Lorali Pov
The only way to keep busy, to keep the negative thoughts from swallowing me whole, is by working.
I grab the pot handles with a dishcloth and carry it toward the sink. Steam rises into my face, stinging my eyes, making me squint. The pot is heavier than I expect, my arms trembling, my palms slick with sweat from standing over the stove too long.
"Just don’t drop it," I mutter under my breath.
I tip the pot to pour the water out. At first, everything is fine, until a sudden bolt of pain shoots through my shoulder. The dishcloth slips. The pot lurches sideways. A wave of boiling water spills over the rim, splashing across my stomach, arm, and thigh.
Pain explodes through me.
I scream, stumbling backward, the pot crashing to the floor with a deafening clang. Water splatters across the kitchen tiles, soaking everything, while I clutch at my burning skin.
"Oh God!"
My legs give out beneath me. Tears spring to my eyes as the heat sinks deeper, burrowing into my flesh. Every breath hurts. My skin feels as though it’s been set on fire. I look down with trembling hands and see angry red patches already forming where the water struck.
The pain is unbearable, but not as unbearable as the humiliation I’m already carrying.
It took hours to wash the tomatoes out of my hair, and I can still smell traces of them clinging to me.
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.