"...who allowed this filth into my kitchen?"
Rhea blinked, then tilted her head down at the apron-clad woman blocking her path. The cook barely reached her shoulder. Not this again, she thought, exasperation settling across her face. Her lips twisted into a frown as her stomach growled loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear. Was it really this hard to get food around here?
She huffed, puffing her cheeks like a sulking child before speaking. "Look, I’m starving. I just really need to eat sothing, anything. Please." Her voice softened on that last word as she clasped her hands together in a dramatic prayer motion, pouting as if begging the heavens themselves.
The cook’s jaw slackened. Slowly, she turned her head, scanning the room as if silently asking the other kitchen workers if they were witnessing this madness.
Rhea followed her gaze then, and only then, realized every single person had stopped moving. Eyes locked on her, so wide, so narrowed, so gleaming with open hostility. She stiffened. Geez. They really hated her that much?
The cook’s expression hardened again. "Get. Out. Of. My. Kitchen," she barked, her voice low and full of threat. "Before I make you."
Rhea’s brows shot up. "What is your problem, shorty?" she muttered under her breath, dropping her clasped hands and planting them on her hips. Hunger twisted in her gut, sharp and rciless, and her voice grew louder. "I’m not leaving until I get food. You’ve got pots boiling, trays stacked high, shelves full. Why can’t you just give a bit, huh? Clearly you’ve got more than enough to spare."
The cook’s eyes bulged. A gasp cut through the room, followed by a stunned whisper from one of the younger ogas at the counter. "What did she just call her?"
Another voice, strangled, half-ford, tried to speak but faltered. "She... she just... shorty? Has she gone insane or what?"
That broke the dam.
The cook slamd her palm against the counter, flour bursting up like smoke. Her face reddened to the ears, eyes blazing, lips curling back as she spat out her fury.
"You insolent little brat. You filthy Oga!" she roared, the word ripped out of her throat like venom.
Her gaze cut into Rhea with nothing but disgust — eyes narrowing, chin lifting as though even breathing the sa air as her was a contamination. Her nose wrinkled, her whole body leaning forward as though she wanted to throw Rhea out herself.
"I said out of my kitchen," she snapped, voice sharp as glass. "Unless you want to see exactly what I can do to a wolfless, filthy Oga like you."
Rhea squinted, then lazily picked at her ear, as if the woman’s screech were nothing more than a fly buzzing around. She flicked her finger and blew across it lightly, as though sending the screech right back at the cook.
"See, I don’t know what your problem is," she said, her tone deceptively mild, but cutting clean, "but if anyone here’s a filthy Oga... that would be you."
The cook gasped, chest heaving, fists clenching on her apron.
But before she could spit back, Rhea leaned forward, eyes sweeping the room. "Aren’t you all Ogas?" she asked, her brows lifting as though the question was the most obvious thing in the world.
The room froze.
The kitchen hands glanced at one another, confusion and outrage tangling in their expressions. What’s she on about? their faces all but scread. Everyone knew the truth, Ogas were the bottom rung, the ones born to serve. That wasn’t up for debate. Not in Grimhowl Pack, where tradition, law, and instinct all bound together like chains.
Here, Ogas scrubbed every filthy corner of the pack house. They cooked als no one thanked them for, washed clothes until their knuckles bled, patched bedding for higher wolves to tear apart again. They raised the children they didn’t bear, wiped noses, taught manners, and kept them fed. Most of them were healers too, stitching flesh, grinding herbs, and fixing wounds.
It was what it was. Unspoken, undeniable. Everyone accepted it.
Even Nikki, technically an Oga, was excused from these chores. Her father’s influence sheltered her, fueled by the shared belief that she will beco the Alpha’s chosen mate one day.
But when they spoke the word at Rhea — Oga, they spat it like rot in their mouths. To them, she wasn’t simply at the bottom of the chain. She was lower still: wolfless, daughter of a traitor. Less than nothing.
Rhea’s smile sharpened. "Yet here you are," she said smoothly, her voice cutting through the silence. "All proud of your rank, all puffed up. But let tell you mind, we are all the sa rank."
The cook’s face twisted, and the kitchen hands stared at her as if she’d sprouted horns. The absurdity of it was almost insulting, Rhea, a wolfless Oga, daring to put herself on their level? Their eyes all but scread it: she’s out of her mind.
"And if anyone here is truly a filthy Oga, it isn’t ," Rhea continued, her voice steady.
Her gaze swept them one by one, deliberate, pinning each in place. "It would be you. Rotten on the inside, hiding behind scraps of tradition just to make yourselves feel worth sothing."
She exhaled slowly, like she’d just rid herself of sothing foul, before tipping her chin toward the counter, casual as though she hadn’t just thrown a dagger into the room.
"Now" Rhea said, her tone almost playful, "one of you should give sothing to eat."
A smirk curved her lips. "Unless you’d rather I get it myself... I wouldn’t mind though."
The crack of the blow ca faster than Rhea could brace. The cook had snatched up a wooden ladle, heavy with oil stains, and struck her across the side of her head.
Gasps ripped through the kitchen. A pot lid clattered to the floor as one of the younger hands dropped it in shock. For a heartbeat the room froze, then a ripple of uneasy laughter and smirks spread like fire. So looked downright pleased, lips curling as though justice had been served, before they turned back to chopping, stirring, and scrubbing.
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