The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the pack's grand dining hall, casting long shadows across the polished floors. Abigail stood quietly at the edge of the room, balancing a tray of dishes in her hands. Her head was bowed, her posture small, as though she hoped the earth would swallow her before anyone noticed her presence.
Laughter drifted from the long table where some of the younger pack members were seated. Steve's cousin, Lydia, leaned back in her chair with a smirk tugging at her lips. She tapped her spoon against the glass to draw attention.
"Look, the little omega is serving again," Lydia announced, her voice sweetly cruel. "Careful, Abigail, don't trip this time. The last thing we need is soup on the Alpha's rug."
A ripple of laughter followed, the kind that stung because it carried no warmth. Abigail kept her gaze fixed on the tray, pretending their words didn't pierce her. But her fingers tightened around the edges until her knuckles whitened.
One of the warriors, Marcus, added mockingly, "Maybe she enjoys crawling on her knees. Isn't that what omegas are good at?"
The laughter grew louder. Abigail's chest burned, but she forced her feet to move forward, one careful step after another, until she reached the table. She placed the dishes down without a word, silently wishing she could vanish.
Lydia leaned forward, her sharp eyes glittering. "Tell me, Abigail, do you ever get tired of being so… low? I mean, don't you dream of being more than just a servant?"
Abigail finally lifted her gaze, just for a second. "Dreams are for people who can afford them," she said softly, but her voice trembled.
The table erupted again, this time at her courage or what they interpreted as foolishness. "Hear that?" Marcus sneered. "The omega thinks she's wise now."
Another voice chimed in, this time from Clara, who had been watching with folded arms. "Don't waste your pity on her. People like Abigail should know their place. If she's mocked, it's because she deserves it."
Abigail's heart sank. Clara's words carried more weight than the others, for she was the Alpha's daughter, her opinions often echoing her mother's disdain.
Suddenly, Lydia stood and circled Abigail like a predator toying with its prey. She reached out and tugged at the plain apron tied around Abigail's waist. "Why do you even stay here? You're like a stain that won't wash out. Do you really think anyone would ever want an omega like you?"
The cruel question silenced the room for a heartbeat. All eyes turned to Abigail, waiting for her reaction, eager to see her crack.
Her throat tightened. The answer she wanted to give burned on her tongue that they knew nothing of her worth, that she was more than their insults but fear held her back. She lowered her gaze again, swallowing hard.
Lydia's laughter rang out. "Exactly. Nothing to say. Just a pathetic little mouse."
Abigail stepped back, her hands trembling, but before she could retreat fully, a voice cut through the room.
"That's enough."
The command was sharp, authoritative. Everyone turned to see Adrian standing in the doorway, his expression cold as steel. His eyes, however, flickered briefly toward Abigail before hardening again.
The pack members shifted uncomfortably in their seats. No one wanted to be caught misbehaving in front of the Alpha's son. Lydia plastered on a smile. "We were only joking, Adrian. Omegas know we don't mean anything by it."
Adrian's gaze narrowed. "Mocking someone isn't a joke. If you've got so much time for foolishness, maybe I should assign you double training drills."
Lydia's face paled, and she quickly sat back down. The others followed suit, the laughter dying instantly.
Abigail's chest heaved as relief and shame warred within her. She didn't want Adrian or anyone to see her like this, small and broken. But he already had. His eyes softened for the briefest second before his mask of indifference slipped back into place.
"Get back to work," he ordered the room, then turned and strode out.
The hall buzzed quietly again, though the edge of cruelty still lingered. Abigail hurried to gather the empty dishes, her hands steadying as she focused on the simple task. She wanted to thank Adrian, but she knew better. Gratitude could be twisted into weakness here, and she'd already been humiliated enough for one morning.
When she finally escaped to the kitchen, she let out a shaky breath and pressed her back against the wall. Her chest ached from holding everything in. The words, the jeers, the laughter they echoed in her head like a cruel chorus.
Yet a small part of her clung to the moment when Adrian had spoken. He hadn't needed to intervene. He could have ignored it like the others. But he hadn't.
And though Abigail would never admit it aloud, that tiny flicker of defense was enough to keep her standing a little straighter, even when the world tried to crush her down.