Chapter 1
Nora
I wonderwhat it’s like to wake up in the morning and feel refreshed. I wonder what it’s like to get out of bed without aching all over. There was a time, years ago, when I lived more normally… but I barely remember it. Like it happened to somebody else, in another lifetime.
In this lifetime, my heart sinks while bitterness wraps around it like thorny vines. Another day. It’s always like this. I lie down every night, hoping I won’t wake up in the morning. But I do, always in the pre-dawn darkness, and realize I have to go through it all over again. All of the pain. All of the loneliness.
“If you think you’re going to spend your time lazing around the house now that you’ve graduated, you have another thing coming.” My father’s sharp, hate-filled voice echoes in my head. That was my graduation gift. Some kids get cars or trips as a reward. I got the reminder that I will always be a servant in my own home.
Not that it has ever felt like a home. Home is where you’re accepted, maybe even appreciated. Home is where you return to after a long day in the cold world, where you can recharge. A haven.
If anything, school was that haven for me—which is pretty sad, I realize as I force myself to sit up, wincing at the pain in my ribs. As bad as certain pack members made life for me, it was still easier to take than what I have to go through here at home. Probably because my bullies weren’t related by blood. Being used as a punching bag by my stepsiblings while my own father watches without a word hurts a little worse, somehow.
One thing is for sure: the day is not going to get any easier if I don’t have breakfast on the table when everybody expects it. I need to push past the pain, not like that’s anything new. It’s sort of a trick I’ve had no choice but to practice the longer I’ve spent living with my father, his mate, and their children. Dissociating. Pretending everything is happening to somebody else, not to me. Like I can observe from outside my own body. It’s what I have to do, or else I’ll break down completely.
That doesn’t make the sight of my bruised torso any easier to handle, unfortunately. Once I turn on the little lamp on the dresser and pull my nightgown overhead, the ugly bruises make me wince. Some of them are older, the colors fading, turning yellow, which makes the fresher ones stand out more than ever. Like a roadmap detailing the abuse I suffer. There’s the punch my brother Derik gave me when his coffee wasn’t hot enough. The elbow my sister gave me to my sternum when I made the mistake of making eye contact for a split second. “Don’t you look at me!” she snarled before her elbow stole the breath from my lungs and made me double over, coughing and gasping.
One by one, each ugly mark, a part of the tapestry of my existence. I run my fingertips over them before pulling on a T-shirt so I won’t have to look at them anymore. Feeling them is bad enough.
Once dressed, with my hair pulled back in a bun—a ponytail is too easy to grab and yank in passing—I creep out of the bedroom, which is barely more than a converted closet, and tiptoe down the stairs. Nobody likes being woken up earlier than they feel like waking. I learned that the hard way, too.
In a way, this is the best part of my day. Turning on the lights in the kitchen since the sun still hasn’t reached the horizon. Starting a pot of coffee, savoring the aroma. I can take a few moments while the oven preheats to look through the back window over the sink and watch as the first rays of light touch the treetops. I can pretend my life is better than it is.
But then I take a deep breath, and the sharp pain from half-healed ribs reminds me of reality. That, and the high-pitched beep from the oven, gets me moving through the process of preparing biscuits, placing them on a pair of baking sheets and sliding them onto the hot racks. From the fridge, I pull a carton of eggs, two packs of sausages, and a bag of frozen hash browns, which I left to thaw out overnight. Soon the stove is covered in pans, which I tend almost without having to think about it. I’ve spent so long cooking the family breakfast, it’s become a routine I can go through with my eyes closed.
By the time the sausage is cooked, and the potatoes are brown, heavy footsteps thud on the stairs. Here we go. A familiar sense of icy dread works its way through me as the footsteps get louder, before finally my brother enters the room.
“You’re still here?” The question he asks every morning in a cold, hateful snarl. I’m too busy melting butter in a pan for theeggs to respond—not like there’s anything I can say, anyway. It’s no surprise when a sharp burst of fresh agony explodes in my back, thanks to his brutal punch as he walks past. He’s two years younger, but huge and much stronger than I am. That’s the thing about being a full-blooded wolf. It makes it very easy to beat up your half-human sister.
“It almost smells like you’re cooking something edible today,” he mutters on his way to the fridge, which he opens to pull out a jug of orange juice; he lifts it to his mouth without bothering to get a glass. I make a mental note to buy more at the store the next time I go, since he empties half the jug before putting it back.
My sister’s voice rings out behind me. “You better not burn the fucking biscuits like you did last time.” I can’t see her, but I would bet anything she’s staring down at her phone, typing as she torments me. At fourteen, she’s also bigger than I am, and much stronger. I could barely sit for three days and had to sleep on my stomach after the biscuits got a little too brown around the edges, and she literally kicked my ass hard enough to leave a shoe print behind.
That was before she shoved me onto the floor and forced me to eat one of the biscuits she dropped there. I wasn’t even allowed to use my hands.
As usual, I ignore them, focusing on getting everything right. It’s already tense by the time Dad and his mate join us and turn the tension into a storm of loathing. “Breakfast would be a lot more enjoyable if I didn’t have to look at you while eating it,” my stepmother mutters as she sits down, while I pour her coffee. “And I’d bet it would be tastier if you would ever learn to cookproperly.”
“I don’t know what it’s going to take,” Dad growls, glaring coldly up at me while I pour coffee for him. The amount of complete disgust in his blue eyes makes my hand tremble hard enough that I almost lose a few drops—luckily, I pull it together before disaster strikes. I shudder to think what he would do over something even that trivial.
My stomach growls as I set platters down in the center of the breakfast table, positioned by a window overlooking the backyard. Sunlight streams in, illuminating the results of my hard work. The aroma is killing me, but I know better than to eat a single bite before everyone is finished. I only eat alone, barely scraping by on whatever scraps they leave for me. Sometimes, I deliberately make a little extra, trying to help myself, but it doesn’t matter. They always eat just about everything, no matter how much I cook. And I learned the hard way that my stepmother keeps close watch over every bite of food in the kitchen. I was almost sure my wrist was broken after I snagged a protein bar, but it was only a bad sprain.
Since I’m not allowed to be in the room while they eat, I go to the living room instead, starting on my day’s chores. The room is dusted, and the windows washed by the time I hear them setting down their cutlery.Hurry, hurry. I’m so hungry, I’m starting to feel weak.
It’s safer to keep myself busy as they file out of the kitchen, so I act like there’s a stubborn smudge on one of the windows to give me an excuse not to look at any of them. It’s safer that way. They talk around me like I’m not here—that’s also safer, though. I must have pleased them today if they’re not hitting me or throwing things.
Now, with them all upstairs getting ready for their day, I can barely keep myself from running to the kitchen. The sight of a sausage link and half a biscuit sitting on a platter makes mymouth flood with saliva. I split the biscuit open with my hands and shove the sausage inside before gobbling it all down. There are a few bits of potato left, which I eat with my hands like an animal, barely tasting a bite.
As usual, I’m still a little hungry by the time I’m finished, but I’ve learned to live with hunger. It’s easier to manage than pain.
There’s not a lot of time to think about my hunger, anyway. Not with the entire list of chores Serena has for me today. I swear, she sits around and makes up things for me to do—we live in a big house, sure, but I’ve done nothing but clean for three weeks and there is still always a day’s worth of work for me to do.
So much work today, in fact, that I’m surprised how late it is by the time Serena surprises me while I’m finishing cleaning one of the bathrooms. “Are you ever going to get to the store today? You know we need things for dinner, and I would like to eat at a decent time tonight.”
Shit. I completely lost track of time, and now it’s early evening. “I’m sorry. I’ll head over there right now.”
“You better not forget anything this time,” she warns, following me to my room, where I plan to change out of my work clothes for something a little more presentable. Scooting around me, she bars the doorway before I can duck in there. “Where do you think you’re going? To the store, you useless idiot. Not your bedroom.”
Terrific. I guess I have to go out looking very much like I’ve spent the entire day scrubbing toilets and vacuuming drapes. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I promise in a murmur, grateful for the chance to get out of the house for a few minutes even if I do look like I just rolled on the ground.
