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**Ashley's POV**

Where the fuck is that low-life bitch? A voice growled from the dining room, sharp and mean, cutting through the air like a knife. I was in the kitchen, trying to steady myself, gripping the edges of a big wooden tray loaded with steaming plates of food. My hands were shaking, and I hated it—hated how their words pierced straight through my chest, making my heart ache like it was bruised. Laughter followed, loud and cruel, echoing off the walls as I forced my feet to move, carrying the tray toward the dining room.

I stepped into the room, keeping my head down, eyes glued to the floor. The plates clinked softly as I set them in front of the people sitting around the huge dining table, their voices still buzzing with mockery. I didn’t look at them. I couldn’t. If I did, I’d see their smug faces, their eyes glinting with that same old disgust they always had specially for me. I turned on my heel, quick as I could, and headed back to the kitchen to grab the rest of the dishes.

My name’s Ashley, and I’m eighteen—well, almost. Two days from now, I’ll hit that milestone, but it’s not like anyone’s gonna throw me a party or anything. My parents died when I was just a kid, too young to even remember their faces. Alpha Rodrigue and his mate, Luna Aurora, took me in. Not as family, no way, but they gave me a roof over my head, a corner to sleep in. In return, I serve the pack. I cook, I clean, I fetch, I carry. I used to be okay with it—grateful, even. It was better than being out on the streets, right? But then Adrian took over.

Adrian, the new alpha, is a whole different kind of problem. He’s not just the leader now; he’s a thorn in my side, a constant, exhausting pain in my ass. He’s got these two big roles—alpha of the pack and the guy who never misses a chance to make my life hell. Nobody dares talk back to him. Nobody. Though I’m not scared of him like the others and he knows it, too, and that’s why he’s always gunning for me, trying to grind me down, humiliate me every chance he gets. And his girlfriend, Katrina? She’s the worst. A walking, talking nightmare with a smile that could curdle milk.

Speak of the devil—Katrina sauntered into the kitchen just as I scooped up the last of the dishes. Her perfume hit me first, too sweet, like she bathed in sugar syrup. I kept my head down, clutching the plates, and scurried past her before she could start gloating about whatever new way she’d found to make me feel small.

“Moon goddess, does she ever do anything right?” someone barked from the dining room as I got closer. I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to roll my eyes so hard they’d get stuck. They always had something to complain about—my food, my speed, the way I breathed too loud for their liking. If they hate it so much, why don’t they get up and do it themselves? Just once, I’d love to see them try. But no, they sit there, picking at everything I do, while I’m stuck serving them like some kind of machine.

I wanted to scream it all out, let every ugly thought spill from my mouth. But that’d be a death wish, and I’m not ready to die. All I want is to get my wolf—my eighteenth birthday’s supposed to bring her out, that inner strength every shifter gets. Once I have her, I’m gone. I’ll leave this pack, go rogue, start fresh somewhere—anywhere—where I don’t have to deal with these people. Anything’s better than being trapped here, suffocating under their glares and their words.

I made it to the dining room again, setting the last plates down without looking up. Their eyes were on me, I could feel them, boring holes into my skin with that mix of hatred and pity they always threw my way. If I met their gazes, I’d probably choke on my own irritation. So I kept my head down, my jaw tight, and moved to the side of the room, standing there like a statue, waiting in case anyone needed something else. A drink, a napkin, another chance to snap at me—whatever.

The thing is, I don’t even know who my parents were. Not really. I grew up in this pack, raised on stories about how they died in some brutal rogue attack when I was a baby. That’s all I’ve got—secondhand tales and a lifetime of being reminded I’m an orphan. “Be grateful,” they say. “You’re lucky we took you in.” And yeah, I am grateful, in a way. They kept me alive, gave me food and a bed. But every single day, someone’s spitting in my face—sometimes literally—because I don’t have a family. Because I’m nobody.

I used to have a friend, though. Adrian. Hard to believe now, but when we were kids, we were close. We’d run through the woods, laughing, pretending we were warriors fighting off rogues. He was different then—kind, even. But that was before his dad, Alpha Rodrigue, died. Adrian was only seventeen, a year shy of when he was supposed to take over, per pack tradition. The elders didn’t care. They pushed him into the role anyway, before he’d even finished his alpha training. He changed after that. Hardened. And then there was Katrina.

Katrina, the beta’s daughter, was picked as his mate, his Luna. It wasn’t like they were fated or anything—just a choice, a political move to keep the pack strong. Her brother, Lucas, stepped up as beta, and just like that, my life got worse. I went from being the kid they tolerated to the pack’s official punching bag. A certified slave, basically. It’s almost funny, the irony of it. Almost.