Chapter 4 : The Useless One

The next morning, I descended the stairs dressed in my own clothes—dark jeans, a soft sweater. A small act of defiance. The smell of coffee and bacon hit me, a false sense of domesticity.

Caden was already in the kitchen, dressed impeccably, sipping from a mug. He didn''t look up as I entered.

His mother, Elara, stood by the stove. She turned, her sharp eyes raking over me. "I see you''ve finally risen. We do not keep late hours here."

"I was unaware of the schedule," I said, my voice calm. I moved to pour myself coffee.

A younger female wolf, a cousin of Caden''s named Anya, smirked from the table. "It must be hard to keep track of time when you can''t feel the moon''s proper pull."

The words were designed to sting, to remind me of my place. The bottom.

I took a slow sip of coffee, letting the bitterness ground me. "The coffee is good. Thank you for making it."

Elara''s lips thinned. She clearly expected a reaction, a show of hurt. My refusal to give her one was its own kind of offense.

"We are preparing for the full moon gathering," Elara said, turning back to the stove with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "All the females of the pack contribute. You can help Anya polish the ceremonial silver. It requires a delicate touch. I''m sure even you can manage that."

The condescension was thick enough to choke on. It was busywork, meant for the lowest-ranked, something to keep me out of the way.

Anya led me to a side room where chests of intricate silverware were laid out. She demonstrated with a cloth, her movements fluid and effortless. Then she handed me a cloth. "Try not to drop any. Some of these are centuries old."

She left me there, surrounded by the tangible history of a pack that wasn''t mine, that didn''t want me.

As I worked, the dull ache of the approaching moon throbbed in my bones. I heard laughter from the main hall, the easy camaraderie of a functioning pack. Through the doorway, I saw a group of younger females. One of them, to make a point, let her eyes flash a brilliant, predatory gold. Another flexed her hand, and I saw the brief, sharp extension of claws before they retracted seamlessly.

A display. A reminder.

I looked down at my own hands, smooth and utterly human. The silver I polished felt cold and alien.

Here, I thought, the anger a steady burn beneath the surface, my existence itself is an insult.

Later, I tried to help arrange flowers for the great hall. Elara swooped in, rearranging my work with a sigh. "No, no. The balance is all wrong. The strength of the arrangement comes from the center, see?" She placed a larger, more vibrant bloom in the middle. "It must be anchored by power. Perhaps you should just observe."

Caden walked through at that moment, trailed by Roric. He glanced at the scene—his mother''s pointed lesson, my silent stance—and his gaze swept over me without a flicker of interest before he continued his conversation with Roric about "energy convergence points."

He saw it all. And he did nothing. His silence was a louder endorsement of their treatment than any word could have been.

I finished the day covered in the faint, metallic smell of polish and the cloying scent of flowers I wasn''t allowed to arrange properly. I returned to the master bedroom, my body tired but my mind racing.

They thought I was broken. Useless. A defective wolf to be tolerated and used.

But as I lay in the dark, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of a pack moving through my house, a new resolve hardened within me.

They saw my smooth hands as a weakness. But hands that couldn''t form claws were perfect for holding a polishing cloth. Or for turning the pages of a forgotten diary. Or for typing on a keyboard, designing traps for arrogant Alphas.

They wanted to keep me in my place, polishing their silver.

Fine.

But I would be the one to hand them the knife they would eventually fall on.