Triplet Alphas' Prey

Amanda's POV

The kitchen knife slips from my raw, blistered hands, clattering against the stone floor. I've been peeling potatoes for what feels like eternity, my fingers cramped and bleeding. Sixty-seven down, twenty-three to go. The pack feast preparations wait for no one, especially not the disgraced daughter of a traitor.

"Dropping things again, Kingston?"

I don't need to look up to recognize Connor's voice, dripping with contempt. My shoulders tense instinctively as footsteps approach—not one pair, but several. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker.

"Sorry," I whisper, reaching for the fallen knife. A boot stomps on my fingers before I can grasp it. Pain shoots up my arm, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

"Sorry doesn't feed the pack, does it?" Ryan's face appears inches from mine, his breath hot and sour with alcohol. "Just like your father's sorry didn't bring back our Luna."

The mention of my father makes my chest tighten. Eight years, and the wound still feels fresh. Eight years of paying for his sins, of being the pack's punching bag, their living reminder of betrayal.

"I need to finish these," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Alpha's orders."

Mason laughs, a sound like breaking glass. "Hear that, boys? Alpha's orders. Like she's important."

"Let's help her finish faster," Tyler suggests, his smile cruel as he grabs a handful of peeled potatoes and tosses them onto the filthy floor. The others join in, scattering my hours of work across the ground, stomping them into mush.

I watch, silent and still. Experience has taught me that resistance only makes it worse. They want me to beg, to break. I won't give them the satisfaction.

"Look at her face," Connor snickers. "Dead inside, just like her should be."

Ryan grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Maybe we should help with that."

His other hand comes up, holding a small vial of clear liquid. My blood runs cold. Kitchen cleaner—caustic enough to burn skin on contact.

"No," I breathe, struggling now despite my better judgment. "Please—"

The commotion of the kitchen door slamming open interrupts whatever torture they had planned. The boys scatter like cockroaches exposed to light, leaving me trembling on the floor surrounded by ruined potatoes.

"What the hell happened here?"

The voice freezes my blood more effectively than any threat. Logan Pierce, future Alpha of the Crimson Pack, stands in the doorway, his training clothes damp with sweat, his eyes narrowed in disgust.

"I—I dropped them," I stammer, scrambling to collect the mess. "I'll prepare more immediately."

"Useless," he mutters, watching me grovel. "Just like your father."

The comparison stings worse than any physical blow. Once, Logan and I had been inseparable—two pups racing through the forest, sharing secrets and dreams. Now, he looks at me like I'm something foul he's found on the sole of his boot.

"The feast starts in two hours," he says coldly. "If the food isn't perfect, you'll spend the night in the pit instead of your cell."

The pit—a hole in the ground barely large enough to curl up in, where water seeps in when it rains and the temperature drops to freezing at night. I've been there before. The memory alone makes me shudder.

"It will be done," I promise, keeping my eyes down.

He moves closer, and I can smell him—pine and earth and power. My traitorous heart skips a beat despite everything. He crouches down, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Mamba," he whispers, using that hateful nickname. Snake. Cold-blooded. Venomous. "Look at me."

I raise my eyes reluctantly, meeting his gaze. For a split second, something flickers there—a ghost of the boy I once knew. Then it's gone, replaced by ice.

"You exist because I allow it," he says quietly. "Remember that."

His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist. With a quick twist, I feel something snap. Pain explodes up my arm as he releases me, standing smoothly.

"Clean this up," he orders, stepping over me as he leaves.

I cradle my broken wrist, breathing through the pain. It's not the first bone he's broken, and it won't be the last. I force myself to stand, to begin again. The feast waits for no one.

Hours later, after the kitchen is spotless and the feast served without my presence, I'm escorted to my "quarters"—a converted storage room in the basement of the pack house. The guard shoves me inside without a word, the lock clicking into place behind me.

The space is barely six feet square, with a thin pallet on the floor and a bucket in the corner. A single, barred window near the ceiling lets in just enough moonlight to see by. The walls are damp with condensation, and something skitters in the dark corners.

I sink onto the pallet, finally allowing myself to examine my wrist. It's swollen to twice its normal size, purple bruising spreading like ink in water. With my teeth and one hand, I tear a strip from my already ragged shirt, binding the injury as best I can.

Next comes the ritual I've performed countless times. I search the cracks in the wall until I find what I need—a sharp sliver of metal I pried from a broken pipe months ago. With practiced movements, I locate the festering wound on my calf—a bite from one of the many vermin that share my space. The infection has spread, angry red lines radiating outward.

I bite down on a scrap of cloth as I lance the wound, gagging as foul-smelling pus drains onto the floor. The relief is immediate but temporary. Without proper medicine, it will only return.

When I'm done, I curl onto my side, trying to find a position that doesn't aggravate my various injuries. The thin blanket does little against the chill that seeps through the stone floor.

My mind drifts to the stories Luna used to tell before she died—tales of fated mates and the sacred bond between wolves. How finding your mate was like finding the missing piece of your soul. I cling to these memories, to the hope that somewhere out there, someone is meant for me. Someone who won't see me as the daughter of a traitor but as Amanda, just Amanda.

Tomorrow is my eighteenth birthday. The age when most wolves experience their first transformation. If the goddess is merciful, my wolf will finally emerge, and with her, perhaps a chance at something better than this half-life of servitude.

Sleep comes in fitful bursts, dreams mixing with memories until I can't tell which is which. I see my father's face the day he was executed, Logan's tears at his mother's funeral, the pack's collective hatred turning toward me, the convenient scapegoat.

I wake with the first light of dawn, my body aching but my mind strangely clear. Something feels different. A warmth spreads through my veins, a tingling that starts in my core and radiates outward.

It's happening.

I close my eyes, focusing inward as I've been taught. The transformation isn't gentle. My bones crack and reshape, muscles tear and reform. I bite through my lip to keep from screaming as my body betrays me, changing into something new.

And then, like a whisper in a storm, I hear her.

"I'm Nova."

The voice resonates within me, strong and clear. Not my voice—similar, but wilder, more primal.

"I'm your wolf," she continues, and I feel a surge of emotion that isn't entirely mine—joy, relief, anticipation.

"I've waited so long for you," I think back, tears streaming down my face.

"We're stronger than they know," Nova responds, her presence warm and comforting in my mind. "And I can sense something..."

My heart races as I feel her attention shift, focusing outward beyond our cell.

"What is it?" I ask, though somehow I already know the answer.

Nova's reply sends a shiver of both fear and anticipation down my spine:

"Our mate is close. Very close."