As the bruises and injuries weren’t enough, dried dirt clung to my skin from my night in the pigsty—the filth of it making my stomach churn. I slled like sweat, tears, and sothing unpleasantly sour.
I let out a bitter laugh, though there was nothing funny about it.
I was disgusting.
I reached up, touching my tangled hair. It was stiff with dried sweat and god knows what else. My entire body itched.
I needed to clean up.
I forced myself to stand, wobbling slightly as I made my way to the adjoining bathroom. The sight of the tub, gleaming and white, made sothing in my chest ache.
Juana had been the one to run my baths. She would always hum under her breath as she worked, scolding playfully when I was too rough with my injuries.
She was the one who cleaned up yesterday. She dressed my wounds, we talked—about Camilla, about Axel... about my childish crush.
It was Juana motivating to pursue my feelings. Without her, my confidence was as good as gone.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned on the water myself, watching as steam began to rise from the tub.
I stripped down, wincing as I peeled my ruined dress off my battered body. Each bruise, each scrape, each lingering ache made evident how much I had endured.
And yet, I was still here.
If anyone who truly cared saw them, they’d weep for . Or weep with .
I stepped into the warm water with a shaky sigh escaping as the heat soothed my sore muscles. I let myself sink in, the warmth wrapping around .
For a mont, I just sat there, staring at the water as it turned slightly murky from the gri on my skin.
Juana would have scrubbed my back, tutted at my bruises, and told to be more careful.
Juana would have made this feel less lonely.
Tears pricked my eyes again. I squeezed them shut and took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus.
I grabbed the soap and began scrubbing, rough and unrelenting, as if I could wash away more than just dirt. As if I could scrub away the humiliation, the pain, the weight of being unwanted.
I cleaned my wounds as best as I could, biting my lip to keep from wincing when the sting beca too much.
When I was done, I drained the water and wrapped myself in a towel, stepping out onto the cool tiles.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror again.
Freshly cleaned, but still just as bruised, just as exhausted, just as damaged.
A wave of nostalgia hit so hard that I nearly staggered.
I wished my mother were here. I wished she could hold , tell it would all be okay, stroke my hair like she used to when I was small.
But she wasn’t here. She never would be again.
And now, neither was Juana.
I clenched my jaw, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill again.
I couldn’t afford to cry anymore. I had one month before my father destroyed my life. One month before he married off to a rogue.
One month to figure out what the hell I was going to do. What if I found a man before that? What if I settled for less as long as it wasn’t as less as settling for an old and ugly rogue?
Rogue wolves were barbaric. They were nearly feral, and violent, they were murders. And my father would marry his own daughter off to one?
Was I really that unworthy?
I would survive this. I would find a man willing enough to take in.
I had to.
But what werewolf in the pack would want a ss like ?
A pathetic, aching, sleep-deprived ss wrapped in a towel and barely holding myself together. But as I sat on the edge of my bed, still staring at my reflection in the mirror, another horrifying realization hit .
The butchery.
Bells rang in my ears. Oh, Dios mío.
I was supposed to be at the butchery this morning.
I had promised the butcher—sworn—that I would be there every morning, working off my debt. And then there was my father’s warning, his very specific, very threatening warning, about leaving the villa without his permission.
If he found out that I snuck out, I’d be in a lot of trouble. But then again, if he found out what happened with the money or my deal with the butcher, it’d be even way worst chaotic.
My hands gripped the towel tighter. If he found out.
I let out a breath through my teeth and rubbed my temples. My body still ached, my wrists were sore, and I was exhausted from crying my soul out. But if I didn’t show up, if I broke my word to the butcher, I’d be in even more trouble than I already was.
I needed to sneak out.
I shot up from the bed, forcing my limbs to move before I talked myself out of it. I could not afford to hesitate.
I darted to my wardrobe and flung the doors open. Most of my dresses were... too ’Oga-like’. Or too noticeable.
I needed sothing—anything—that would help blend in.
And then I saw it.
A hideous brown dress. At tis like this, I should be grateful to Dad for making my wardrobe hideous.
I yanked it on, barely flinching when the fabric brushed against my bruises. The dress was slightly too big, and I looked like an old woman’s disowned stepchild, but it would do.
Shoes. Shoes, shoes, shoes.
I grabbed a pair of worn-out flats that I had hidden in the back of my bed fra—one of the few things I still owned from when I was younger and actually allowed to run around outside.
I pulled my hair into a loose braid. No fancy styles, no ribbons, nothing that made look like the "privileged daughter of Don Diego."
Not that I looked anything like that these days anyway.
I checked the mirror.
I looked depressed.
But that was the goal.
Now, how do I, the daughter who has never snuck out and had been obedient her whole life successfully do this?
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