The Messenger( Iva) novel Chapter 46

Sergio-2

The man’s nostrils flared slightly.

Then his gaze sharpened.

In a voice meant only for her, he asked, “Which pack?”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

The truth came out before fear could stop it. “I don’t have one.”

His eyebrows rose slowly. “A rogue? You don’t smell like one.”

“No,” she replied firmly. “A lone wolf.”

That earned her a long, incredulous look.

“At your age?” he muttered, studying her again. “That’s… unusual.”

She did not look away.

“I can work,” she said simply. “I’ll do anything.”

He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “You have no experience.”

Her shoulders sagged despite herself. “I know.”

For a moment, she thought this would end like all the others. Another polite dismissal. Another door closing.

Then he exhaled, something like amusement flickering in his eyes.

“But,” he said slowly, “we do have a dishwasher position.”

Her head snapped up.

“What?”

す

“It’s not glamorous,” he continued. “Long hours. Hot kitchen. Hard work.”

“I’ll take it,” she said instantly.

He laughed, a low, genuine sound. “You don’t even know how much it pays.”

Color flooded her cheeks. “I don’t care.”

The man shook his head, still smiling. “You’re either brave or reckless, little wolf.”

“Probably both.”

That made him chuckle again.

“When can you start?”

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Sergio-2

Her answer came without hesitation. “Now”

He extended a hand. “Sergio. Shift supervisor.”

She shook it, relief erashing through her so hard her knees nearly buckled.

“Iva,” she said softly.

As he turned to lead her toward the back of the restaurant, Avalon stirred warmly inside her.

See? her wolf murmured. Even in the human world… we are not alone.

For the first time since she had fled her pack, Iva allowed herself a real breath.

She wasn’t safe yet.

She wasn’t comfortable.

But she was standing.

And for now, that was enough.

+25 Points

The kitchen swallowed her whole.

Heat hit Iva the moment she stepped through the swinging doors, thick and suffocating, clinging to her skin like a second layer she couldn’t peel off. Steam hissed from pots, oil crackled violently, knives hit cutting boards in sharp, relentless rhythms, and voices barked orders in Italian and English, overlapping until it all blurred into noise.

Her shirt stuck to her back within minutes.

“This is your station,” Sergio said briskly, pointing to a long steel sink already overflowing with plates, pans, and utensils coated in grease, sauce, and half-dried food. “You keep it moving. No backups. No excuses.”

Iva nodded. “Understood.”

He studied her for a brief second longer, as if weighing something unseen, then turned and walked away.

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And just like that, she was alone.

The first plate burned her fingers.

She bit back a hiss, dunking it into hot water and scrubbing harder than necessary, teeth clenched. The water was scalding, the soap harsh, stripping her skin raw almost instantly. Within minutes, her hands were red, stinging, trembling.

This is nothing, she told herself. You’ve trained through worse.

But training pain was clean. Controlled.

This was relentless.

Plates kept coming. Endless. As soon as she cleared one stack, another slammed down beside her. Pans

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+25 Points>

heavy with oil, trays crusted with baked-on cheese, knives smeared with sauce that refused to budge.

Her arms ached.

Her back screamed

Sweat dripped down her temples, soaked into her collar, slid between her shoulder blades. Her stomach growled painfully, reminding her she hadn’t eaten more than beef jerky and stale bread in days.

And then came the waiters.

They drifted past her station like peacocks in crisp uniforms, noses lifted, expressions bored or amused. One of them-tall, blond, with an expensive watch-snorted when he nearly bumped into her.

“Watch it,” he said sharply, as if she were furniture.

“Sorry,” Iva replied automatically, stepping back to avoid splashing water.

Another waiter laughed under his breath. “Careful, man. Don’t scare the dishwasher. She might cry.”

They laughed.

Iva scrubbed harder.

Don’t react, she told herself. They want you to.

One of them leaned closer as he dropped a pile of plates with deliberate force, water splashing onto her apron. “You miss a spot.”

She looked down, wiped it clean, and said nothing.

The laughter faded, disappointed.

It didn’t stop them.

“Hey, kitchen girl,” one called later. “You done with those? We actually need them sometime today.”

“I’m working as fast as I can,” she replied calmly, not looking up.

“Sure you are,” another muttered. “Low-class work for low-class people.”

Something in her chest tightened.

For half a second, she saw the pack again. The sneers. The whispers. The word runt thrown like a blade.

Avalon stirred, protective and sharp. I could break him.

No, Iva replied firmly. Not here. Not now.

She straightened her spine and kept washing.

Hour after hour dragged by. The kitchen never cooled. Her hands burned constantly now, knuckles cracked, fingers stiff. A plate slipped from her grip and shattered at her feet, porcelain exploding across the floor.

“Damn it!” someone shouted.

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Her heart jumped. “I’m sorry-I’ll clean it-”

“Move,” the chef snapped, irritation flashing in his eyes.

+25 Points

She dropped to her knees immediately, sweeping shards into a bin, ignoring the glass nicking her skin, the sting sharp but brief.

Pain is temporary, she reminded herself. Survival is permanent.

At one point, her vision swam. She leaned against the sink for a single breath, just one.

“Break time?” a waiter sneered as he passed.

She lifted her head slowly, meeting his eyes for the first time that night.

“No,” she said evenly. “Just breathing.”

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