I hate this life. I hate this pack. I hate cleaning every day, cooking every day, serving every day, without ever being allowed to eat the food or live in the house I scrub spotless. I clean for free, and I suffer for it.

"What the fuck happened here?" Oracle’s familiar voice cuts through the haze.

He steps carefully, lifting one foot off the wet floor. There was a time when seeing his face, hearing his voice, would have filled my stomach with butterflies. Now, all I feel is emptiness. A hollow void.

This man is the reason I’m still trapped in this house. The reason I suffer every day. His stupid bond, his stupid pack, his freedom to go wherever he wants while I rot here. I wonder if my life would be better if he just died.

His eyes lock onto me sprawled on the ground. For a moment, I imagine a flicker of concern in his crystal‑blue gaze before it hardens, focusing on the burns on my hands. His eyes light up, possessed by something fierce, and he rushes to me.

I whimper as he tugs me upright, dragging me to the sink, mumbling something under his breath. The moment his hand touches my skin, the pain in my shoulder vanishes, mysteriously gone, as if it was never there.

"When you get burned, you’re supposed to immediately run it under cold water," he exclaims frantically, flipping the tap open and forcing my arms beneath the stream. The icy water bites into me, painful in its own way, but I bite back the cry.

I won’t let him see me cry. It may be the last shred of dignity I have left.

"This was irresponsible of you. How could you burn yourself?" His voice is sharp, scolding. For the past month he’s pretended I don’t exist, and now suddenly he’s acting like he cares. Is this a new plan? A new way to torment me, pretend concern, feign pity, just to twist the knife deeper?

"Why do you care?" I ask, my voice flat, stapled together with exhaustion.

He sighs, long and heavy, a sound weighted with worry. "Lorali, why won’t you just leave? I know Spade Pack is great, and that we have money, but you cannot suffer like this. Just give up." His eyes meet mine, brimming with pity, and I want to shove a stick into his sockets just to erase that look.

"You think I chose Spade because your pack is wealthy?" My laugh bursts out, sharp and bitter, cutting through the ache in my chest. "If I was after money, I would never have even looked in Spade’s direction."

Oracle stares at me, lips parting as if he wants to say something, but he stops himself. Silence stretches between us, heavy, suffocating, filled with everything unsaid.

The main door whips open with a dramatic slam, the sound echoing through the house and pulling both Oracle’s and my attention.

Walter storms in, his face twisted with fury, his whole body radiating rage as if the world itself has wronged him, the world being me. His eyes lock onto mine from across the room, burning with accusation.

"You!" he seethes, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. He strides forward, shoving Oracle aside without hesitation, until he’s standing eye to eye with me.

"You did it on purpose, didn’t you?" His shout rattles the walls.

I blink at him, confused. I expected him to be angry about me being late, but not this angry. I’m the one who should be furious, he’s the one spreading lies about me.

"I’m sorry for being late?" I say, hoping to end this quickly, but he scoffs, rolling his eyes. That’s when I notice his eyes are swollen, rimmed red. He’s been crying.

He steps closer, his anger intensifying, his scent flooding the room with burnt cinnamon, sharp and suffocating. His gaze is wild, unhinged. "I lost my Kisan brand deal because of YOU!" Kisan... Kisan... Kisan. The name echoes in my head. Oh. Is that the brand of the costume I delivered to him today?

Tears spill down Walter’s face, and as if on cue, the rest of the pack emerges from their rooms like it’s a family meeting. Oril rushes down the stairs, followed by Keion and Augustus.

"What is happening?" Oril demands.

"And why is the kitchen floor wet?" Keion adds.

Neither Oracle nor Walter answers. Both of them keep their eyes locked on me, as if I’ve committed some unforgivable sin. "Again, I have no idea what you’re talking about," I say, rubbing my hands together nervously, a sinking feeling twisting in my gut.

"LIAR!" Walter cries, his voice breaking. "You purposely swapped the costumes. That’s why you were in such a hurry to leave!" His sobs grow harsher, his breath short and ragged. Keion, Oril, and Augustus surround him, trying to comfort him, but he pushes them away, his gaze never leaving me.

My throat dries. I don’t know what to say to calm this storm. The dry cleaner must have made a mistake, I didn’t change or touch anything.

"I... I didn’t..." The words stumble out, weak and drowned by the weight of their stares. Eyes lock onto me, some questioning, others filled with rage. It reminds me of the set, of the crowd, of the tomatoes.

"Why? Why would you do this? You knew how important this was for me. I’ve worked years for this deal, and now it’s gone, all because of you!" His voice cracks, his grief twisting into accusation.

I need to speak up, to defend myself, but I know whatever I say won’t matter. In their eyes, I’m already a monster, something that belongs in the pits of hell. "Yurena has always been right about you. You Alma omegas are witches."

That’s where I draw the line. I can take his rage, his lies, but I won’t let him drag Alma into this.

"The omegas at Alma are far greater than you’ll ever be, no matter how hard you work. And they’d never lose a deal over a costume." My voice comes out cold, even though inside I’m trembling.

The room freezes. Everyone stares at me, shocked. Walter’s face twists into pure rage. He looks like he’s a second away from lunging at me when suddenly, his body collapses.

His mates catch him instantly, lowering him to the ground. The kitchen, once thick with the scent of burnt cinnamon, is suddenly overtaken by something sweeter, richer, the intoxicating smell of fresh cinnamon buns, filling every corner of the house.

Walter’s breathing grows heavy, his hands tugging desperately at his collar. His body shakes, his face flushed.

All the signs are there. According to the textbook, this is unmistakable. He’s going into Heat.

"He’s going into heat?" Oril says, his voice tight with worry, confirming my suspicion.

"He wasn’t due for another week," Keion exclaims, panic flashing across his face."I guess his emotions caused it to come early," Oril mutters, his voice tight, as Walter pushes away from their grip, his eyes drifting toward me.

"You could have gotten revenge on me anytime. Why now?" His words tremble, his body already consumed by his heat, yet his obsession with making me suffer refuses to let go.

I bite the inside of my tongue, tasting blood. "I didn’t do it," I say firmly, but he laughs, shaking his head, refusing to believe me.

"Walter, let’s go. You need to be knotted," Oril urges, trying to carry him away, but Walter weakly shoves him off, his body trembling, his finger pointing straight at me.

"I’m not going anywhere until she tells me the truth."

Oril’s eyes snap to me, his patience fraying, his Alpha dominance pressing down on me like a crushing weight. "Tell him the truth," he growls, the sound vibrating through the kitchen walls, terrifying my omega instincts into submission. It’s the first time I’ve ever been growled at, and the force of it makes my knees weaken.

I already told the truth, but it’s not the truth they want to hear. Fine. I’ll give them what they want.

"I did it. I swapped your costumes," I say, forcing my voice to stay calm under the gaze of three impatient Alphas and a Delta.

"Why?" Walter whimpers, his voice cracking.

"Why? WHY?" I snap, my voice rising. "Because I hate you. And I knew if you lost Kisan, you’d eventually lose everything. And there’s nothing you can do about it." A smile creeps across my lips, sharp and deliberate, and it sends him spiraling.

"They’ll probably pick an omega from Alma or Valma to replace you. You’re replaceable, Walter." I add the words like a blade, twisting them just to get a reaction. And oh, do I get one. His scent erupts, stronger, chaotic, filling the room with a storm of burnt cinnamon.

"Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you right now, right here!" Keion roars, his eyes blazing with rage as he whips his head toward me. His voice is so sharp it feels like it could slice through bone.

He looks like he means it. Like he would actually kill me, his fated mate for his chosen mate.

I stumble back, my heart pounding, before turning and bolting. I dash through the sliding door, the night sky looming above me, the cold air biting at my skin. I slid the door shut behind me, my chest heaving, my heart racing.

I shouldn’t have said all that. But I had to make it believable, or Walter would never have accepted it.

The cold air brushes against me, and pain jolts from the burns on my arms. I ignore it, forcing myself forward, heading to my sanctuary, the shed. I slip inside, collapsing onto my nest, curling into myself.

Hypocrite.

That’s what Walter is. That’s what his entire pack is. Even if I had swapped the costumes, he has no right to act so clueless about why I would do it. He cries over a brand deal, something that can be replaced, repaired. My damage cannot.

I curl into a ball, sinking into my nest, letting exhaustion wash over me. Sleep drags me under, heavy and merciless.

I don’t know how long I’m out, but at some point in the night, a sharp whiplash lands across my back. My eyes snap open, pain spreading like fire through my body.

"Good. You’re awake."

The witch’s familiar voice consumes the small shed. I turn, my body trembling, and she looms above me, holding a black whip in her hand.

I scramble upright, scooting away from her, my breath shallow.

"I heard you’ve been a very bad omega. And you need to be punished." Her voice drips with venom, her eyes glistening with anger, glowing in the dim light of the shed lit only by the night sky.

She isn’t supposed to be back for another two days. Why is she here now? Did they call her? My blood runs cold, my body trembling at the sight of her.

"Strip," she commands.

I don’t move.

"STRIP, OR I’LL MAKE YOU MYSELF!" she shouts, her voice booming, and I quickly tear off my maid uniform, left in nothing but my underwear.

"I am going to give you one chance. Leave now or face retribution for your actions." The witch declares, her voice sharp, offering me an out.

But I don’t move. I can’t leave. If I leave, I’ll die.

I stay kneeling on the floor, frozen, my body trembling, my eyes locked on hers, waiting for the punishment I know is coming.

"Good. I wanted you to be stubborn," she smiles, her lips curling with cruel satisfaction as she raises the whip high. It cracks down against my skin, again and again, each strike sharper, harder, more merciless than the last. My cries fill the shed, echoing against the wooden walls, but they don’t move her. They only fuel her, driving her to hit harder, faster, until the whip burns hotter and hotter into my flesh.

"Ma’am, please stop!" I cry out, my voice cracking, but my pleas fall on deaf ears.

"This is what you Alma omegas deserve!" she shouts, her voice venomous, as the whip lashes across my back. Blood begins to seep into my nest, staining the fabric and the wood beneath me.

One week.

That is how long Walter is in heat.

And that is how long the witch beats me.

She gives me small breaks only when she needs to sleep, eat, use the bathroom, or when she demands I cook food for the pack. Other than that, every minute is agony. Every breath is pain. Every hour is another strike.

One whole week. She never loses her strength, never falters, never tires of tormenting me. Her motivation never wanes. She even grows creative, finding or buying new tools to strike me with. Her favorite, other than the whip, is the iron rod. Cold, heavy and has knocked me unconscious many times.

From that week on, I know Yurena is not a witch. She is the devil, wearing the body of an omega, hell‑bent on forcing obedience. She is not here to guide me, not here to teach me. She is here to break me just for being an Alma’s omega.

And she succeeds.

By the end of that week, I learn my lesson. Never tempt her. Never resist. Always obey.

This is my life now. And there is nothing I can do about it.

I was a fool to hope. A fool to believe my life could ever change.