Avery's POV
Stupid people! Stupid. I growled under my breath as I chopped another onion with reckless abandon. Each slice felt like it was cutting through my patience, shredding it just as easily as I was chopping through the layers of the vegetable. The anger in me was boiling, the frustration eating away at any ounce of reason. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, burning away the calories from the restless, sleepless night I had. My fingers gripped the knife so tight, my knuckles were white.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I shouldn’t even be in the damn kitchen. I shouldn’t be making breakfast. But no, here I was, hunched over a cutting board, trying to figure out how to slice onions without making a complete disaster of myself. It wasn’t even my fault—I didn’t sign up for this mess. But here I was. Alone. And pissed.
I slammed the knife into the wooden surface of the counter. The onions had been tossed aside, now nothing but a trail of sticky, translucent shards that barely resembled the neat little cuts I had in mind. I wasn’t even hitting the onions anymore. I was hitting the damn table. The anger surged through me like an electric shock, and I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
I could feel the eyes of the pack on me already. Waiting for me to screw this up. The same people who'd stood there, clueless, pretending they had no idea how to help when I asked them to prep the damn ingredients. I told them exactly what I needed—nothing fancy, just the basics. But somehow, they made it harder than it needed to be. Of course I had to take over.
A sharp voice broke through my thoughts, dragging me back to the chaotic mess I had created. "Avery, let us help!"
I snapped my head toward the door, the knife still in my hand, trembling from frustration. There they were—the workers, all standing in the kitchen doorway like they thought they were doing me a favor. It wasn’t enough they’d already messed things up; now they were going to try and save me from my own incompetence. Typical.
“No!” I hissed, my voice sharp and venomous. “Stay out of my way!”
I shot a glare at them, my chest heaving with the rapid breath I couldn’t seem to slow down. My hands were slick with sweat, my grip on the knife tight enough that I could feel the blade digging into my palm. I swung the knife down again, this time not on the onions, but on the damn table. The table that was supposed to keep my sanity intact, but now it was an enemy of its own.
“I’m not kidding,” I added, my voice low, threatening. “If any of you come near me, I’ll fire every last one of you. You hear me?”
There was a collective silence. They didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. Good. Maybe they would finally take the hint and leave me the hell alone. I wasn’t asking for their help, not now, not ever. I could do it myself. I didn’t need them.
I went back to chopping the onions, hitting the table instead of the vegetable, my frustration reaching a boiling point.
But then, as if some cruel force wanted to punish me for my own temper, the door creaked open.
“Maybe I can—” Violet’s soft voice made its way to my ears, and my stomach twisted in annoyance. No. Not her too.
Why does everyone think I need help?
I swung the knife again—this time a little too carelessly, too quickly. And just as Violet took a step closer, my hand jerked, sending the blade across the air.
The sharp metal sliced through the air with a sickening sound, and before I could even process what was happening, the edge of the blade connected with her hand.
“Shit!” My heart leapt into my throat as I saw the crimson blood blooming across her palm, dripping steadily onto the floor. The sight of it made my stomach churn.
“Violet!” I cursed, dropping the knife on the counter with a loud clatter. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”
She pulled her hand back sharply, eyes widening, and I saw the faint wince of pain pass over her features. She looked at the cut, the blood staining her fingers. I stood there frozen, my mind swirling in a tornado of guilt and disbelief.
Violet wasn’t just one of the workers. She was different. She had been kind, too kind to me when I had no reason to be. And now, I had hurt her.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—" I started, my voice stumbling over the words.
But she just shook her head, her tone calm, even though the blood was still dripping from her hand. "It’s fine, Avery. It’s just a scratch. Don’t worry about it."
“Just a scratch?” I repeated, my voice rising with panic. I reached for a towel, but I didn’t know what the hell to do. “You’re bleeding. This isn’t fine!”
“Seriously,” she said softly, pulling her hand away from mine. “It’s okay. I’ll clean it up. It’s not that bad.”
But it was bad. I had just hurt someone I cared about, and the weight of that hit me harder than the knife had.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I stepped back, frustration rising once again, but this time it wasn’t directed at the kitchen, or at the workers, or at Violet. It was directed inward, toward myself. I ran my hands through my hair, my chest tight with a mixture of guilt and anger. “I just… I can’t. I can’t do this.”
Violet eyed me for a moment, her gaze soft but unyielding. “You can,” she said firmly. “But you need to let go a little. Stop trying to control everything. You don’t have to be perfect.”
“Perfect?!” I hissed, frustration bubbling over. “I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m just trying to make sure it doesn’t turn into a disaster. Because that’s what I do—I clean up other people’s messes, and I’m so damn sick of it!”
“Then stop doing it by yourself,” she said, her voice low, patient. “Let us help. We’re a team, remember?”
I opened my mouth to argue, to snap at her, but something in her expression stopped me. She wasn’t looking at me with pity or judgment—she was looking at me like she understood. She wasn’t asking me to be perfect. She was just asking me to let go of the weight I was carrying alone.
I exhaled sharply, my shoulders slumping. “I don’t know how to ask for help.”
Violet reached for my hand, her touch light but steady. “You don’t have to ask. Just let us in.”
I stared at her for a long moment, the weight of her words sinking in. I wasn’t used to this. To letting people help. But maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop being so damn stubborn.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, my voice soft, the anger finally fading. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just… I can’t handle everything at once.”