Plus size in a pack house

POV: Elena

​The alarm on my phone didn’t just wake me up; it vibrated off the edge of my creaky nightstand and clattered onto the bare floorboards.

​5:00 AM.

​I groaned, rolling over on my narrow twin mattress. The springs protested under my weight, letting out a sharp metallic screech that echoed off the cold concrete walls. I didn't need to look at the mirror to know what I looked like: dark hair tangled into a wild bird’s nest, sleepy hazel eyes swollen from another late night, and a body that took up every single inch of this tiny mattress—and then some.

​In the Mooncrest Pack, space was respect. The Alpha family lived on the top floor of the manor in sun-drenched suites with king-sized beds and wraparound balconies. The high-ranking warriors had the second floor. The lower-ranking members took the first.

​And then there was me.

​I lived in the basement, right next to the industrial pantry and the boiler room. It wasn't officially a bedroom; it was an old storage closet for extra linen that I’d dragged a bed into five years ago when Sienna decided she needed a second room just for her formal dresses and shoes.

​I swung my legs over the side of the bed, feeling the icy cold of the uncarpeted floor hit the soles of my feet. A shiver ran up my spine. My wolf was still completely quiet inside me, dormant and silent as a stone. Most shifters felt their wolves whispering in the back of their minds by age sixteen. I was turning twenty-one today, and inside my head, there was nothing but an empty, hollow echo.

​"Still nothing, huh?" I whispered to the dark room.

​No answer. Just the steady thump-thump of the old water heater down the hall.

​I hauled myself up, pulling a oversized gray hoodie over my tank top and stepping into a pair of worn-out leggings. Being plus-sized in a pack of genetically engineered, sleek, high-metabolism predators was a special kind of hell. Shifters burned calories like kerosene. They were lean, muscular, and built for speed.

​And then there was Elena: wide hips, thick thighs, a soft stomach, and a chest that made finding a sports bra that actually fit an Olympic sport.

​"Good morning, gorgeous," I muttered to my reflection in the small, cracked mirror hanging over the sink. I splashed cold water on my face, scrubbing at my cheeks until they burned. "Today’s the day. Twenty-one. You survive the kitchen shift, you survive the mating gathering tonight, and maybe—just maybe—the Moon Goddess gives you a break."

​I tied my dark hair back into a tight braid, pulled on my work boots, and stepped out into the hallway.

​The pack house was silent at this hour, save for the hum of electricity and the distant hum of the forest outside. The smell of cedar, damp earth, and pine drifted through the cracked basement windows. I walked up the steep wooden stairs, my boots making heavy, rhythmic thuds, and pushed through the heavy double doors into the main kitchen.

​This was my domain. Not because I owned it, but because nobody else wanted to do the actual work.

​The Mooncrest Pack had over two hundred members, and every single one of them woke up starving. While the rest of the pack was sleeping off their training sessions, I was lifting fifty-pound sacks of flour, hauling crates of fresh eggs, and prepping massive iron skillets.

​I rolled up my sleeves and went to work.

​I started by measuring out the flour for the morning's bread. My hands worked on instinct—scooping, sifting, pouring. I didn't need a scale anymore; I knew what fifty pounds of flour felt like in my arms. I swung the heavy wooden crate of potatoes onto the counter, taking a deep breath as the familiar, comforting scent of fresh earth filled the kitchen.

​People thought running a pack house was just cooking food. They didn't see the logistics. They didn't see the spreadsheets I spent three hours on every night, balancing the pack’s shrinking budget, calculating meat rations for the winter, and fighting with suppliers who kept raising their prices.

​“Elena handles it,” that was the pack motto. Need forty pounds of bacon rendered by seven? Elena handles it. Need the laundry from the training grounds washed and folded? Elena handles it. Need someone to take the blame when the budget runs tight? Elena handles it.

​Around 6:30 AM, the kitchen door swung open, and the heavy smell of expensive jasmine perfume cut through the warm aroma of baking bread.

​I didn't even have to look up from the cutting board to know who it was.

​"You're making a mess," Sienna said, her voice smooth, sweet, and dripping with condesension.

​She stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame like she was posing for a magazine cover. Sienna was nineteen, two years younger than me, but she looked like a polished diamond. She was tall, slender, with silky golden hair that fell in effortless waves down her back and bright blue eyes that always seemed to be calculating the value of everything she looked at.

​She was wearing a silk robe that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.

​"Good morning to you too, Sienna," I said, my knife moving in a steady, practiced rhythm against the wooden board, slicing through red onions. "Happy birthday to me."

​Sienna scoffed, walking over to the island and delicate-fingered a warm blueberry muffin right out of the tray I’d just pulled from the oven. She took a tiny bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then tossed the rest of it into the trash can.

​My jaw tightened, but I kept slicing.

​"Don't get your hopes up about tonight, Ellie," Sienna said, leaning her hip against the stainless steel counter. She looked down at my waistline, her eyes lingering on the way my hoodie bunched up around my hips. "Just because it's your twenty-first doesn't mean some magical miracle is going to happen. Honest to God, if you haven't shifted by now, you're probably just a human mistake."

​"The Moon Goddess doesn't make mistakes," I replied softly, though the words felt heavy and hollow in my throat. I'd repeated that phrase to myself a thousand times in the dark basement, trying to force myself to believe it.

​"She made you, didn't she?" Sienna let out a soft, tinkling laugh that made my stomach twist into knots. "I mean, look at you. You take up half the kitchen just standing there. If a warrior smelled you as his mate, he'd probably reject you on the spot out of sheer embarrassment. An Alpha needs a Luna who can run beside him in the hunt, not someone who breaks a sweat climbing the stairs."

​"I lift fifty-pound grain sacks every morning, Sienna," I said, stopping my knife and turning to face her. "I run this entire house. You can't even carry your own luggage."

​Sienna’s blue eyes flashed, her sweet demeanor instantly hardening into something sharp and vicious. "I don't have to carry my luggage, Elena. People do it for me. Because I have value. Because when I walk into a room, people actually look at me with desire, not pity."

​She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Jax is coming back from his border patrol today. He's taking over as Alpha next month. Tonight at the gathering, he's going to be looking for his Luna. Do you really think he'd ever want... this?"

​She gestured broadly at my body.

​Jax.

​Just hearing his name made my pulse spike, a strange, electric current humming somewhere deep beneath my ribs. Jax was the pack’s Golden Boy. Future Alpha. Handsome, arrogant, and overwhelmingly powerful. We’d grown up in the same house, but while Sienna floated in his orbit, I stayed in the background, serving his meals and washing his training gear.

​Yet lately, whenever Jax passed me in the hallway, his golden-brown eyes would linger on me a second too long. He never spoke to me nicely in front of his friends, but when we were alone in the study while I was filing budget reports, his gaze was intense—almost suffocating.

​"Jax's opinion of me is none of your business," I said, turning back to the cutting board, though my hands were trembling slightly now.

​"Oh, it is my business," Sienna smirked, smoothing down her silk robe. "Because tonight, Jax is going to choose a Luna. And I'm going to make sure it's someone who actually fits on the throne."

​She turned on her heel and glided out of the kitchen, leaving the scent of jasmine heavy in the air.

​I let out a long, shaky breath and leaned my hands against the edge of the metal counter. My head throbbed. I closed my eyes and tried to find that quiet place inside myself, the place where my wolf should have been.

​Where are you? I prayed silently into the dark void of my mind. Please. Just give me something today. Give me a sign.

​Nothing. Just the distant sound of the pack house waking up overhead—footsteps slamming on the hardwood floors, doors banging open, shouting, laughter. The pack was coming alive, and within an hour, this kitchen would be flooded with hungry wolves demanding their breakfast.

​I wiped a stray tear from my cheek with the back of my hand, leaving a smear of flour behind.

​"Focus, Elena," I whispered to myself. "Just get through breakfast. Get through the prep. Get through tonight."

​I grabbed the heavy iron skillet, ignoring the burn in my muscles, and placed it over the open flame

POV: Elena

​By six in the evening, my legs felt like lead and my lower back was a single, throbbing knot. I’d spent fourteen hours on my feet—baking two hundred loaves of bread, roasting three whole pigs for the banquet, and scrubbing grease off giant steel roasting pans until my knuckles were raw and pink.

​I stood in my tiny basement room, staring at the dress hanging on the back of my door.

​It was a simple dark emerald-green dress made of soft cotton with long sleeves and a flared skirt. It was the only nice thing I owned that actually fit my curves without cutting off my circulation. I pulled it over my head, smoothing the fabric over my hips. It hugged my waist and flowed out over my thighs, but next to the silk and satin gowns I’d spent all afternoon pressing for Sienna, it looked like a dishcloth.

​"It's fine," I told my reflection, trying to tame my thick dark curls into a presentable half-up style. "You're not there to make a