RECLAIMING MY THRONE: THE REJECTED BETA AND HER ANCIENT VAMPIRE

BELLATRIX'S POV

I woke up to the sound of my heart beating, not to the sound of an alarm clock. My heart was beating slowly and loudly. It was a thing that always felt too big for my chest. I lay there in the grey morning light looking at the ceiling of my bedroom. The moon was still a piece of light, in my mind. 

The plaster was peeling in the corners, a stark contrast to the room across the hall where Clara slept, surrounded by silk hangings and the scent of expensive lavender.

I rolled out of bed, my feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. I didn't reach for a robe. Instead, I stood in the center of the room and began my morning ritual. 

One. Two. Three. 

I dropped into a set of rapid-fire pushups, my muscles screaming in protest. I wanted them to scream. I wanted the burn to drown out the muffled sounds of laughter echoing from downstairs. My parents were already awake, likely fussing over Clara’s breakfast.

By the time I stood up, sweat was slicking my skin, and my knuckles were white. I dressed quickly in my usual attire, faded training leathers and a tunic that had seen better days. 

I looked in the mirror, and for a second, I hated what I saw. Not because I was ugly, but because I saw the "Beta" brand in the very set of my shoulders. I had the warrior’s build, the sharp eyes of a huntress, and a mouth that forgot how to smile years ago.

"Bellatrix! Get down here this instant! The table is set, and your father is waiting!"

My mother’s voice didn't carry a trace of warmth, instead it pierced, even the servant in our home has experienced the warmth from my mother's voice but not me. 

There was a specific frequency she used for me: sharp, commanding, and devoid of the honey she saved for my twin.

I descended the stairs, the wood groaning under my boots. As I entered the dining room, the smell of bacon and fresh-baked bread hit me, but it didn't make my mouth water. It made my stomach twist into a huge knot.

Clara was already seated, looking like a painting of a porcelain doll. Her golden hair was perfectly braided, not a single strand out of place. 

My father, Dennis, was leaning toward her, his face lit with a glow I hadn't seen directed at me since I was a toddler.

"And then, Father," Clara was saying, her voice a tinkling bell, "Ronan said that the spring gala wouldn't be the same without me on the planning committee. He said I have the 'touch of the Goddess' when it comes to aesthetics."

"He’s right, darling," Dennis chuckled, patting her hand. "You represent the very best of our lineage. An Omega with your grace is a gift to this pack."

I pulled out my chair, the screech of wood against tile cutting through their cozy atmosphere like a serrated blade. And just like that, silence fell. It was the kind of silence that usually followed a shattered glass.

"You're late, Bellatrix," my mother, Mara, said without looking up from the stove. She walked over and set a plate of dry, slightly charred toast and a single egg in front of me. 

Then, she turned to Clara with a plate of fluffy pancakes drizzled in berry compote and whipped cream. I wasn't even surprised because it was something I was used to. 

I get the scrapes and Clara gets the goods. I was far too used to it to complain. Not that they would mind though. 

"I was training," I said, my voice sounding like gravel compared to Clara’s smooth honeyed silk.

"Training for what?" Dennis asked, his eyes finally shifting to me, hardening instantly. "You spend your mornings sweating like a common rogue in the dirt. Look at your sister. She’s spent her morning preparing for the social responsibilities of our rank. Why must you insist on being so... uncouth?"

I picked up the fork, stabbing the egg until the yolk bled out. "Maybe because when a rogue actually decides to cross our borders, Clara’s 'aesthetic touch' isn't going to stop them from ripping her throat out and spilling her guts on the floor. Someone has to know how to fight, Father." 

I had stopped calling them the intimate title Dad, and Mom years ago. Not like they would even acknowledge me.

Mara slammed a spatula onto the counter. "Don't you dare use that tone with your father! We have spent years trying to refine you, Bellatrix. We’ve given you every opportunity to be a lady of the house, yet you insist on acting like a feral beast. It’s embarrassing."

"It's not just embarrassing, Mother," Clara chimed in, her eyes wide and mock-sympathetic. "It’s worrying. People at school are talking, Bella. They say you’re so aggressive because you’re overcompensating for being a 'low-status' Beta. I try to defend you, I really do! I tell them you just have a... difficult personality. But they just have their own mindset. Sometimes, I wish I could just clamp their mouth shut because it's obvious that whatever they say hurts you. I really wish they would stop talking about you that way"

I felt the heat rise in my throat, a familiar, bitter fire. "Is that what you tell them, Clara? Or do you just nod along while they laugh at me? I saw you with the Gamma girls yesterday. You weren't defending me when they called me 'The Pack’s Pitbull.'"

Clara gasped, a hand fluttering to her chest. "I would never! Dad, tell her! I only want what’s best for her. Sis, I know you hate me but always remember that I love you. I'm sorry that people are treating you that way and I can't stop them."

Dennis glared at me. "You should be even grateful that you even have a sister who acknowledges you in public with all the stunts you've been pulling. Apologize to your sister. Now."

"I haven't done anything wrong," I snapped.