Lorali

I hate this. I hate this with all my heart. The only reason I haven’t gotten up, taken this bucket of dirty washing water, and splashed it in the witch’s smug face is because the clothes smell far too good. They smell like belonging, like home, like the faint traces of my fated mates. That scent is the only thing keeping me sane, the only anchor stopping me from snapping.

I lift a white shirt from the bucket, dripping and heavy, and press it to my nose. I don’t even know who it belongs to, but the scent hits me like a drug, flooding my veins, making me dizzy. It’s intoxicating, like catnip. For a moment, I calm down, my chest loosening, before I force myself back to the endless scrubbing.

I squat near the oversized bucket, sleeves rolled up, my arms aching as I scrub and scrub, trying to erase the stubborn stain from a white polo neck. "Which idiot stains white clothes?" I mutter, sweat dripping down my forehead as I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

This feels like my first great war, and I am losing. Lorali: zero. Stain: one.

Thirty minutes pass, my knuckles raw, before I admit defeat. This stain is wasting my time. I pull the shirt from the water, wring it out, and toss it into the dryer. I’ll throw it away later. With this many clothes, no one will notice one missing.

The rest of the laundry goes by faster. I finish, my hands cold and wrinkled from the water, the sharp scent of washing powder clinging to my skin. I sigh, staring at my hands. I’m exhausted, but my day is nowhere near done. Dinner still waits. I shouldn’t complain, it could be worse. I was supposed to prepare lunch, but the witch told me not to, saying the pack would eat out. At first, I thought she was sparing me extra work. Then I realized the cruelty in her words. She was reminding me, indirectly, that the pack is out enjoying themselves, too busy to meet me, too uninterested to care.

Maybe I should just go back to Alma. Nothing is worth this much stress.

"No!" I shout, slapping my cheeks hard enough to sting. "I will not give up. I know that witch is trying to break me, to send me crawling back to Alma. I will not let her win."

I clench my fists, determination burning in my chest. My eyes fall on the heavy bucket of soapy water. "Now I should probably get rid of that," I mutter, swallowing hard.

~........~

I wobble down the hallway, vision blocked by the heavy bucket I’m holding high, water sloshing violently inside like a storm trapped in a cage. My arms ache and my shoulders scream, but I keep going, stubborn as ever. I should have dragged it, I know, but dragging would have ruined the floor I spent all morning cleaning. And gods forbid the witch finds one streak or scuff. Now, I realize I’ll be re‑cleaning anyway. Water splashes over the rim, puddles forming beneath me, mocking me with every step.

"Gosh," I exclaim, spilling another puddle of water. It feels like I’m carrying the restless sea in my hands, waves crashing against the sides, threatening to drown me in my own stupidity.

"Oh, what’s that smell?" I mumble, distracted, nose twitching as if I can sniff out salvation. In seconds, my footing vanishes. My heel skids, the bucket tilts, and water cascades forward in a tidal wave. I crash down behind it, graceless, the bucket landing squarely on someone’s face.

Silence.

I freeze, sprawled across a body, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape my chest. The man beneath me doesn’t move. Panic claws at me. Did I just kill him? Did I waterboard a stranger to death with dirty laundry water?

"Oh, I’m so sorry... I... I didn’t see you," I stammer, voice trembling, words tumbling out like broken glass. I yank the bucket off his face and toss it aside, my hands shaking.

Crystal blue eyes stare back at me. Eyes I know. Eyes that pierce straight into mine, sharp and endless, like they’ve been waiting for me. It’s him. The man from the gala. The one who took my veil, it’s my fated mate.

My heart pounds relentlessly, butterflies swarm in my stomach, their wings beating against my ribs. I can’t believe it. My mate is here, beneath me, his face inches from mine. And I just drenched him in dirty water.

My cheeks burn crimson, embarrassment flooding me like wildfire. "Sorry... I’m sorry... sorry," I babble, scrambling to get up. But the floor is slick, soap turning it into a death trap, and I keep slipping, falling back onto his chest. His body is solid beneath me, warm, and every time I land, my heart screams louder. "Sorry... sorry... sorry," I repeat, frantic, until I finally manage to stand, wobbling like a newborn deer.

Instead of running, I glide awkwardly across the wet floor, desperate not to fall again. My movements are ridiculous, like I’m skating on soap. I dart into my bathroom, slam the door shut, and slump against it, covering my face with my hands.

"You are such an idiot, Lorali," I squeal, mortified. "How could you splash your mate with dirty water the moment you meet him?"

I laugh nervously, the image of his perfect face replaying in my mind. His jawline, sharp enough to cut glass. His lips, parted in shock. His eyes, gods, those eyes. "But... he was so handsome. Prettier than at the party."

I squeal again, sliding down onto the cold tiles, my cheeks aching from smiling. "My head was on his chest. Embarrassing, yes, but I was so close to my fated."

I kick my feet in the air, giddy, my body buzzing with energy. Happiness floods me, overwhelming and intoxicating. From that small encounter, I feel complete. He was perfect. I’d relive this humiliating day a hundred times if it meant seeing him again.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, whispering, "This was all worth it. I got to see my fated mate again."

His face lingers in my mind, etched into my heart. The way his wet hair clung to his forehead. The way his chest rose beneath mine, steady, unbothered, like he wasn’t fazed by being drowned in soap water. The way his eyes locked onto me, unrelenting, like he knew exactly who I was.

And gods, the sass in me refuses to die. "Well, at least he knows I make an entrance," I mutter, giggling. "Not every Omega can say they baptized their mate in dirty laundry water."

I bury my face in my hands, squealing again, my cheeks hot, my stomach twisting with joy and mortification. "He’s going to think I’m insane. He’s going to think I’m clumsy. He’s going to think I’m a disaster. And he’d be right."

"He’s so beautiful. He’s mine. My mate. My fate. My everything."

I roll onto my stomach, kicking my feet against the tiles, blushing so hard it hurts. "I can’t believe it. I touched him. I was on him. My head was on his chest. His chest! His perfect chest!"