silas, and Gideon recoiled as if they had been struck by lightning.

"Arthur can never do that," Gideon shook his head, his voice trembling with denial.

"We found him with the same dagger that cut your mother's throat. We found him kneeling right beside her dead body," the Gamma snarled, pivoting his anger toward the brothers. "Do you still need more proof?"

Silas stumbled backward, hitting the side of the SUV to keep himself upright. Tears welled in his eyes.

"And moreover," Malachi continued, his voice dropping to a lethal, carrying pitch, "we found the same poison in his pocket that was injected into your father's body. Your father is paralyzed. He might never recover."

"No!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, scrambling to my feet. My weak knees shook violently. "That's a trap! Believe me, dad can never do that! You all know dad very well!"

"Shut up, you Traitor's Daughter," Malachi spat, his face contorting with ugly rage. "You are still taking that traitor's side. No wonder you are just like him."

"Don't you dare to say anything about my dad!" I shrieked, fueled by blind, desperate loyalty.

Malachi closed the distance in a blur of motion. He yanked me forcefully by my hair, pulling my head back so hard my neck popped. I screamed in agony, my hands flying up to claw at his iron grip. He overpowered my twelve-year-old body with effortless cruelty. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear, and whispered a dark promise that froze the blood in my veins. He promised to make my entire life a living hell.

In my moment of absolute despair, I looked past the monster holding me. I looked to Dante. I looked to Silas. I looked to Gideon. I sought salvation in the boys who had sworn to protect me.

But they simply averted their eyes.

The warmth and adoration they once held for me was gone, replaced by a terrifying, deeply rooted hatred. They stepped back into the shadows, silently allowing the pack guards to step forward. The guards ripped me from Malachi's grasp and dragged me across the rough stones, hauling me away to be thrown into the damp, freezing dungeons reserved for lethal criminals. I spent my first night without my father shivering on a stone floor, bleeding and alone.

Wiping my tears in the present, I forcefully swallowed down the rising tide of my emotional breakdown. The memories were a luxury I could not afford. Surviving as a slave in my own pack meant I had to keep myself together, no matter the cost. I pressed my palms flat against the cold floor and pushed myself up.

I quickly moved to the massive commercial stove and began preparing breakfast. Routine was my only anchor. I cracked eggs into sizzling skillets and laid out thick strips of bacon. The savory smell of cooked meat and frying butter filled the air, masking the metallic tang of fear that always seemed to linger in the back of my throat.

The pack members began to trickle in. The kitchen grew loud with chatter. A few offered me tight, pitying smiles, while others sneered, looking at me like I was vermin. I kept my head down, flipping the bacon, watching the grease pop and spit against the hot metal.

Then, the heavy double doors swung open, and the atmosphere shifted.

The triplets arrogantly strolled into the kitchen. They commanded the space, their presence demanding immediate respect. Clinging tightly to their muscular arms were their respective girlfriends. Beautiful, privileged women who looked at the packhouse like it was their personal kingdom. Seeing the brothers shower affection on these girls always sent a dull ache through my chest, but I shoved the feeling down into the dark box where I kept my foolish hopes. One day, I would find my true mate. He would take me away from this torment and help me clear my father's name. Until then, I had to endure.

I finished plating the food and began carrying the heavy silver trays to the long dining table.

"Give me a sandwich, trash," Gideon sneered coldly as I passed his chair. He didn't even bother to look up at me, his attention fixed on his laughing girlfriend.

I complied silently, sliding the porcelain plate onto the polished wood in front of him. I stepped back, keeping my eyes glued to the floorboards.

But the true torment began when Dante's girlfriend, Vesper, took her seat. She wore a tight red dress that left little to the imagination, her lips painted a harsh crimson. She crossed her legs, the sharp point of her red stiletto heel catching the morning light.

She tapped her manicured fingers impatiently against the table. "Where's my orange juice?" she haughtily demanded, glaring in my direction.

I paused, clutching the empty serving tray to my chest. "Sorry, ma'am," I politely apologized, making sure to keep my tone steady and submissive. "I didn't know you needed juice. There is none left in the pitchers, but please give me a moment and I will make it from scratch for you real quick."

Something ugly flashed in Vesper's eyes. The polite response seemed to ignite a powder keg of misplaced fury inside her.

"How dare you!" she shrieked, her face contorting with sudden, vicious rage. She slammed her palms onto the table and pushed her chair back, the wooden legs screeching against the floor.

I stood frozen in bewilderment. I hadn't said a single offensive word.

Vesper marched aggressively across the kitchen, her red heels clicking sharply against the tiles like the ticking of a time bomb. She closed the distance between us and lunged, grabbing my face. She dug her sharp, manicured nails so deeply into my cheeks that it stung. The sharp points broke the surface of my skin, sending hot spikes of pain radiating across my cheekbones. I clenched my jaw, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a whimper. I could have easily thrown her across the room—I was a werewolf, slave or not—but fighting back meant the silver chains. The last time I defended myself against Silas's girlfriend, I had been starved for two days and bound in burning silver in the basement.

"You ugly bitch," Vesper hissed, her breath smelling of mint and malice. She twisted her fingers, digging the nails deeper. "You can't even do work properly, and now you have the nerve to tell me you don't have what I want?"

"She needs to learn a lesson, Vesper," Silas's girlfriend called out from the table, a cruel laugh escaping her lips.

"You're right," Vesper replied, a dark, victorious smirk playing on her crimson lips.

Without a single second of warning, Vesper released my face. She spun around, grabbed a steaming, freshly poured cup of black coffee from the nearby counter, and hurled the boiling contents directly at my face.

My instincts flared, and I barely managed to turn my head to the side. The boiling liquid missed my eyes but violently struck my chin, my jawline, and the sensitive skin of my neck.

The searing heat was instantaneous. It felt as though liquid fire was piercing straight through the very layers of my skin, melting my flesh on contact. The agony was blinding. The scalding liquid soaked into the collar of my gray shirt, pressing the blistering heat against my collarbone.

A ragged scream of unbearable, fiery pain tore from my throat. My hands flew up, hovering over the burned skin but terrified to touch it. I forcefully jerked my wrist free from Vesper's vicious, reaching grasp, ignoring her harsh bark of laughter.

I bolted toward the kitchen sink, my boots slipping on the spilled coffee. I slammed my hands onto the metal faucet, cranking it open to the coldest setting. I shoved my head beneath the stream, desperately splashing the freezing cold water over my blistering, reddened flesh in a frantic bid to stop the agony. The icy water hissed against my burned skin, providing a fleeting shock of relief that was quickly swallowed by a deep, throbbing throb of damaged nerves.

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the tap water. I pulled away from the sink, my chest heaving with ragged gasps. I turned around toward the massive stainless steel refrigerator, hoping to find a handful of ice cubes to press against the angry red burns marking my neck.

Before I could take a single step, a sudden, blinding agony ripped mercilessly through the top of my right foot.

I gasped, all the air leaving my lungs in a sharp rush. I looked down, my vision swimming with pain.

Vesper was standing directly over me. She had followed me to the sink.

A dark, victorious smirk played on her painted lips as she intentionally and sadistically drove the sharp, needle-like point of her red stiletto heel deeply into the soft flesh on the top of my foot. The thin layer of canvas on my cheap shoe offered zero protection. The metal tip punctured my skin, tearing through muscle and grinding against the delicate bones of my foot.

She stared down at me, her eyes alight with cruel amusement, and pressed down with all her body weight.

I choked on a scream. The heel sank deeper. Warm, thick blood began oozing steadily from the puncture wound, soaking through my shoe and pooling into a dark crimson puddle on the pristine kitchen floor.

The excruciating, overlapping pain of my burned neck and my bleeding foot collided in my brain. It was too much. The heat of the burn, the piercing agony in my bones, the mocking sneers of the pack, the memories of the dungeon, the six years of relentless, crushing submission.

Something deep inside my chest snapped. The very last shred of my self-restraint shattered into dust.

A blinding surge of pure, unadulterated anger rushed entirely through my veins. It was a primal, untamed fury that drowned out the fear that had controlled me for six years. It burned away the dread of the silver chains. It burned away the ghost of Gamma Malachi.

Unable to control myself or my body's fierce defensive instincts any longer, I stood up straight. I pulled my bleeding foot out from under her heel, ignoring the fresh tear of flesh.

Vesper's smirk faltered, her eyes widening in sudden shock as she registered the lethal shift in my posture.

I raised my right hand, pulling my arm back, and slapped Vesper across the face with absolutely everything I had. The strike connected with a sharp, explosive crack that silenced the entire dining room.

The sheer force of the impact lifted her off her feet, sending her crashing backward onto the rough kitchen floor with a loud, echoing thud.