The cold bit deeper than the usual morning.
Frost clung to the window of the servants' quarters like a warning, thin, and brittle. Layla pulled her thin wool cloak tighter around her shoulders, ignoring the burn of the cracked skins of her palms as she clutched the wooden bucket tight in her hands.
Another day.
Another day to stay alive and endure.
The Nightfang pack moves like a machine, flawless, ruthless, and unfeeling. Warriors trained at dawn, and omegas like herself scrubbed the floor, washed the dishes, did the laundry, fetched water, and did the cooking. Alphas barked orders left and right and took whatever they wanted. Betas are no better; they followed in their shadows, sharp-eyed and smug.
And Layla... She was nothing. Lower than omegas, the runt of the pack.
They called her the "ghost" when they weren't calling her "runt" or even worse. She hadn't shifted, hadn't howled, or even felt the stirrings of her wolf, not even once.
At twenty-one she was an anomaly, a disappointment, a disgrace to the pack.
A mistake.
She moved carefully around the snow-covered compound, careful to avoid the betas on patrol. Even eye contact would earn her bruises or worse.
"You're late" snarled a voice behind her.
Layla jumped and almost dropped the wooden bucket on her hand. When she turned around, she froze. Of course, it was Marie, one of the higher-ranking omegas, and her favourite thing to do was to find fault in everything.
Her voice was always laced with contempt and bitterness. The kind that came from clinging to the power of someone lower, weaker.
With trembling hands and a shaky voice, "I was up before dawn", Layla said quietly, not meeting her eyes.
Marie sneered, "Then move faster, runt; the Alpha doesn't like delays. You remember what happened the last time."
Layla did. And her ribs are still aching with the memory of the beatings she received the last time.
She bit her tongue, then rubbed it over dry lips and nodded, rushing towards the kitchen with the bucket of water sloshing against her thighs. She wasn't sure which was worse: the bruises or the way they pretended like it wasn't there like they couldn't see them.
She quickly entered the kitchen to join the other omegas cooking, washing dishes, and packing refreshments for the warriors on the training field.
She dropped the bucket of water on her hands and in the centre of the kitchen stood a massive kitchen island. It was sleek, with white marble countertops gleaming beneath the overhead pendant lights casting a glow over it. It was the kind you'd only find in a movie, or glossy home magazines— the kind that screams money—smooth, polished to perfection, with gold fixtures and bar stools like soldiers. The surface was spotless except for the fresh tray of snacks, water, and other refreshments.
Layla hesitated at the edge of it—like she always did— it felt like she didn't belong, dirty, and out of place.
The island was meant for only the elites— Alphas, Betas and their mates— and it mocked her as she was none of those things.
"Are you done now?"
The words, laced with mockery, snapped her out of her daze. A chorus of laughter followed, sharp and cruel. The other Omegas didn't miss a chance to laugh when it was at her expense.
Layla's hazel eyes widened as heat flooded her cheeks, she nervously tucked a strand of her rust-red hair behind her ear and looked at the owner of the voice, Madam Greta, the no-nonsense omega who ran the kitchen like a military base, efficient, cold, and always watching or maybe it's just towards me.
"I- I'm sorry." She mumbled before darting forward to help. The last thing she needed was another scolding or punishment.
She worked all tirelessly all through the morning, her hands moving non-stop until noon crept in, heavy with fatigue and heat.
As soon as the kitchen was spotless, she was sent off to her next task oof the day, which was to scrub the floors and dust the windows. No rest, no pause. Just tirelessly working from one chore to the other.
Stepping outside of the pack house, the sun hit her full in the face, hot, unforgiving, and way too cheerful for how exhausted she was. Pain radiated all through every inch of her body, a familiar companion she no longer fought, she had long learned to endure them.
"Faster, runt!" The sharp voice cracked through the air like lightning.
Layla flinched just as a rough shove sent her tumbling to the ground like a sack of potatoes, her hands scraping against the stone. Laughter broke out around her as she fell, sharp and merciless. It was nothing new, she was used to it, almost numb even.
"S-sorry" She stammered, her voice shaky and barely audible. She scrambled to feet, hands stinging and her pride in tatters.
The towering frame of a female beta warrior cast a long shadow over Layla's trembling form. At five-feet-five, she barely reached the woman's shoulder.
"Wretched runt", the Beta spat, eyes glinting with disdain "You can't even walk with stumbling on your feet. Maybe we should just get rid of you, it's not like you are any use to the pack ".
Layla bit her tongue, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. Crying would only make things worse, as she had learned that the hard way. Instead, she forced her legs to move and continued to her destination.
The pack was bustling with wolves—young,old,men,women— as they were preparing for a feast which would be holding soon — the kind she would never be allowed to participate in. She would most likely be cleaning dishes or scrubbing the floors while the rest of the pack indulged in food and the beautiful night in ways she was never allowed to.
As she reached the pack house storage lodge, a familiar voice called out her name, laced with mock sweetness.
" Layla, dear"
She turned around slowly, nerves prickling at her skin, and met the smug gaze of Haylee, the Beta's spoiled daughter and the constant bane of her existence. Haylee's raven-black curls tumbled down her shoulders like they belonged on a goddess, her beauty dazzling and deliberate, everything Layla wasn't. But that beauty was poisoned by the spite simmering beneath it. Her lips curled in a smirk as she stalked towards Layla like a predator closing in on its prey.
"Laylay, are you excited for tonight's feast?" Haylee asked, voice oozing with mock concern, with every syllable laced with poison.
Layla remained silent, as her silence was the only shield she had left.
"Oops, that's right— you won't be there," she cooed, laughter bubbling at her lips. "Just like always.....a ghost in the corners, forgotten before you're ever seen."
A pack member passing by sneered. "Why not toss her the leftovers? That's all a runt like her deserves."
Heat of shame crawled up Layla's neck, but she refused to let them see how deeply their words cut, showing weakness would only invite more torment. So she took a steady breath and said in a low, measured tone, " I have to go, I have chores to do."
Haylee's expression changed and her smile vanished, replaced by a cold sneer, "Who said you could leave, runt?"
Before she could react, haylee's claws tore through her arms, leaving burning lines of pain their wake. Layla stumbled back, a sharp cry escaping her lips before she could stop it. Blood trickled down her arms where Haylee's claws had torn through her skin like paper. The pain was sharp, but it the humiliation that truly stung. She kept her head down, fists clenched at her sides, forcing herself to stay still..... Silent.
"Ooops! You should really more be careful," Haylee said, feigning innocence. She then a step closer, a wicked smile curling her lips, "Next time, don't try to walk away from me."
Layla swallowed hard. She wanted to run, to escape, to disappear, but there was nowhere to go. This was her life; one of suffering, pain, and fear. As long as she remained in the pack, nothing would ever change.
That evening, as the pack gathered in the grand hall for the feast, Layla worked tirelessly in the kitchen. She scrubbed the floors and dusted the windows, the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread thick in the air. Her stomach twisted painfully with hunger, but she didn't dare take even a crumb. She knew better.
She was wiping dust off the last window when the heavy silence was broken by the sharp sound of boots on stone and she was stunned to see the warrior stalking towards her, the scent of authority clinging to him like smoke.
"You. The Alpha wants to see you. Now." His voice sharp cutting through the cold air, leaving a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
Layla froze, the rag slipping from her hand.
The Alpha never summoned omegas. Not unless…
Her heart began to race.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.