Epilogue: Rewrite
R O Y A L E
The harsh scrape of knuckles against the washboard was a rhythm Angel knew by heart. Steam rose in the cooling evening air, carrying the caustic sting of lye soap. It mingled with the sweat on her brow and the ever-present ache deep in her shoulders. This was the life of an Omega, a litany of chores chanted in the language of servitude: washing clothes, cooking meals, picking sour berries from the thorny bushes deep in the woods. Her chubby fingers were a mess of old scars and new pains—white welts from scalding water, angry red lines from the constant, abrasive work.
But Angel never complained, because if she did. Who knew what her mother would do to her.
Her mother's voice was a whip-crack in her memory. Faster, you useless girl. Do you think the pack has all day to wait for you? Look at you, soft and slow. No respectable alpha will ever want a tainted, weak-willed mate like you. You're an embarrassment to this family, a stain on your father's memory! Angel squeezed her eyes shut, scrubbing harder at a stubborn stain on one of her mother's tunics, her knuckles raw against the wood. The irony was a bitter pill: her mother, an Omega herself, was Angel's harshest critic, her most diligent tormentor. She drove Angel to the brink of exhaustion daily. a constant nagging presence ensuring Angel never forgot her place at the very bottom of the pack hierarchy.
Well. It wasn't like Angel didn't understand, on some deep, painful level why her mother treated her this way. After all, ever since her father, Lucian, had been killed by filthy rogues, her mother, Eleanor, had been forced to pick up the shattered pieces of their pack. She had to lead not only as their Luna but as their acting Alpha as well. The task was a poison she willingly drank every day.
An Omega's spirit wasn't forged for command; it was built for nurturing. For connecting others. For being the heart of the pack when nobody else could.
To rule a territory full of restless, powerful alpha males and submissive females who could conceive generations after them. Eleanor had been forced to kill that part of herself. Burying the most valuable part that made her a mother. A friend. A lover. Her softness died along with her mate, buried under layers of iron and venom. Royale's mother was known around the werewolf community for her brittle cruelty and authority. Never hesitate to make the hard calls if necessary. And Angel, with her soft chubby curves, her quiet nature, and her father’s gentle eyes, was a walking, breathing reminder of everything Eleanor had been forced to sacrifice. Every time her mother looked at her, she saw a mirror of the weakness she now despised in herself. The cruelty wasn't just punishment; it was a desperate, twisted attempt to hammer Angel into something hard enough to survive. To beat the softness out of her so the world couldn't do it first.
This bitter understanding didn't make the whip-crack of her mother’s voice any less painful. It didn't soothe the sting of the belt anytime it connected to the skin on her back. It only made Angel hate herself more for being weak. For being a reflection of a memory her mother hated so deeply she had to beat it out of her own daughter. With a final, resigned sigh, she hoisted the heavy, damp basket. Her bare feet padded over the packed earth of the laundry area, a space sectioned off behind the main lodge. One by one, she began to hang the clothes, the repetitive motion a grim comfort. She pinned up her mother’s severe, cloak, jeans and shirt's first. Getting them out of the way. Then came the shirts and trousers of the pack warriors—the Alphas and Betas who patrolled their territory. Their clothes smelled of sweat, earth, and the faint, metallic tang of blood from the hunt. Her stomach growled at the thought of having fresh cooked meat later.
Angel nearly dropped one of the shirts as she heard a distant sound of a twig snap. Her ears twitched ever so slightly. Grabbing the lantern from the ground, Angel shined the light across the woods, seeing the fire flickering near their pack grounds. The lantern's glow was feeble against the vast, encroaching darkness of the forest, turning the nearest trees into skeletal figures.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
The sound was closer now, a deliberate tread, not the skittish movement of a deer. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Rogues sometimes tested their borders, and she was alone, unarmed, far from the main lodge. Her inner wolf instincts screamed at her, a primal urge to either flee or bare her teeth. She tightened her grip on the lantern, its metal handle digging into her palm.
A figure emerged from the shadowy path, and Angel’s fear gave way to a different, more familiar kind of dread.
"Do you plan to sleep out here?" The voice was sharp, impatient.
It was her sister, Rebecca. She was a paler, sharper echo of their mother with similar blonde hair. Rebbeca's frame was thin, wiry and tense, her chocolate eyes holding the same judgmental glint. She stood with her arms crossed, already looking displeased.
"I was just finishing up," Angel mumbled, turning back to the laundry basket, her brief moment of alarm now replaced by the weary weight of scrutiny. "Mother sent me," Rebecca said, as if Angel couldn't have guessed. "The hunting party is back. They had a good run—two stags. She wants the feast prepared. That's your job, in case you'd forgotten."
Obviously she hadn't forgotten. How could she? It was always her job. To skin. To cook. Her stomach that was once empty and growling with hunger mere moments before, now felt heavy and nauseous. A feast meant a late night, a mountain of work, and her mother's eagle eyes watching her every move, waiting. Predicting the next fuck up Angel made.
Rebecca stepped closer, her gaze sweeping over the clothesline with practiced disapproval. "Is this all of it? You've been out here since midday." Her eyes landed on the single dark shirt hanging slightly apart from the others. She paused, her head tilting. " Angel what the hell? You know what your job is just like everyone else in this pack. How is anyone supposed to have clean clothes by morning if you sit around all day gazing off into the sunset?"
The words were meant to sting, and they did. A familiar, hot shame prickled at the back of Angel’s neck. She didn't turn to face her sister, keeping her eyes fixed on the damp clothes in the basket. To look at Rebecca would be to see her own failure reflected in those cold, chocolate-brown eyes. To see what she could only ever hope to be. A strong Wolfess ( she-wolf.) Rebbeca was strong, much stronger than their mother in a physical sense. She had the strength of an alpha no doubt a trait she had received from their father making Angel more frightened of ever getting on Rebbeca's bad side. Not only that, she was fast and a quick learner, often earning praise from the male wolves within the pack. That praise had molded Rebbeca, shaping her confidence into a sharp-edged arrogance. She carried herself with the assurance of someone who knew her worth and wasn't afraid to remind everyone else of theirs—or lack thereof.
"The sun was strong today. I wanted to make sure they were properly cleaned and dry." Angel offered, her voice a weak shield against the coming storm.
Rebecca let out a short, contemptuous laugh—a sound she’d perfected by mimicking their mother. With a wolf's swiftness, she strode forward and plucked a warrior’s still-damp black t-shirt from the line. Her fingers, strong and sure, pinched the damp cuff with disgust. "Still damp. Useless, and you call this dry?" she spat, throwing the tunic back into the laundry basket at Angel’s feet. "Do you think our Alpha has time to wait for you to daydream? Our mother holds this pack together by will alone, and you repay her by being lazy and incompetent. By lying about what you were ' going to do?' when we get back you will apologize to mother is that understood?"
Angel’s shoulders slumped in defeat. What could she say, I'm sorry. Would Rebbeca even accept that? A quiet, shaky "Yes, Rebecca," was all she could manage, her voice stolen by the familiar chill of fear. The submissive whisper wasn't enough for Rebecca. It was compliance, yes. but not the broken, genuine respect she wanted. Not the kind their Mother commanded from the others.
Rebecca took another step, deliberately invading Angel's personal space, forcing her to shrink back. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you," Rebecca commanded, her voice low and dangerous. " B-But I..." Angel began protesting. Rebecca wasn't having it at all, she grab Angel by the chin, her sharp nails digging into the girl's skin so much that it was on the verge of bleeding.
" I said look at me," Rebecca hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "I want you to say it again. Say you fucking understand." Angel's entire body trembled. The sharp points of Rebecca's nails felt like tiny daggers pressing into the soft flesh under her chin, a promise of pain that could be delivered with the slightest flick of her sister's wrist. Tears welled, hot and blurry, but she fought them back. Crying was weakness, and weakness was an invitation for more cruelty. She knew that all to well. She didn't want more pain. Not today. Not when she was already feeling so low about herself.
Slowly, Angel forced her gaze upward, past her sister's tense shoulders, past the cruel smirk on her lips, and into the cold, unforgiving depths of her chocolate-brown eyes. There was no sisterly affection there. Not the once tender bond they shared when they were little kids riding on their father's back. Playing with the colorful butterflies in the wood's. Everything was gone. Vanished that night with him.
"Yes... Rebecca," Angel choked out, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "I... I will apologize to Mother. I understand."
Rebecca held her for a moment longer, savoring the victory, the complete and utter surrender in Angel's eyes. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, she released her, shoving her back a step. "Is that so fucking hard?" she sneered. Angel shook her head, her chubby cheeks flushing in embarrassment. " N-No, Rebecca."
Rebbeca let out an annoyed scoff, her patience snapping like a dry twig. Her gaze rakes across the clothesline, it stopped, snagging on the one object that didn't belong. The white shirt. Against the drab, practical garments of the pack, its stark whiteness was an unnatural brightness, an affront. Her dark eyes narrowed. She moved toward it, Rebecca's nose twitched, catching a scent that was utterly alien here—the faint, cloying smell of city smoke, of processed soaps, and something else… the weak, bland scent of human skin.
A contemptuous snarl twisted her lips. With a vicious yank that sounded like tearing fabric, she ripped the shirt from the line, the clothespins scattering into the dirt. She held it out between two fingers as if it were contaminated roadkill. Rebbeca didn't just sniff it; she took a deep, deliberate inhalation, her nostrils flaring in disgust. "What's this?" she hissed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. She shoved the fabric toward Angel’s face. "Have you been conversating with humans?"
The blood drained from Angel's face, leaving her skin clammy and cold. "N-no! It's not—"
"Don't you fucking lie to me," Rebecca snarled, her free hand shooting out to grab Angel by the collar of her shirt, twisting the fabric tightly. "I can smell it. The filth. The weakness. Are you so desperate for attention you'd sneak off to meet with prey?"
"It was a merchant!" Angel cried out, the words tumbling out in a panicked rush. "A trader, weeks ago! He left it behind! Mother said to burn it, I just… I forgot! I swear, Rebbeca please!"
The lie was thin, pathetic, and Rebecca saw right through it. She laughed, a cold, sharp sound devoid of any humor. "You 'forgot'? You, who can't even remember to do your own chores properly? You kept it. Like a pathetic little love token.
She let go of Angel’s tunic only to shove her hard in the chest. The unexpected force sent Angel stumbling backward, her feet tangling, and she landed hard on the unforgiving ground with a choked gasp. A raw, wounded sound escaped Angel’s throat. Her one beautiful thing. Her secret. She scrambled forward on her hands and knees, ignoring the sharp bite of stones against her skin, her fingers outstretched to rescue the shirt from the dirt. But Rebecca was faster, a predator intercepting its prey.
Her heavy leather boot came down, pinning the white fabric to the earth just inches from Angel's desperate fingers. Twisting her heel, Rebecca began to grind the shirt into the mud, a cruel, deliberate motion designed to inflict maximum pain. "Humans are prey," she hissed, the words a venomous counterpoint to the scraping sound of her boot against the dirt. The pristine white fabric disappeared under a smear of black mud and crushed leaves. "They are filth. We are predators. For you to bring their stench into our territory, to hoard it like some pathetic treasure… it's a disgrace."
Her voice rose, cracking with a fury that was part performance and part genuine fear. "A weakness Mother cannot afford to have associated with her name. You should be ashamed of yourself, you fucking disgrace!"
Rebecca leaned down, her face close to Angel's, her eyes blazing with a terrifying intensity. "You're going to be the death of us one day, Angel! Do you have any idea what will happen if those humans realize we truly exist?! If they find us?" Her voice dropped to a low, furious growl, each word a hammer blow. "They'll bring hell's fire and silver. They will burn our home to the ground with us in it, all because the Alpha's weak-willed daughter couldn't keep her pathetic fantasies to herself!"
With a final, contemptuous twist of her boot that ripped the delicate fabric, she stepped back, leaving the ruined shirt like a corpse in the mud.
Angel stared at the muddy scrap, her breath coming in ragged, choking sobs. It wasn't just a shirt. It was a dream, a tiny, fragile hope, and her sister had just murdered it in front of her.
Rebecca watched her for a moment, her chest heaving slightly, her performance complete. She had asserted her dominance, reinforced the pack's laws, and punished the weakness she despised. Composing herself with a chilling speed, her expression hardened back into a mask of cold authority.
"The feast won't cook itself," she said, her voice flat and devoid of the passion from moments before. "Get to the kitchens. Now." She paused at the edge of the clearing, her silhouette a pillar of uncompromising strength. "And Angel," she added, her voice a final, cutting command, "clean up your mess. Mother expects this place to be spotless."
