The Favorite

Seraphina's POV

---

I wake up on the cold floor of the medical room with no memory of how I got there.

My body screams when I try to move. Every muscle aches. My head pounds. My arm throbs where the needle was. And somewhere above me, someone is knocking on a door like I'm not lying here dying.

"Sera? Sera, are you awake?"

Liora's voice. Soft and sweet and fake.

I force my eyes open. She's standing in the doorway, dressed in a pale pink robe, her hair brushed to perfection. She looks like a doll. A perfect, fragile, innocent doll.

"You missed breakfast," she says. "Mother is furious."

I push myself up on shaking arms. "What time is it?"

"Almost noon."

Noon. I've been unconscious for hours. Again.

"Where's Dr. Crane?"

"He left hours ago. Said you needed to rest." She tilts her head. "You look terrible, Sera. Maybe you should stay in bed today."

I almost laugh. Almost.

"Right. Because you're so concerned about my health."

Her eyes narrow for just a second before the mask slides back into place. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." I struggle to my feet, gripping the wall for support. "I need to start my chores."

"Mother said you should rest."

"Mother says a lot of things."

Liora steps closer. Her perfume is sweet and cloying. "Sera, I know you're upset. But you have to understand. I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to be sick."

"You never do."

"What?"

I look at her. Really look at her. The flush in her cheeks. The brightness in her eyes. The way she stands without swaying. Without pain.

"You look healthy today," I say.

Her hand flies to her chest. "I feel a little better. Dr. Crane said the transfusions are helping."

"Funny. The transfusions are supposed to be helping you, but I'm the one who can't stand."

Something flickers in her eyes. Something cold and quick. Then it's gone, replaced by hurt. Wounded, innocent hurt.

"That's not fair."

"Neither is draining me dry every week."

"Sera!"

My mother's voice cuts through the room like a blade. She appears in the doorway, her face tight with anger.

"What are you doing out of bed? And you." She turns to Liora, her voice softening instantly. "Darling, you should be resting. You know how weak you get."

"I was just checking on Sera," Liora says. "She missed breakfast and I was worried."

"Worried." My mother's eyes snap to me. "You see? This is what I'm talking about. Liora is fighting for her life and she's still thinking about you. And what do you do? You lie around all morning, skip meals, and then accuse her of... what? Stealing your blood?"

"I didn't..."

"Don't lie to me. I heard you. You think I don't know what you say when you think I'm not listening?"

I close my mouth. It's pointless. It's always pointless.

My mother walks to Liora and wraps an arm around her shoulders. "Come, darling. Let's get you back to bed. You've done enough for today."

"But Sera..."

"Sera is fine. She's strong." The word drips with meaning. "She can handle herself."

They leave. The door clicks shut behind them. And I'm alone again.

---

An hour later, I'm on my knees scrubbing the kitchen floor.

My mother gave me a list. Twelve items. Impossible things. Clean the entire downstairs. Polish the silver. Organize the pantry. Wash all the windows. Prepare lunch for the family. Then dinner. Then clean up after both meals.

I'm on item two.

"Look at you. Pathetic."

I don't look up. I know that voice.

"You know, most omegas can do basic chores without collapsing. But not you. You have to be special."

Marcus drops into a chair at the table, watching me with that familiar sneer. My brother. Older by three years. Strong. Confident. Completely blind.

"I'm not collapsing," I mutter.

"You're barely upright. It's sad."

"Then stop watching."

He laughs. It's an ugly sound. "Why do you do this? The whole poor me act? It's not going to get you what you want."

"What do I want?"

"Attention. Sympathy. You think if you look pathetic enough, someone will feel sorry for you." He leans back, stretching. "But guess what? We've been dealing with your drama for years. Nobody cares anymore."

I keep scrubbing. The floor is already clean. It's just something to do. Something to focus on other than the pain in my chest.

"Liora is actually sick," Marcus continues. "She needs help. Real help. But you? You just need to get over yourself."

I stop scrubbing.

"Did you know she can walk?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "When she thinks no one is watching. She walks just fine."

Marcus sits up. "What?"

"Last week. After the transfusion. She went outside. Walked around the garden for half an hour. No coughing. No weakness. Then she came back and pretended to collapse."

"You're lying."

"Why would I lie?"

"Because you're jealous." He says it like it's obvious. Like the truth. "You've always been jealous of her. She's pretty. She's sweet. Everyone likes her. And you can't stand it."

I want to scream. I want to throw the bucket at his head and run. Instead, I dunk the rag in the water and squeeze it out.

"I'm not jealous."

"Whatever." He stands up, pushing the chair back with a screech. "Just finish your chores. Mother will check."

He leaves.

I keep scrubbing.

---

By afternoon, my arms are shaking so badly I can barely hold the polish cloth.

I'm in the silver room, surrounded by tarnished spoons and teapots and serving trays. The room smells like old money and dust. I've been working for three hours. I've polished half the collection.

"Need any help?"

Liora stands in the doorway. She's dressed now, in a simple blue dress. My blue dress. She's smiling.

"No," I say.

"Are you sure? You look exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"I could help. I know Mother said you should do it alone, but..."

"But what?"

"But I feel bad." She steps into the room, her hands clasped in front of her. "You've done so much for me. The least I could do is..."

"Fetch my own medicine?"

The words hang in the air. Liora's smile falters.

"What?"

"You're not going to help. You just want to look helpful. So everyone sees you offering, but I do all the work."

"That's not true."

"Then take a cloth and polish something."

Silence.

She doesn't move.

"I would," she says slowly. "But I'm not supposed to. The doctor said I shouldn't exert myself. I could get worse."

"Of course."

"I'm sorry. I know this is hard for you."

"Is it?"

"What?"

I stand up. The movement makes my head spin, but I force myself to stay upright. "Is it hard for me? Or hard for you, watching me do the work you claim you can't do?"

Her face pales. "Sera, what are you talking about?"

"I'm not stupid. I know you don't need as much help as you pretend. I see things. The way you forget to cough when no one is watching. The way you can walk down stairs without shaking. The way your headaches always start right before the pack ceremonies where I might get some attention."

She's frozen now. Completely still.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do. You just don't want to say it."

A long pause. Then, her voice drops. So quiet I almost miss it.

"You should be careful, Sera."

"Careful?"

"You don't know what's going on. You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

She takes a step back. "I can't."

"You won't."

"I can't." Her voice is shaking now. The mask is cracking. "Please. Just finish your chores. Don't make things harder."

She turns and walks away.

---

That night, I'm sent to clean Liora's room while she rests in the parlor with our mother.

Her room is everything mine isn't. Warm. Soft. Full of beautiful things. Silk curtains. Fresh flowers. A vanity with perfumes and creams and jewelry I could never afford.

I clean because I'm expected to. Not because I want to. Not because I'm grateful. Because there's no other choice.

I dust the dresser first. Then the nightstand. Then the bookshelf.

The drawer in the bottom of the bookshelf is stuck.

I pull it open, and something small and silver rolls forward.

A token.

I pick it up. It's a medallion, about the size of my palm. Silver, worn smooth from years of handling. There's a symbol on the front. A crescent moon inside a circle. And around the moon, strange marks. Symbols I don't recognize.

My breath catches.

I've seen this symbol before. On the blood bag. The night Dr. Crane turned it away from me.

"What are you doing?"

I spin around. Liora is standing in the doorway, her face pale and tight.

"Where did you get this?" she asks.

"Your drawer. It was stuck. I just..."

"Give it to me."

She strides forward and snatches the medallion from my hand. Her fingers are trembling.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"That symbol was on the blood bags. The ones Dr. Crane uses."

Her eyes widen. Then narrow. "You're imagining things."

"I saw it. I know what I saw."

"You don't know anything."

"Then explain it. What is that medallion? Where did you get it?"

She clutches it to her chest. Her knuckles are white. Her whole body is shaking.

"It was my father's." Her voice is barely a whisper. "It's all I have left of him."

"The father who died in the war."

"Yes."

"The father who supposedly died fighting alongside my father."

Her jaw tightens. "What are you asking?"

"I'm asking why your dead father's medallion has the same symbol as the blood bags Dr. Crane uses to drain me every week."

Silence.

She stares at me. And for just a second, I see it. Not anger. Not annoyance. Fear.

She's afraid of me.

Then the mask returns. She tucks the medallion into her pocket and smooths her dress.

"You're tired, Sera. You should finish your chores and go to bed. You're starting to see things."

She leaves.

I stand there, staring at the empty drawer, my heart pounding.

She was scared.

She was actually scared.

I don't understand what's happening. But something is wrong. Something more than transfusions. More than a sick girl needing blood. Something deeper.

I need to know what it is.

---

That night, I can't sleep.

My room is cold. My blankets are thin. The wind howls outside the window and I lie there, shivering, thinking about Liora's face. The fear in her eyes. The way her hands shook.

I'm still awake when I hear the voices.

My parents.

Their room is two doors down, but the walls are thin. I've learned to listen. It's the only way I've survived.

"We can't keep taking from her."

My father's voice. Tired. Strained.

"She's getting worse."

"She's strong enough." My mother, cold and dismissive.

"She collapsed last night. Dr. Crane had to carry her to bed."

"She's strong enough," my mother repeats. "Liora isn't. And you know what's at stake."

A pause.

"I know," my father says. "But..."

"But what? You want to stop? You want to watch everything we've worked for collapse?"

"No. I just..."

"Then stop questioning me. This has to happen. She's the only one who can do this. The only one who can give Liora what she needs."

Another pause. Then, quieter:

"What if we kill her?"

My blood freezes.

My father asked it. He actually asked it. Out loud. Like it was a possibility. Like my life was a question to be answered.

My mother's response is too quiet to hear. But the silence that follows is answer enough.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and I know.

They don't care about me.

They never did.

And if I don't escape, they're going to kill me.

Maybe not tonight. Maybe not next week. But eventually.

Eventually, they'll take too much.

Eventually, I'll stop being useful.

Eventually, I'll die.

And no one will care.

I get out of bed.

My legs shake. My head spins. But I'm moving. I'm done waiting.

I'm done being the sacrifice.

---