An Average Day

POV: Echo

I quickly dump the last of the dirty linen down the laundry chute and wipe the sweat from my brow. Finally, I'm done stripping rooms for the day, and it's already 3 pm! I need to get to the kitchen ASAP.

Hurrying off down the hall, I make it to the stairs without seeing anyone else. Naturally, on the stairs is one of the last people I want to see right now, the pack's Luna, Embry. Tall and curvy, she is the Alpha's mate, daughter to the ex-Beta, and sister to the pack's current Beta.

While she is absolutely gorgeous on the outside, too many years of being doted on as a high-ranking female had turned her into a complete nightmare of a wolf. Spoiled and cruel, vain and impatient, she is nearly impossible to please.

Unfortunately for me, she saw me at the same time I'd noticed her. Flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder and narrowing her eyes, she storms over to me.

"What do we have here?" She sneers, propping a hand on her hip.

Forcing myself to remain calm, I bow my head and stare at the floor. Sometimes silence is better than answering. It also means that I don't see her move until her backhand knocks me off my feet.

"I asked you a question!" She growls, just loud enough to be heard over the ringing in my ears. Blinking away the blurriness from my vision, I focus on making the room stop spinning. It has been too many days since I've eaten, and it's been all I could do to stay on my feet up till this point.

"Sorry, Luna." I choke out, eyes glued to the floor. I still have to make dinner, and if I plan on eating this week, I can't allow my strength to falter now. Sighing as though disappointed, she thankfully turns to leave. I don't move a muscle, trying not to give her any reason to turn back toward me.

"Pathetic." She chuckles, as she makes sure to crush my fingers under her heel on her way past. Hissing in pain, I clutch my hand to my chest, assessing the damage. Her high-heeled boot had broken at least one of my fingers!

While we werewolves heal quicker than normal humans, even before we can actually speak with and shift into our wolves, it is nothing compared to how quickly we heal when we can.

The only catch is that our healing speed is directly affected by our body's general health prior to the injury. Mine is definitely not great. I have simply suffered too many injuries and missed too many meals to rely on my werewolf genes to heal me.

Sighing, I pull myself to my feet, swaying slightly as I regain my balance. Knowing I need to keep moving, I head down the stairs, rubbing the bruise that is already forming on my cheekbone. I dart from the bottom of the stairs to the kitchen door, stopping only to do a quick scan of the room to make sure it's empty.

Thankfully, no one else seems to be around. Walking over to my personal med kit, I grab my well-worn finger splint from the top. I tuck the tiny med kit into my back pocket for safekeeping, as it contains the only first-aid supplies that I am allowed to use.

Carefully inspecting the broken finger, I note the odd angle of it before I grab it and pull it straight with a grunt. Then I splint it with an efficiency learned over many years of treating my own broken fingers and toes.

With that taken care of, I begin pulling out the ingredients for dinner. Typically, I have to make enough breakfast and dinner for about 30 wolves, most of whom live in the twelve or so rooms for members in the pack house.

There are a handful of wolves who own their own house on the pack land that come to the house for dinner, especially the elderly and warriors after late training sessions or coming and going for patrol shifts.

The pack house is a massive three-story mansion, with the alpha quarters taking up almost two-thirds of the third floor, the other third being beta quarters and there are a handful of guest rooms for visiting alphas from other packs.

A group of paid maids are responsible for making the beds, putting away the clean laundry, daily sweeping and mopping all three floors, dusting, and other general household chores. The responsibilities that the maids have decided they don't get paid enough to do naturally fall to me.

The pack considers me to only be good enough to strip their rooms, cook, serve, and clean up after their breakfasts and dinners, set out and put away the grab-and-go lunches, and the big kicker – washing, drying, and folding all of the laundry for the entire pack house, as well as the tree line spare clothes.

I frown as I put together the massive pot of beef stew, my freshly broken finger aching from the work. Pound after pound of beef, potatoes, carrots, gallons of water and beef stock, seasonings, and enough slurry to thicken it to perfection.

My arms shake as I give it the final stir, my stomach grumbling in protest. Even though I made the dinner, I would not be eating until later, if I was permitted. Today, however, the scent of dinner cooking has been a real test of my self-control.

When I was younger and more impulsive, I would sneak bites of food here and there as I cooked meals. I learned it wasn't worth it, as Embry and the future Alpha would always pin me to the wall and shove their fingers down my throat until I threw it all up.

Shaking the memories from my mind, I pull the last pan of buns from the oven, tipping them onto the cooling rack. Once they cool, I fill the bread baskets and top up the butter dishes before placing them at regular intervals along the dining hall tables.

Returning to the kitchen, I fill the large tureens with stew, placing a ladle in each before carrying them out. Then I wash the dishes from cooking dinner, wipe the counters, and monitor the dirty dish bins in the dining hall. As each bin fills, I quickly replace it with an empty one and scrub the dishes from the hall.

By the time everyone finishes eating, and I've washed the last dish and wiped down the table, I am completely exhausted. I'd hoped that fresh buns and a hearty thick stew would put the pack members in a good enough mood that I might eat tonight. I'd had no such luck.

Cringing, I think of the sight I'd walked into at the end of dinner: multiple pack members working together to toss what little food was left straight into the trash. They'd watched me, smirking, as I'd watched in despair as my only hope for food today was dumped maliciously.

With one last glance around the kitchen, I make sure everything is perfect before I finally head to the basement door in the corner. At the bottom of the stairs sits a second door that leads directly into the laundry room and my living space.

I waste no time switching over laundry before I make a beeline to my bed and collapse upon it, asleep before my head even hits the pillow.