Free Web NovelChapter 12: Unpaid Labour
Lorali
I’m waterboarded awake by a sudden splash of liquid and what I pray is just water, though the stench makes me gag and burn my throat. My lungs seize, and I cough violently, choking as I wipe at my face with trembling hands, trying to dry myself. The cold clings to my skin, seeping into my bones, and the sour smell makes me want to retch.
"Get up, Omega."
The stern voice rings out above me, sharp enough to slice through my exhaustion. Squinting through the blur, I look up. Standing over me is an Omega, older than me, older even than most I’ve seen, her presence carries the weight of authority. She looks to be around Headmistress Cleovera’s age, her posture rigid, her tone unforgiving.
"I said GET UP."
Her voice cracks like a whip, and I scramble to my feet, daring not to offend her further. My heart pounds, my chest tight. Could this be Pack Spade’s Omega? But the file said their Omega was a boy. Confusion gnaws at me, twisting my stomach.
Before I can think further, the woman grips my wet wrist between two fingers, as though touching me is distasteful, and drags me inside. Her nails dig into my skin, and I bite back a wince, my body stumbling after hers.
The moment I cross the threshold, I’m blinded by light pouring in from the sitting room. A massive glass window overlooks the city, the morning sun blazing above it. The skyline stretches endlessly, glittering with steel and glass. My stomach twists, I must have slept the entire night outside, curled up like a stray, shivering against the cold. What a way to spend my first night here.
"Stop gawking, Omega," she snaps.
Her red hair is pinned up tightly, her emerald‑green nightgown flowing around her like water. I lower my head, ashamed. Alma taught us never to bow, never to shrink ourselves, but here I am, staring at my feet with my pride crumbling. I still don’t know who she is or where she’s taking me. I can only hope it’s to a room where I can rest and where I can finally build my nest.
We enter a sleek, modern kitchen that overlooks the sitting room. A large island gleams beneath the lights, surrounded by state‑of‑the‑art appliances. Even a grinder sits on the counter. Alma could never give us such luxuries though they could afford hundreds; they insisted we ground everything by hand, hours of labor for the simplest meal.
"What are we doing here?" The words slip out before I can stop myself.
Her eyes flash with irritation, either because I dared to speak or because my question offended her. I’m too tired to care.
"You are going to prepare breakfast," she says, releasing my wrist and scrubbing her hands at the sink.
"Why?" My voice cracks. Omegas don’t cook on their first day. Usually, the pack cooks for them, welcoming them with warmth.
"Because it is your job."
She circles the island, plucks a book from the counter, and sits on a stool. Feeling my glare, she looks up, her expression sharp. "If you don’t want to cook, you can leave."
Leave. The word tempts me. But I can’t. My fated mates are here. There is no place else for me to be.
"No, I’ll cook," I say, forcing a tight smile.
Her lips curl into a triumphant smirk. "Good. When you’re done preparing breakfast, you’ll clean the house spotless, all before the pack wakes. Chop chop." She claps her hands, mocking cheer in her tone.
I nod stiffly, my smile cardboard, my body rigid. This woman reminds me of the witch back at the orphanage. I can already tell. I will hate her.
I pull carrots and cucumbers from the fridge, setting them on the counter. Searching for the chopping block, I find it tucked beneath the drawer where the spoons are kept. My hands move instinctively. Everything is arranged exactly as Alma taught us, exactly like Alma’s kitchens where I spent countless hours. Whoever packed this kitchen must have gone to Alma. The thought sparks a flicker of hope. Maybe there’s a sister here, someone who understands.
I work quickly, preparing breakfast. It takes me an hour instead of thirty minutes because the witch hovers, criticizing every detail.
"Cut the crust off the bread before toasting. The Omega of the house isn’t fond of crust."
"This egg is over‑boiled. The Omega of the house likes it runny. Redo it."
"Redo the salad. It’s too... salady."
Her voice drills into me, relentless. I contemplate cutting her tongue out more than once.
"Walk faster, Omega," she orders, practically speed‑walking ahead of me.
I roll my eyes, picking at my fingers. My skin stings, I chipped myself several times while chopping, too tired to keep steady.
"Here we are."
She opens a door to reveal a sleek, modern bathroom. A shower and bathtub face each other, gleaming beneath the lights.
"This is the guest bathroom. It is the only bathroom you will use. Do not touch another." She gestures toward a pile of neatly folded clothes on the counter. "Wear those when you’re done."
"Oh, okay. But where is my st—"
She cuts me off with a raised hand, turns, and walks out without another word.
"Okayyy. That was weird," I mutter, staring at the door in disbelief. The audacity of this woman. Who does she think she is?
I close the door carefully, locking it. I can’t take any chances in this house, not with the witch lurking.
I change out of my wet clothes, folding them neatly and placing them on the counter beside the maid’s uniform the witch ordered me to wear.
Atop the uniform sits a dissenting bar of soap, shower gel, hair wash, and lotion, items clearly meant for me. For a moment, my chest warms. These are the first things I’ve been given since arriving here. Even if they’re meant to strip me of my scent, they feel like a small gesture of acknowledgment, a reminder that I exist.
I carry the shower gel and hair wash with me into the spacious bathroom. The shower stall gleams, its glass walls spotless, the tiles cold beneath my feet. I twist the tap, letting the water run until it grows hotter, cascading down my skin in heavy streams. The warmth spreads through me, chasing away the chill of the night I spent outside.
I squeeze the gel onto the rag, scrubbing every inch of my body until the sharp scent of the dissenting soap clings to me. I cannot afford to smell of anything. I know the witch would unleash her fury if I carried even the faintest trace of my natural scent. And it’s not like I need it, my fated mates should recognize me without it. Or so I tell myself.
I pour the hair wash into my palms, working it through my short hair, rubbing until the suds cover every strand. The water rinses it away, leaving my scalp tingling.
The shower takes me nearly thirty minutes, not because I linger, but because I also wash my previous clothes by hand, scrubbing them until my knuckles ache. When I finally dress, I look pale, my skin tinted silver from the lotion.
The uniform clings awkwardly to me, a black and white maid’s dress that falls just below my ankles, paired with long white socks and pumps that are slightly too big. I stare at myself in the mirror, the image foreign. I look like a servant, not an Omega meant to be cherished.
A knock, no, a loud, startling pound, shakes the door.
"Get out of there this instant. You have work to do."
"Unpaid labor, you mean," I mutter under my breath, unlocking the door. freёweɓnovel.com
The moment my eyes meet hers, she seizes me by two fingers again, dragging me wherever she pleases. I’m growing used to it, her constant tugging and control over my movements.
We walk down a long hallway, the walls lined with framed art and polished floors that gleam beneath the lights. She stops at an open door. Inside, I see washing machines, dryers, baskets piled high with clothes, and cupboards stacked with supplies.
"This is the laundry room. Here you’ll find all the cleaning supplies you’ll need. You’ll also wash the laundry, by hand. Don’t even think of using the washing machine."
They have a washing machine here, yet I’m forbidden to touch it.
"Of course, mama," I say, forcing a gentle smile that feels like cardboard.
"There are rules you must follow," she continues, her voice sharp. "One: do not speak unless spoken to. Two: you will only eat once the pack is finished, and your food will be whatever remains. Three: you will cook every day in the morning, afternoon, and night. Four: you will always cover your scent. We wouldn’t want any mishaps. Five: keep your head down in the presence of the pack. Six: the house must be deep‑cleaned at least once a week, and laundry washed Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Tuesday and Thursday you will iron. Normal cleaning is required every day. Seven: you will only be allowed to rest an hour after the pack has gone to sleep, and you will rest in the shed outside."
"Shed?" The word bursts out of me, my face twisting in disbelief.
"Be grateful it isn’t the balcony with nothing but a tent, where I wanted you to sleep. Walter was too kind to insist you have something better."
Walter. The pack’s Omega. His name makes me uneasy, a strange flutter in my chest.
"Now get to work, Omega," she sneers, brushing past me.
I roll my eyes, huffing as I step into the supply room. I’m exhausted. Since arriving, I’ve done nothing but work. At least the cold shower helped a little. I set my phone, still dead from the witch’s splash, on the shelf near the detergents. I’ll try to fix it later, or maybe get a new one. For now, cleaning is all I can do.
I gather a broom, mop, buckets, and vacuum, balancing them awkwardly in my arms to avoid returning multiple times.
"Just hold on a little longer, Lorali," I whisper to myself. "All this will be over when you meet your fated."
I smile faintly, forcing hope into my chest as I gaze at the massive penthouse I’m expected to clean alone. For once, I’m grateful for all those Sundays at Alma when they woke us early to scrub floors and polish halls. But I’m also furious. Alma told us back then that we were learning to clean for ourselves, not for our packs. They promised our packs would never make us lift a finger.
Now I know that was a lie. And I pray it was the only lie Alma ever told us.
