Hazel's POV.
The sharp scent of spilled grape wine, acrid and sickly sweet, filled my nostrils. My hands, raw and aching, scrubbed frantically at the polished wooden floor, desperate to erase the dark, sticky stain Natasha had left behind.
Each frantic movement was broken by the mocking laughter of my stepsisters—a sound as familiar and painful as the gnawing hunger in my stomach. Tears, hot and heavy, blurred my vision, but I dared not stop, dared not falter.
Just as I thought I was done, a fresh splash of liquid hit the floor beside my knee. More wine.
My head snapped up, locking onto Natasha's smirking face. Her pale blue eyes, cold as cracked ice, gleamed with cruel delight. Beside her, Lilian and Sophia giggled, their slender bodies shaking with wicked amusement. They found this ritual of humiliation hilarious.
"Looks like you missed a spot, maid," Natasha purred, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "But don't worry, we have a better way to clean it this time."
My stomach churned with dread. I knew what was coming. I always knew.
"Use your face, Hazel," Sophia chimed in, her voice sickly-sweet. "It's already so ugly, what's a little wine?"
A small, choked sound escaped my throat—a hiss of defiance, or maybe pure despair. It was enough.
Natasha's hand lashed out, fast as lightning, and a stinging slap landed across my cheek. My head jerked to the side, the impact rattling my teeth. The sharp pain came instantly, but the humiliation cut deeper.
Natasha. Though I was the eldest, she was the favored one. The cruelty in her knew no bounds. She was her father's daughter, carrying his full werewolf blood—his firstborn daughter technically—but her existence was a constant reminder of my own insignificance.
I was treated like nothing, less than nothing. Trash, just because I was human. A genetic mistake in a house full of proud, powerful werewolves.
A raw, choked cry tore from my throat as Lilian and Sophia, with surprising strength, grabbed my arms. My struggles were useless. They dragged me toward the fresh spill, my feet scraping against the floorboards.
Natasha's face, twisted in triumph, loomed over me. Her hand pressed firmly to the back of my head, forcing my face down until my cheek hit the cold, wet floor.
The coppery taste of spilled wine filled my mouth, mixed with dust and grime. It tasted like despair. I felt the gritty floor beneath my skin as Natasha moved my head in small, cruel circles, using my face as a mop.
"That's what your ugly face deserves!" Natasha screamed, her voice echoing through the tall room.
"I feel sorry for the floor," Sophia added, her voice thick with mock pity. "Having to be kissed by someone like you."
Their laughter struck me like a blow.
When they finally let go, I scrambled away, breath ragged and shallow. My cheek throbbed, blood trickling from a small cut on my forehead. Strands of my long, brunette hair lay scattered on the shining floor, torn during their attack.
"Ew, look at her hair," Natasha sneered, wrinkling her nose in fake disgust. "It's such a mess. Let's chop it off."
Cold dread seized me. My hair was one of the few things I cared for—the only part untouched by their cruelty.
My eyes widened in terror as Natasha pulled out a pair of gleaming scissors, the silver blades shining ominously in the sunlight.
Before I could even think to run, Lilian and Sophia were on me again. Their cold hands gripped my arms, holding me tight.
"Sorry, sister," Lilian said sweetly, full of false concern, "but some things need a good trim."
"Don't come back human next life," Sophia added, her eyes sparkling with cruel amusement.
Their laughter filled the air—a sick symphony of cruelty tightening my chest.
Then, as if on cue, the door burst open. My father walked in.
For most kids, seeing their father would bring comfort, safety. For me, it was just another wave of terror.
Marcus Gilbert. My father. My damn father.
He looked at me not with concern, but raw irritation twisting his stern face. He scoffed, eyes narrowing at my battered state—the bleeding cut, the torn hair.
"Father," Natasha began, instantly sweet, all malice gone.
"What, darling?" His tone softened impossibly for her—a sharp contrast to the harshness reserved for me. "Why the noise?" His glance flicked at me, dismissive.
"Nothing, Dad," she purred, rolling her eyes. "We were having fun, and your maid daughter here doesn't like it." She waved the scissors like a silent threat.
Then his full gaze turned to me, disgust and contempt plain on his face.
Marcus Gilbert, former Beta of the powerful Blue Moon Pack. A strong, respected werewolf, father to four beautiful she-wolf daughters.
And then there was me. The irritating human daughter. A living reminder of his betrayal with a human before the pack settled in New Orleans—before humans were driven out.
Now, I was here. The weakest among them. Not even an Omega—because I wasn't a werewolf. Yet still, part of the pack because of his high rank.
"Can't you hear me?!" His voice thundered, making me flinch.
Blood dripped from my forehead. He said nothing. Offered no comfort. Just watched, expression unreadable.
"They… they wanted to cut my hair, fat—"
Before I could finish, another sharp slap landed, harder this time. My cheek burned; vision blurred.
"Don't call me that, you bastard," he snarled, eyes cold fury. "You should be grateful my daughters want to play with you—not scream like you're being tortured."
"Play?"
A clear voice, like a bell's chime, rang from the doorway. We all turned.
There was Ariel, youngest sister, her delicate face full of worry. Beautiful, even at her age, with eyes kind where others had none.
Of all my siblings, Ariel was the only one who treated me like family—as if I truly belonged.
She ran to me, arms wrapping around my waist in a desperate hug.
"Father, they wanted to cut her hair!" she cried, voice trembling with anger.
"And so what?" Sophia sneered, grinning. "Her hair looks terrible anyway. Natasha's haircut will actually suit her."
Her words sent a fresh shiver through me.
"No!" Ariel yelled, clutching me tighter.
My father, annoyed, pulled Ariel away. His grip firm but not harsh like with me.
Then he turned back to my other sisters, a cruel gleam in his eyes.
"Go on. Cut it off."