My chest tightened. “But today is my—”
“Your what?” He finally lifted his head, amber eyes dull and heavy with age and disinterest. “You’re not young anymore. The world doesn’t cater to women like you. You’re nothing like Camille.”
The name felt like claws raking my throat.
Camille—his brother’s widow. Elegant. Blonde. Draped in silk and expensive perfume. A woman who carried herself like she belonged in glossy magazines, not among working wolves. She looked at me like I was something tracked in on her shoes, and Thorne never once corrected her.
“She’s useful,” he went on calmly. “She travels for the pack. Makes appearances. Knows how to represent us. She fits the image. You, on the other hand—you’ve always worked best behind closed doors. Taking care of the house. That’s your role.”
Behind me, laughter erupted.
The twins—my grandsons—snickering like hyenas.
“Seriously, Grandma,” Ken mocked, “you look like a walking skeleton in funeral rags.”
“Smells worse too,” Nolan added, pinching his nose. “Like mop water and roadkill.”
They howled with laughter.
No one stopped them.
No one ever did.
Julian—my son, the boy I once loved more than my own life—leaned against the fridge, his scent sour with beer and resentment. “Hey, Ma. Wash my clothes later, yeah? My wife’s busy. And don’t screw up the whites this time.”
“I’m not your servant,” I said quietly.
His head snapped up, dominance flaring. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m not—”
A crushed soda can clattered at my feet. “Then what the hell are you good for? You don’t earn money. You don’t add status. You just take up space.”
My blood burned. My wolf stirred, weak but angry, shackled by years of suppression.
“I raised you,” I whispered fiercely. “I fed you. I stayed awake when your fever almost killed you. I worked before you even learned to walk.”
“Maybe you should’ve worked on not stinking,” one of the twins shot back.
“Yeah,” Nolan sneered, “people at school say you look like a rogue who crawled out of the woods. Ugly enough to curse a whole pack.”
Their laughter echoed, sharp and hollow.
Thorne didn’t even glance at me. He merely inspected his blade again, as if it mattered more than my existence. “We’re wealthy, Nyx. But I’m not wasting money on hired help when you’re already here. Two hands, two feet—what more do you need? Besides, I don’t like unnecessary omegas cluttering the packhouse.”
They called me the woman of the house.