Maisie’s POV
The scrub brush had already worn my palms raw by mid-morning.
I knelt in the long corridor outside the pack dining hall, shoulders burning, knees screaming against the unforgiving marble. Bucket water sloshed brown and filthy beside me—evidence of how many floors I’d already crawled across today. The scent of lemon cleaner mixed with old blood and pine disinfectant stung my nose, but I barely noticed anymore. Pain had become background noise.
“Faster, rat,” one of the kitchen Omegas sneered as she stepped over my outstretched arm like I was a puddle she didn’t want to touch. “Some of us actually have real work to do.”
I didn’t answer. Answering only invited more.
She kicked the bucket anyway.
Dirty water splashed across my shins and soaked the hem of the threadbare serva
