Chapter 92: Sleep On The Floor
Sabrina stared at the thin mattress spread across the wooden floor. For a long moment, she didn’t move. The color slowly drained from her face.
Her eyes swept over the worn blanket folded neatly at its edge before shifting to the bare wooden floor beneath it. No bed frame. No chest for her belongings. Nothing.
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. Slowly, she turned to Cynthia. Her lips parted, though for a moment, no words came out.
"This..." Her voice caught. She cleared her throat. "This is my bed?"
Cynthia met her gaze without the slightest change in expression. Before she could answer, laughter erupted behind them. The other girls had been watching from a short distance, and now several of them doubled over, covering their mouths as they laughed.
Sabrina’s eyes snapped toward them, heat rushing to her face. She looked back at Cynthia.
Cynthia merely tilted her head. "You don’t like it?" She asked it so casually that it almost sounded like a genuine question.
Sabrina stared at her in disbelief.
Cynthia nodded thoughtfully. "Alright." A pleasant smile spread across her face. "You can sleep on the floor instead."
Another round of laughter broke out, even louder this time. Sabrina’s jaw clenched. She could feel every pair of eyes on her.
"Drop your bag," Cynthia continued as though nothing had happened. "Then come with me. I’ll show you where you’ll be working."
"I cannot sleep here." The words burst out before Sabrina could stop them, her voice echoing through the hall. She pointed toward the mattress lying on the floor. "Do you know who I am?"
No one answered.
"Do you know who my father is?"
Again, silence.
"My father owns a ranch." She took a step forward, glaring at Cynthia. "How can you reduce me to—"
The girls burst into laughter once more. The sound rolled through the hall like a wave. Someone clapped; another wiped tears from her eyes.
Sabrina stopped speaking. The words died in her throat. She stared at them, bewildered. Had they all gone mad?
The laughter slowly faded. Cynthia waited until the room grew quiet again before speaking. She folded her arms across her chest.
"Take a look around you, Sabrina." Her voice remained calm. Patient. Almost kind.
Sabrina frowned but said nothing.
Cynthia gestured toward the rows of bunks lining the hall. "Does this look like your father’s house?"
Silence.
"No one cares who your father is here." She took a slow step closer. "No one cares where you came from." Her eyes held Sabrina’s steadily. "In this hall, you’re just another maid."
The words landed with quiet finality. Around them, the hall fell completely silent.
Sabrina tried to force her tears back. She blinked rapidly, lifting her chin as she drew in one shaky breath after another. She wouldn’t cry. Not in front of them.
But the sting behind her eyes only grew stronger. One tear escaped, rolling slowly down her cheek. She quickly brushed it away. Another followed, then another. Within seconds, she was crying silently, her shoulders trembling despite every effort to steady them.
Cynthia watched her for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh. "There’s no time to cry. Drop your bag and come with me at once." She turned toward the door.
Sabrina stood frozen for another moment before bending down. She carefully placed her bag beside the thin mattress. Swallowing hard, she wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand and walked after Cynthia.
Behind them, the girls watched in silence. A few shook their heads.
"She won’t last a week," one whispered.
Another nodded in agreement. Their voices faded as the two women disappeared into the corridor.
Cynthia walked at an unhurried pace, humming softly to herself as they made their way through the wide stone hallways. Sabrina followed several steps behind. Her eyes remained lowered, though they wandered every now and then, taking in her surroundings.
The Pack House was far larger than she had imagined. Servants moved in and out of adjoining corridors carrying baskets, trays, and folded linens. Guards stood at intersections with spears in hand, bowing respectfully whenever someone of higher status passed.
"The Pack House is divided into three wings," Cynthia began without looking back. "The East Wing, the West Wing, and the North Wing." She gestured around them. "We’re in the West Wing. This is where the family’s living quarters are."
Sabrina listened quietly.
"You’ll be assigned to the laundry," Cynthia continued walking. "The bedsheets throughout this wing are changed every two days." She glanced over her shoulder. "Your job will be to collect the used sheets, wash them, dry them, and return them to the storeroom."
Sabrina simply nodded.
"Every room follows that schedule," Cynthia paused briefly before adding, "except the Alpha’s."
Sabrina’s eyes lifted at her words, her interest piquing.
They continued down another corridor. Cynthia slowed as they passed an elegant set of carved doors where two guards stood silently outside.
"These rooms belong to the Alpha’s stepmother, Lady Charlotte, and down the hall are the Alpha’s brothers’ chambers." She nodded toward the doors. "You’ll collect their sheets every day at noon. Don’t go in during the morning." She lowered her voice. "Lady Charlotte is usually in a terrible mood before midday."
Without waiting for a response, she continued onward.
They climbed a broad staircase lined with polished stone pillars. At the landing stood another pair of guards, and behind them rested an even grander entrance.
"This is the Matriarch’s residence." Cynthia lowered her voice slightly. "Her personal attendants will bring her linens to you. You are not allowed to enter her quarters."
Sabrina glanced toward the towering doors before quietly following again.
The higher they climbed, the quieter the corridors became. There were fewer servants here. Fewer voices. Only the distant crackle of fireplaces and the soft footsteps echoing across polished floors.
Cynthia rounded one final corner before coming to a stop. Sabrina slowed beside her.
In front of them stood an enormous pair of double doors crafted from dark wood, intricate silver carvings winding across their surface. Thick crimson carpets stretched from the entrance all the way down the hallway, untouched by dust. Two elite guards stood motionless outside. Neither looked at them; neither needed to. Their very presence warned everyone else to keep their distance.
Cynthia folded her hands behind her back. "Past these are the Alpha’s quarters."
Sabrina’s eyes lifted at her words, widening when she saw the exquisite design of the Alpha’s quarters.
Cynthia pointed farther down the corridor. "The Luna’s chambers are at the end of the hall." A small smile tugged at her lips. "Though the Luna has been staying with the Alpha since her marriage."
Sabrina’s face paled. "The Luna and the Alpha sleep together?" she asked, her voice breaking at the edges.
Cynthia turned to her with a frown. "Yes, they do," she said. "The Luna’s sheets are still your responsibility; you are still required to collect and wash them every two days." She then looked toward the heavily guarded entrance. "But the Alpha’s quarters..." Her expression turned serious. "You don’t go near them. The Alpha’s personal servants take care of everything inside."
Sabrina barely heard the rest. Her gaze never left the doors—the polished silver handles, the expensive carvings, the guards standing watch. The silence surrounding the entrance made it seem as though it belonged to another world entirely.
Then, unbidden, another image surfaced in her mind: a thin mattress spread across a cold wooden floor. No bedframe. No blanket chest.
Her fingers slowly curled into her palms. This... this was where Nina lived, as the Alpha’s wife. While she was subjected to sleeping on the bare floor.
A bitter ache twisted inside her chest. This should have been her life. She should have been the one walking through those doors. She should have been the woman sleeping beside the Alpha. Not Nina.
A raging anger burned through her as she gritted her teeth, her chest rising and falling. She was the legitimate daughter.
She deserved to be the Alpha’s bride.
Not that wretch.