CHAPTER 19: FILTH IN THE KITCHEN

Steam still clung faintly to her skin as Rhea stepped out of the small adjoining washroom, water dripping from the ends of her dark hair. The oversized red T-shirt she had pulled from the Beta’s wardrobe hung heavy against her frame, the howling wolf graphic stretched across her chest like a badge of rebellion. The baggy jeans sagged low on her hips, cinched in place with a tie she had knotted hastily around the waist. Both pieces of clothing smelled faintly of cedar and musk, undeniably his, and yet she wore them without shame.

She couldn’t bring herself to crawl back into the thin, frayed rags the Omega had worn. Not again. Her pride recoiled at the thought. So she had rummaged through the Beta’s closet, pulling whatever she could find.

As she tugged her damp hair into a rough ponytail, she caught her own reflection in the mirror propped against the wall. "Sorry, Ellie," she muttered under her breath, her tone caught between guilt and stubborn resolve. "But there’s no way I’m letting anyone see me in rags. Oversized is better than pitiful."

The elastic snapped against her wrist as she tightened the ponytail, and she released a long, pent-up exhale. Her gaze lifted back to the glass, and for a moment she simply stared. The girl staring back wasn’t polished, not put together, but beautiful all the same. Damp strands clung to her cheeks, her skin was flushed from the heat, and her eyes, tired, wary — still held that small, stubborn spark.

"You’re a beauty, aren’t you?" she mused, lips curving in a smirk. "All I need is enough food to fill this body, and then I’ll be turning heads and breaking hearts."

The words drew a chuckle from her. She squared her shoulders, letting the fabric hang loose but proud, and tilted her head with mock solemnity. "Okay then. Pack kitchen, here I come. No better place for a quick meal than the source. And three apples? That didn’t even scratch the surface. This body needs food. Real food. And liquids. Lots of it."

She glanced at the line of shoes near the corner. The Beta’s boots loomed like hulking giants, far too big, far too heavy. Tempting, but impractical. Her eyes flicked to the Omega’s worn footwear instead. The leather was cracked, the soles thinning, but they fit her well enough to move. With a faint grimace, she slipped them on, wiggling her toes against the rough insides.

Better this than stumbling around in shoes that could swallow her whole.

Her hand pressed against the wooden door. The handle was cool beneath her palm, and for a moment she paused, drawing in a steadying breath. Then she pulled it open, the hinges creaking faintly, and stepped through. The door clicked shut behind her.

The corridor stretched ahead as Rhea stepped out, the soles of her worn foot wears slapping softly against the polished floor. The pack house was enormous, its scale overwhelming. Hallways bled into one another, doors lined up in perfect uniformity. She slowed once, turning her head from one passage to the next, and huffed.

"This place is like three mansions stitched together," she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes. "A maze with furniture."

If not for the faint imprint of the Omega’s memories lingering in her mind, she would have been hopelessly lost. Every turn looked the same, every polished banister gleamed under the same muted light. She tightened her ponytail, squared her shoulders, and pressed on.

The further she walked, the more eyes turned to her. A pack member passing by froze mid-step, gaze flicking over her oversized clothes with confusion before darting away. Two young boys near the stairwell whispered openly, their expressions sharp with disapproval. Another woman carrying a tray shot her a sharp glare.

Rhea’s lips curved in mischief. "What’s their problem?" she murmured, her voice low but tinged with amusement.

The urge to stir trouble rose hot and tempting in her chest. So when a burly man passed, eyes narrowed and full of attitude, she lifted her brow high, arching it in silent challenge. His scowl deepened, jaw clenched, but he stomped past without a word.

She snorted.

Next came a pair of young male Omegas whispering into their hands. Rhea didn’t know how she knew they were Omegas — probably a residual memory from the Omega, she figured. She leaned their way and, with exaggerated sweetness, puckered her lips and blew them a slow, deliberate kiss.

One gasped, his cheeks flaring red as he slapped a hand over his mouth. The other stared like she had sprouted horns. Both stumbled a step back, eyes darting around to check if anyone else had witnessed it.

Rhea threw her head back and laughed, the sound bright and reckless. "Oh, this is so much fun," she said, breathless between chuckles.

She turned a corner and finally spotted a wide archway. The moment she stepped through, a wave of scent rushed over her, steam, spice, and meat, heaven in its richest form. Her stomach growled loud enough to drown her footsteps, and her lips parted as her mouth watered.

"Ohhh, jackpot," she whispered, eyes glued to the source.

She rushed straight in, barely noticing the startled looks around her, until a figure stepped into her way. An older woman in a flour-streaked apron blocked her path, her glare sharp as a blade. "What the hell do you think you’re doing here?" she demanded.

Rhea didn’t even spare her a glance. Her eyes slid past the woman’s head and locked on the pot simmering over the fire, steam curling upward in thick ribbons. The hunger in her belly clawed at her insides, demanding relief.

Around the kitchen, everything froze. Knives paused over half-sliced vegetables, spoons hovered above bowls, voices died on tongues. Every gaze landed on her, shock rippling through the room. Everyone knew she wasn’t allowed in here.

The woman’s voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp. "Who allowed this filth into my kitchen?"