I’ve never felt heavier as I open my eyes to a world of pain; every muscle throbs as if I have been trampled. Memories flood back in a rush - fur sprouting from my skin, bones cracking and reforming, and howl's tearing from my throat. Pain is all I remember, not that pain is something I'm not used to. This was a different kind of pain, agonizing yet freeing, only to be trapped again with Mrs. Daley in this dreadful place. Last night, I hoped the pain would end me, prayed the suffering would end in the darkness of oblivion; at least I would be free of Mrs. Daley. However, the thought of leaving Ivy and Tyson with her has guilt tearing me apart.

A soft voice cuts through the fog of confusion and despair. I turn my head, finally noticing the gentle fingers tangled in my hair.

Ivy’s face comes into view, her raven hair falling in messy tangles around her shoulders. She’s perched on the edge of my threadbare mattress, gently stroking my hair as she sings. But something is wrong. Her blue eyes are dull and unfocused. Angry red welts crisscross her arms, disappearing beneath the torn sleeves of her faded dress that are a size too small and older than her. Peering around at the room, I take in the long, angry claw marks marking the wood, which has me staring at my fingertips. Did I do that? Groaning, I stare up at her, noting the same claw marks scratching her chest. Did I do that to her? I whimper at the thought of hurting her.

“Ivy?” I croak, my voice raw. “What…?”

She blinks slowly, seeming to come back to herself. “Oh, Abbie. Finally, you’re awake.” A sad smile flickers across her face. “How are you feeling?”

I try to sit up, wincing as she helps me. “Like death warmed over. What happened?”

Ivy’s expression changes to one of sadness, and I truly take in her form. Now, sitting up, I can see the damage: her dress is barely clinging to her, my claws having shredded most of it. Mrs. Daley will make her pay for that ruined dress, and I know it will be my fault. Her legs are covered in grazes, and those welts—the true horror of the damage from Mrs. Daley’s cane, show on her skin.

“Oh my gosh, Ivy, your clothes.” My hands wave about frantically as I try to cover her bruised and broken skin as if I can somehow stitch my best friend back together, along with the torn fabric.

“It’s okay; I can barely feel them,” she murmurs as she moves. At least they are no longer bleeding. I take in the huge welts, knowing I didn’t cause those, but she wasn’t covered this badly last night when we were locked inside our attic bedroom. Sure, she has always had scars; we both are covered in them, but these are fresh. She winces at my touch.

“I’m fine, Abbie. It’s nothing, just a few scratches,” she tells me, and I stare at her as if she is absurd. It’s more than a few scratches; she looks like she has been put through a cheese grater.

“Did she do that to you because of me?” I ask. Ivy swallows thickly and fiddles with her fingers, which are covered in blood—hers or mine, I’m unsure.

“Mrs. Daley. She heard you last night. During your shift.” The mention of my shift triggers memories that flood back. Yet I recall Ivy’s voice, promising it would be okay, telling me to be quiet because she was right there with me.

The memories sharpen. Mrs. Daley’s shrill voice cuts through my pain-filled haze. The whistle of her cane through the air and the swishing sting, but it didn’t last long. Looking at Ivy now, I understand why—because she took the brunt of it.

“I tried to calm you, but you were…” Ivy trails off, that vacant look returning, and she abruptly changes the subject.

“You did well, Abbie. You finally shifted!” She forces some excitement into her voice before it dies off. “Your wolf was magnificent; I wish you could have seen yourself.” I don’t feel an ounce of excitement at getting my wolf, knowing not only what it means but also knowing Ivy was punished for my inability to remain quiet.

“She did that because of me,” I whisper.

Ivy nods, her eyes welling with tears. “I tried to stop her, to shield you.”

I reach out, gently touching one of the angry marks on her arm.

“You shouldn’t have.”

She shakes her head fiercely. “Of course I should have. More than my life, remember?” Her vacant expression returns, and she resumes her soft singing, tugging me back down; I rest my head back in her lap, her fingers tangling in my hair.

“Ivy,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “You know what this means, right?”

Ivy’s singing stops abruptly. She meets my gaze, her blue eyes suddenly sharp with fear. “I know, Abbie, but we have time.”

I swallow hard; my mouth is as dry as a desert. “I don’t want to leave you.” The words are bitter on my tongue; I hate to think about what will happen to her once I’m gone. Or what would become of Tyson. The mere thought of his name has my eyes watering; he won’t survive Mrs. Daley—especially once Ivy is gone. I know she’ll protect him as long as she can, but her eighteenth birthday isn’t far off, either. And then what?

Ivy nods grimly. “But we have time,” she says, a spark of hope in her voice. “Alpha Brock is away on pack business; he won’t be back for a few weeks. I overheard Katrina speaking with Mrs. Daley.”

“A few weeks?” I echo, hardly daring to believe it.

“Yes,” Ivy confirms. She takes my hand, squeezing it tightly. “And Abbie... When the time comes, I’m going to ask to be tried with you.”

I gasp; and shock jolts through me. “Ivy, no! You can’t⁠—”

“I can and I will,” she interrupts. “We came here together, and we’ll leave it the same way—if they want to execute you, they’ll have to kill me, too.”

Tears spill down my cheeks as I stare at my best friend, my other half. “But you haven’t shifted yet; you still have a chance⁠—”

Ivy shakes her head, her expression resolute. “A chance at what? A life without you? That’s no life at all.” She cups my face in her hands. “We die together or not at all; that’s the deal—more than my life, Abbie; more than my life—I have no purpose without you.”

I want to argue, to beg her to reconsider, but I know that look in her eyes. There’s no changing her mind. Instead, I pull her close, burying my face in her shoulder as we cling to each other. The moment is short-lived when I hear the sharp rap on the door and Mrs. Daley’s voice screeching at us from the other side of the door.

“Get up! You have chores!” The sharp edge of her voice slices through the tense quietude of our room. My fingers tighten around Ivy’s, my nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm. She doesn’t flinch; instead, she squeezes back just as hard.

“Coming, Mrs. Daley,” Ivy answers for both of us while I’m suddenly struggling against the fear that claws and gnashes in my stomach at having to put up with Mrs. Daley for another day.

Ivy eases herself up first, wincing as her legs take her weight. She turns back to me, trying to give me an encouraging smile. Ivy falters when she sees my worried expression.

“It’ll be okay,” she insists quietly, reaching for a clean dress hanging on a peg by the small window.

“It won’t,” I insist, but it’s a fight we’ve had a dozen times; there’s no point in it now. I push to my feet, my body aching violently. I feel like a shadow of myself like something vital has been ripped away.

“Now, Rogues, these kids need feeding!” Mrs. Daley bangs on the door while Ivy rushes to change, knowing walking out in her torn clothes will get her another whipping.

Ivy slips into the brown, worn-out dress in seconds, not caring for her modesty in front of me; we’ve been together since we were children, what haven’t we seen of each other? Once dressed, she hurries over to me and helps me get ready. I’m more than just weakened by my first shifting - the emotional turmoil of what it means is taking its toll.

“Stop worrying so much,” Ivy whispers, helping me pull on a similar ragged dress. Her voice is barely above a whisper, afraid Mrs. Daley might overhear our conversation. Ivy places a hand on my bare shoulder, giving me a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re stronger than you think, Abbie,” she says, her blue eyes meeting mine through the mirror in front of us. “We’ll make it through this together.”

The banging on the door continues. Each thud resounds in my head and sends my heart racing. There will be dire consequences if we don’t comply with Mrs. Daley’s demands quickly.

Ivy gives me one last reassuring glint in her eyes before she opens the door to let Mrs. Daley in. The elder woman’s hardened gaze sweeps over us; there’s no room for sympathy in those cold eyes of hers.

“Get your lazy bones moving,” she snaps before turning on her heel and leaving us to race against time once again.

We step into the bustling kitchen filled with young children who are each in a state of neglect. Mrs. Daley reserves her worst treatment for us, but all the kids here are malnourished and neglected.

“Quit your dawdling!” the sharp tone comes again, demanding and potent with impatience.

“All right, all right!” Ivy calls, slipping into her apron with hurried movements. I am quick to do the same when I see Mrs. Daley’s hand tighten around the tip of her cane. She looks like she is itching to use it. The first whack of the day is always the worst.

A Few Weeks Later

The stillness of the hallway presses in on me as I drag the damp rag across the wooden railing. The aged floorboards creak beneath my slow steps. A distant clock ticks steadily, marking the fleeting seconds. My hands tremble as I clean, but not from the morning chill or exhaustion. No, my mind is far from this place, these walls that cage me. It drifts to him, the one I can’t bear to leave behind. Tyson, too vulnerable, and too young, leaves me no hope for his well-being once I am not here to protect him from her.

Through the smudged window at the end of the hall in the backdoor. I see him in the backyard, right where he always is this time of day. He’s crouched in the old sandpit, digging away with a pointed stick, lost in a world of his own making. Little Kimmy sits beside him, her blonde matted hair moving with the icy breeze in the rising light as she pats a mound of dirt with her small hands.

I stood at this very window not an hour ago, watching them play. Tyson’s round face streaked with grime yet split into a grin so pure and joyful that it pierced my heart. A rare sight, that smile. A treasured gift in this bleak place. And now, as I gaze out again, memorizing the slope of his nose and the unruly curls that tumble over his ears, an ache builds in my chest, so sharp I can hardly breathe.

This is the last time I will see that precious face, the last chance to witness one of his unburdened smiles. After today, memories will die with me—blurred images that will dull and fade alongside my last breath.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the burn of tears, curling my fingers into the damp rag until my nails bite into my palms. Each breath shudders in my chest teetering on the edge of a sob. I want to run to him, gather his sturdy little body in my arms and run with him. To breathe in his scent of grass and sun-warmed skin and promise him everything will be alright, that I will always keep him safe.

But I can’t. Because the painful truth is, I have failed him. Failed to protect him from the cruelties of this life. Failed to shield him from the ugliness lurking in every shadowed corner of this place. So I stand frozen, watching my sweet boy through a pane of glass, close enough to see the freckles that dust his upturned nose, yet separated by an unfathomable chasm that feels like it is growing so large it will never end.

Mrs. Daley’s sharp voice slices through my thoughts like a blade. “Rogue!” I flinch, my fingers clenching around the damp cloth as her heavy footsteps thunder down the hallway behind me. The floorboards groan under her weight, echoing the dread that settles in my stomach. “Finish scrubbing that railing, then get to the bathrooms,” she barks, her words harsh as they always are. “The king doesn’t visit filth.”

I bow my head, letting my hair fall forward to hide the resentment that surely flashes in my eyes. “Yes, Mrs. Daley.”

I mutter the submissive words knowing any other words will get me beaten with the cane I want to so badly shove up her scrawny old ass.

I can feel her glare boring into the back of my skull, seething disapproval radiating off her like heat. She has always despised us. To her, I am nothing more than a burden, a slave, someone to take her frustration out on, not that I can complain; she hates Ivy more and it shows with the way she uses her dreaded cane on her; I don’t think Ivy has much skin left that isn’t scarred besides her face.

But for Tyson’s sake, I force myself to stay silent. To swallow the defiant retorts that burn in my throat and numb myself to her cruelty. Because as long as I am here, I can protect him. I can absorb the worst of her anger and shield him from the brunt of her hatred.

So I scrub harder, my knuckles turning white as I grip the rag with bruising force. I picture Tyson’s face, his toothy grin and the way his eyes light up when he sees me, and I let that image flood my mind instead of thinking of the trial that awaits me and Ivy today. Just a little longer.

Because deep down, I know the truth. There is no escape from this life. No happily ever after waiting for us on the other side of these suffocating walls. There is only death.

The click of Mrs. Daley’s heels fades into the distance as I stand frozen, the damp rag hanging limply from my fingertips. A shudder runs through me, shaking loose the paralyzing fear that grips my heart whenever she’s near. Slowly, I turn my head, scanning the hall with wary eyes.

A flicker of movement catches my attention, and Ivy emerges from behind a tattered armchair, her expression solemn but unsurprised. She’s seen this scene play out a hundred times before: The way I shrink into myself, becoming a ghost in my own skin; The way Mrs. Daley scares the hell out of me.

Ivy steps closer, her footsteps whisper-soft against the worn floorboards. “He’ll be alright, Abbie,” she says, even as she glances at the backdoor; I can tell she is saying that to try to ease my anxiety; we both know he is as good as dead once we are gone. “Stop thinking the worst; it won’t help anything.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight with unshed tears. “I can’t help it,” I whisper, my voice cracking around the edges. “Every time she yells, every time she raises her hand, all I can think about is him; about what will happen to him when I’m not here to protect him.”

Ivy’s hand finds mine; her fingers interlacing with my own. “I know,” she murmurs, her voice heavy with understanding.”

“I don’t want to leave him,” I say, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my own heart. “He needs me, Ivy. Without me, he’ll be all alone in this godforsaken place. We’re the only ones who care about him, the only ones who understand him.”

Ivy sighs, her shoulders slumping under the weight of my words. “I know,” she says again, her voice tinged with the same sadness I feel.

I swallow hard, my throat constricting with emotion.

“I need to see him, Ivy. One last time. I can’t… I can’t leave without saying goodbye; he’ll think I abandoned him to her.” The words tear from my throat and crack horridly.

“If she catches you…” she glances down the hall then chews her lip nervously.

“Then go,” she says, her voice soft. “I’ll cover for you. Where has she put you?”

“The bathrooms once I finish here,” I admit and she nods, taking my rag. “Go, be quick and don’t get caught!”

In that moment, I’m reminded of just how much I owe this girl, how many times she’s put herself on the line for me without a second thought, how I’d be dead if it weren’t for her.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the words greatly inadequate but all I can manage.

Ivy just nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Go,” she says again, giving my hand a final squeeze before releasing it. “Before Mrs. Daley comes back.”

I don’t need to be told twice. With a final glance at Ivy, I sneak past the kitchen, my heart pounding in my chest as I make my way down the narrow hallway. The floorboards creak under my feet, each step a risk I’m taking but one that is worth it.

The cold air hits me like a slap as I step into the yard, the wind whipping strands of hair across my face. I tuck them behind my ear with a shaking hand, my eyes scanning the overgrown grass for any sign of Tyson; he’s since moved from the busted sandpit.

There, by the old oak tree, I spot a flash of movement. My heart leaps into my throat as I make my way toward him, each step feeling longer. He’s crouched in the dirt, his little hands digging furiously as he mutters to himself in a language only he knows.

As I draw closer, I can hear his little puffs and grunts of frustration.

“Tyson,” I call softly, not wanting to startle him.

His head snaps up, his wide blue eyes meeting mine. For a moment he just stares at me. Then he’s on his feet, running toward me with a speed that belies his tiny frame.

I drop to my knees just as he reaches me, catching him in my arms and pulling him close. He buries his face in my neck, his small hands fisting the back of my dress as he clings to me.

Tears prick at the back of my eyes as I hold him tighter, breathing in the scent of dirt and sweat. “I’m here,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I’m right here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me; his eyes searching mine with an intensity that steals my breath as if he knows something is wrong and my lip trembles.

I swallow hard; the weight of that single word settling heavily in my chest.

His face breaks into a smile; a sight so pure and radiant that it momentarily chases away the shadows lurking in my heart. He presses his forehead against mine; his breath warm on my cheek as he pats my face with his hands; his way of saying ‘I love you.’

I feel the hot sting of tears as they slip down my cheeks; mingling with dirt and grime. “I love you, too, Tyson,” I choke out, my voice raw with emotion. “So so much.”

From the corner of my eye; I see Kimmy watching us; her small face etched with a sadness no child should know. She understands; perhaps better than she should, what today means for me and Ivy.

I pull back, cupping Tyson’s face in my hands as I try to memorize every detail - the curve of his cheek, the dimple in his chin, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “I need you to be brave for me, okay?” I say softly, my thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Can you do that?”

He babbles something that makes no sense, which only breaks my heart. How can life be so cruel?

A sob catches in my throat, and I pull him in for one last hug, pouring the last ounce of love and strength I possess into that embrace, hoping it is enough for him to understand that I don’t want to leave him. “Never forget how much I love you,” I whisper, my lips brushing his ear. “Never forget that, no matter what.” I pull away, trying to get his full attention.

“Tyson, I need you to listen to me,” I say, my voice trembling but firm. “I need you to be a big boy now, okay? Can you do that for me?”

He nods, his little face so solemn and serious I almost laugh. Almost.

“I have to go away for a while,” I continue, my throat constricting with emotion.

His tiny brow furrows as he tries to make sense of my words. His hands fist my skirt, yanking on it.

I swallow hard, fighting back the tears that threaten to consume me. How can I explain this to him? How can I make him understand that leaving him is the last thing I want to do, but the choice isn’t mine.

“Somewhere far away, but I will always be right here,” I say softly, poking his chest; he giggles, thinking I am tickling him. Sighing, I brush a stray curl from his forehead.

He clutches his blanket tighter, his bottom lip trembling as he leans closer, burying his face in my chest once more.

I hold him close, my heart shattering into a million pieces. “I know, sweetheart. I don’t want to go, either. But sometimes... sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do.”

He sniffles, his tiny hands fisting the fabric of my blouse so tightly I think it might tear.

I stand on shaky legs, my heart shattering with each beat as I look down at his tiny form. His eyes are wide and wet, his bottom lip trembling.

“Tyson,” I say, my voice cracking as I kneel back down to his level. “I need you to promise me something, okay?”

“Promise me you’ll stay away from Mrs. Daley,” I whisper, cupping his cheeks with my trembling hands. “Promise me you’ll try to stay out of her way.”

A sob catches in my throat, and I squeeze my eyes shut trying to memorize the feel of him in my hands, the scent of his skin, the sound of his breath.

“I have to go now, sweetheart,” I say softly.

And then, I release him, rising to my feet on shaky legs knowing if I don’t, I will remain here and take the beating off Mrs. Daley. Unfortunately, that puts him at risk too since she would blame him for distracting me. He stares up at me; his eyes shine with a love and adoration I pray will never fade yet knowing this place and knowing her it will.

“Be good,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Listen to Kimmy and stay out of trouble. I’ll... I’ll see you soon.” I tell him if only he knew it means in another life because I won’t have one after today.

It’s a lie, but he doesn’t understand anyway, clutching his torn and holey blanket to his chest as he watches me back away. Kimmy steps forward, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You have to stay out of Mrs. Daley’s way. Do you hear me? You have to stay quiet, okay? Stay hidden if you need to. And listen to Kimmy⁠—”

“I’ll look after him,” Kimmy’s small voice interrupts. She steps forward, her chin raised despite the fear that flickers in her eyes. Her hands, usually fidgeting with the frayed hem of her dress, are steady at her sides.

I tilt my head, my heart swelling even as it splinters further. “Kimmy, I⁠—”

“I know,” she says softly, her gaze unwavering. “I’ll keep him safe, Miss Abbie. I promise.”

The conviction in her young voice nearly undoes me as I reach for her; she slams into me, her arms wrapping around my waist.

She nods, her small hands gripping the back of my dress like a lifeline. “I promise, Miss Abbie,” she says, her voice quivering but never breaking. “I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

The weight of her words settle on my shoulders, a burden and a blessing all at once. This little girl, so young and yet so brave, is willing to take on a responsibility far beyond her years. For Tyson. For me.

“You’ve always looked after us. Now it’s my turn to look after him,” Kimmy whispers.

A sob catches in my throat, tears blurring my vision.

“Thank you,” I manage, pulling her into a tight embrace.

Kimmy nods, a tear tracing down her cheek as she peers up at me. “We love you, Miss Abbie. Forever and always.”

The distant sound of Mrs. Daley’s shrill voice breaks through our fragile bubble, a harsh reminder of the reality we face. I pull back reluctantly, cupping both their faces in my hands.

“I have to go,” I say, the words like shards of glass in my throat.

Tyson whimpers, his little hands reaching for me, but Kimmy grasps them gently, pulling him to her side. She meets my gaze, a silent understanding passing between us; she knows what fate awaits him if Mrs. Daley gets her hands on him.

With a final kiss to each of their foreheads, I force myself to walk away. Each step is agony; the weight of their eyes on my back is a physical ache. But I keep going, even as my heart screams at me to turn back, to gather them up and run, to never let them go.

As I slip through the gate, the cold metal biting into my palm, I risk one final glance back. They stand hand in hand watching me go; their faces etched with a sorrow far beyond their years.

“I love you,” I mouth, the words carried away in the bitter wind.

And then I am gone, the gate swinging shut behind me with a finality that echoes in the depths of my soul. I jog up the steps, listening for Mrs. Daley before slipping inside, narrowly making it past her as she exits the dining room. I rush up the steps to help Ivy with the last of our chores, stopping by the linen cupboard to grab some fresh linen.

I burst into the room, my heart pounding from the near miss with Mrs. Daley. Dropping the stack of fresh linens on the lower bunk, I snatch up the feather duster and attack the chandelier, trying to calm my nerves. The urgency of the day weighs heavily; we have twelve rooms to prepare, and not a minute can be wasted.

“She almost caught me,” I gasp out, the fear of the encounter still fresh. A tear escapes, tracing a path down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away, no time for tears.

Ivy, ever the pillar of strength, reassures me from across the room. “He’ll be fine, Abbie,” she says, but I catch the slight tremor in her voice. We both know the kind of person Mrs. Daley is, and my heart sinks for little Tyson.

Trying to refocus on the task at hand, I start stripping the beds, my movements quick and efficient. Ivy pauses and stares at me, her face troubled. “Mrs. Daley... she told me...” her voice trails off, and I can tell she’s struggling to deliver the news.

“What is it?” I ask softly, dreading her next words.

Ivy swallows hard, her eyes meeting mine with a grave intensity. “The butcher will be there. He’s hoping we’re auctioned and not killed.” Her words hit me like a cold wave, and I feel a shiver despite the sweat on my brow.

A lump forms in my throat as I process her words. I try to push back the panic rising within me. “More than my life, Abbie,” Ivy whispers, a solemn promise in her gaze.

The weight of her words anchors me, and I find a shred of courage. “I can’t promise that; not this time, Ivy. I’d rather die than let him touch me again,” I manage to say, my voice cracking. The memories creep up, threatening to overwhelm me. “Don’t make me break a promise,” I whisper, another tear rolling down my cheek.

Ivy nods, understanding the depth of my pain. “More than my life,” she repeats, affirming our pact—a pledge deeper than any simple ‘I love you’.

“No, I won’t allow it,” I stammer

“More than my life,” she reaffirms, knowing Ivy will stand by me no matter what comes and nothing I say will change her mind.

I wipe my tears and nod slowly, my bottom lip quivering as I look at her.

“More than my life,” I whisper reluctantly before turning back to my task.

Ivy responds with a nod, her own eyes misty.

We share a look before returning to our tasks, then we focus on pulling back the heavy drapes, letting in a sliver of cold morning air. As I move to help strip the beds, the physical exertion takes a toll. Mrs. Daley’s inspections are always rigorous, and any mistake can mean the whip.

“Pillows,” I sing out to Ivy behind me as I toss them her way. She catches them and begins placing them on each freshly made bed, ensuring everything looks perfect. We straighten the dark rugs, make sure no toys are left out, and adjust everything meticulously. We can’t afford any mistakes—not today.

With only a couple of hours left and more rooms to clean, the pressure mounts. Today we’re supposed to learn our fate in the town square, a day we’ve both dreaded for eight long years. As the reality of our situation sinks in, I know we might choose to face the lashes rather than be late for the Alpha, whose decision is final.

Rushing to the next room, the routine starts again. Each passing moment has us moving quicker, as we continually glance at the clock, the sinking feeling in my stomach grows. We’re running out of time, with over a hundred sandwiches still to make for the children.

The click of heels on the wooden floor signals Mrs. Daley’s approach. Straightening, Ivy and I flatten our aprons, fix our hair, and stand ready, hands clasped behind our backs. As Mrs. Daley enters, her presence dominating the room, I steel myself for what’s to come. Her eagle eyes scan every corner, looking for any reason to unleash her cruelty. As she inspects the room, I hold my breath, preparing for her verdict.

She begins her inspection, her eyes scanning for any imperfection. I hold my breath, praying she finds nothing amiss.

A Few Hours Later

We have run out of time. The clock has ticked the end of lives away so cruelly. Today is the day; one I knew was coming but didn’t believe I would live long enough to see. However, Alpha Brock will finally put an end to my misery. I turned eighteen a few weeks ago, and I was surprised he didn’t jump to put me down that very day. Luckily, he was out of town because it gave Ivy enough time to ask to be tried alongside me. Death is the least of my fears. No, my biggest fear besides leaving Tyson in Mrs. Daley’s hands is being put up for auction and sold to the butcher. He’s a vile man, despicable. I shudder at the thought of his hands on me and suck in a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart. I will kill myself before I ever let myself be placed in his hands again.

No, Doyle will not have me, won’t be allowed to violate me further, and I know Ivy will understand she will have to. She knows the pain he caused me, though we never speak of it; she knows what he did. If only she hadn’t climbed on that chair next to me and pulled the noose around her neck, too. Perhaps then the rope would have held my weight, and my misery would have ended that fateful day.

Although, the very thought of leaving Ivy with our headmistress, Mrs. Daley, makes bile rise up my throat. She’s a wicked old woman. I can’t stand her, especially after what she just did to us. My back stings, but I know the markings that mar my skin are nothing compared to the whipping Ivy just got. All because she gave us too many chores—more than usual—because the king is visiting today, and she wants her yearly donations.

He is the reason we are in this mess; he makes the laws. As if we care if the stupid king is visiting the pack today; he would just be another to torment us if given the chance. I flinch as I place the rag doused in medicinal herbs on her skin. Ivy tries not to move or cringe, but I know it must be burning like crazy. I remind myself it will be over for both of us very soon. Eight horrendous years later, and we are finally going to be free of this place, this life.

Death.

Most would think it morbid to wish for death, but death will be more pleasant than the life we are living in this orphanage—forced by the very pack that killed our parents. The Alpha slaughtered them right in front of us mercilessly.

Grabbing a bandage, I start wrapping it around her torso. Ivy shudders and grips the comforter on the bottom bunk, fisting it, trying to hide the pain she is in. I sniffle, trying to stop myself from crying. Goddess knows Mrs. Daley would punish us worse if she saw a tear.

Once I finish dressing her wounds, I reach for her blouse and help her pull it on, untucking her raven hair as it bunches up inside it. I smile sadly at her, hoping the herbs will help remove some of the pain for her. Standing, Ivy swallows and nudges me, taking the leftover rags and tapping me in a silent message to turn around. Ivy dabs the wounds on my back with a wet cloth to clean them; though mine are just raised skin and sting a little—hers are deep gashes. When she finishes, she squeezes my arm gently and I pull my blouse back on hissing as my shoulders move.

Ivy watches me and silence falls between us. If I have to go out, I’m glad I have Ivy by my side. I would be lying if I said I’m not a little scared, though; however, I can’t help but wonder if I will be reunited with my parents. Gosh how I miss them! It has been so long; I’ve almost forgotten what they looked like or even the sounds of their voices—it feels like a lifetime ago.

Reaching my hand out, Ivy places her calloused one in mine and glances around our orphanage bedroom—the room lined with bunks for the children we cared for, for more than eight years.

I will miss them but not this place.

I give Ivy’s hand a squeeze and she tightens hers back.

I don’t let go as we walk out of our bedroom and up long corridors passing each room.

It saddens me knowing there will be no little faces tomorrow for us; no little hands dragging us from our bed to make them breakfast.

The children here are the only good thing about this place. As we pass each room, I slow, hesitating at Tyson’s door. I’m worried–who will look after him? He is non-verbal and has a severe learning disability, but Mrs. Daley refused to have him tested. Will he get fed or will Mrs. Daley lock him away again like some animal? He is such a sweet boy, just misunderstood. Emotions threaten to choke me as I stare at his little bed; the little bed I would sometimes climb into in the middle of the night to soothe his night terrors. The little bed filled with his scent.

If I wasn’t going to my own funeral, I would take him with me, but death is no place for him. He deserves the world, and I hope one day he will have it at his little fingertips. It takes all my willpower to keep walking. This will be the last time we walk these halls; the last time we see the little faces we helped clean and the little hands we held. The corridors are silent as we descend the spiral staircase to the floor below.

As we reach the bottom, the weight lifts off me. We are finally free–free of this life and free of Mrs. Daley. I will no longer have to hide whenever the butcher comes to drop off meat; I will no longer have to see his face again after today.

With that thought in mind, I glance at Ivy, knowing she’s feeling the exact same thing as me. We’ve endured enough and today our suffering ends along with our lives.

“Let’s go home,” I whisper to her.

Ivy pushes on the double doors leading to the small courtyard out front. The porch creaks under our feet and I see the kids playing out front on the run-down play equipment. I’ve lost count of the number of times I have had to patch the kids up after falling from it or pulling splinters from tiny feet and hands. We step out into the bitterly cold air, though the cold has never really bothered me. I spent most of my life on autopilot, anyway, barely feeling anything. It’s one thing I can say Mrs. Daley taught me: emotion gets us nothing; pain and tears won’t save us; she taught me just how easily someone could break when she locked me in that damn basement with the butcher. After that day, I learned it was better not to feel, just switch it off – it is what it is. So, I hold that thought as I step outside.

The day is overcast, clouds hiding the sun, making it gloomy. The gray clouds are low, and it looks like it will rain later in the day.

The kids stop what they’re doing and rush over, grabbing and reaching for us, wanting us to play. Tears threaten to bubble and spill but I fight them back looking for my boy and enjoying seeing them one last time when a car pulls up and parks on the curb. It is sleek and black, with windows tinted so darkly we can’t see who is inside. Yet I don’t care because I notice Tyson coming over to me. His plushie in his hand is missing an eye that I have sewed on one too many times before giving up. His eyes are glassy, and Kimmy stands not far, his ratty blanket tucked over her arm. Besides Kimmy, the kids have no idea where we are going. But looking at Tyson’s little face, I feel he knows now – like he can feel the sadness bleeding out of me at leaving him. He knows I’m not coming back, and seeing the distress on his little face breaks my heart as I scoop him up.

“Shh, don’t cry, don’t cry,” I whisper, kissing his temple. He is skinny and fits perfectly in my arms. “You be a good boy, try to stay away from Mrs. Daley okay, and stay with Kimmy or wait for Katrina. Katrina is good, remember,” I tell him, and he nods sadly, clutching my neck. Ivy brushes her fingers through his hair. Both of us have a soft spot for Tyson. He was only a few days old when his parents were killed, and he was a colicky baby. The first year of his life, I hardly slept, and when I did catch a few moments, it was because he was on my chest. Now I’m leaving him to this horrid woman.

I inhale deeply, soaking in his scent one last time, savoring it as I silently pray to the moon goddess to not let anything happen to him.

Ivy nudges me, telling me we should go, and I place him down before noticing the car is still parked by the curb.

The passenger door opens, and two men hop out. They are dressed well, in clean crisp clothes, not a hair out of place and look picture-ready. Neither looks like what I expect so-called royalty to look like. Mrs. Daley rushes out in a hurry.

She looks like a mutton dressed up as a lamb. The old hag has changed into a super tight pencil skirt and blouse, having popped the first two buttons open as if either of these men would be interested in her wrinkling, old floppy tits. They look like golf balls in socks; I’ve seen her naked once and can tell you she had old floppy tits and sported a 70s afro that would need a hedge trimmer. It scarred my eyeballs, and Ivy and I snickered about it for weeks afterward. I try not to laugh and let Ivy tug me along to meet Alpha Brock.

Mrs. Daley stares over at the two men as they approach the small brick fence surrounding the place. “You must be…” she stops trying to figure out who they are. “I thought the Lycan King was coming today?” Mrs. Daley asks, looking slightly upset. I nod toward them, and Ivy shrugs, looking them over with the same curiosity.

“He couldn’t make it, so he sent us instead,” says the man who hopped out of the driver’s seat. He is tall, dressed in a suit and has blond hair that shapes his face. Another man gets out of the car behind that one; he has darker features. His lips set in what looks like a permanent scowl, and his jaw is clenched tight, hands fisted at his sides. He moves to the back of his car and lights a smoke. I watch as he draws back on it and nearly stumble over my own feet as Ivy pulls me along.

For some reason, I find him intriguing but shake my head and push the thoughts away. There is something dark and sinister about that man. His dark eyes look me over before they meet mine. The endless pools of darkness stare back at me; he smirks making me tear my eyes away from him and pay attention to where I am walking.

Lycans are different from werewolves; they remain upright when they shift and are more powerful, faster, and can turn another werewolf into a Lycan; werewolves can’t change people and aren’t anywhere near their caliber. We are practically dogs compared to them; which is why Lycans rule over all of us.

Werewolves, like myself, are considered half-human; I shifted on my eighteenth birthday—what a horrific experience that was—especially when Mrs. Daley would come in to beat me when I was too loud; unfortunately she also beat Ivy for my pain.

Lycans are purebloods and lethal beasts; they are immortal though a dying species — go figure! Apparently they can die but their lifespan is endless unless mortally injured.

As we step out of the gate, a man I hadn’t noticed before steps into Ivy’s path.

Ivy freezes, and I hear her breathing pick up beside me. This man commands attention seemingly without trying. His suit does nothing to hide the bulk of muscle pressing tightly beneath it. His silver eyes glow as he stares at Ivy. I want to cower away from him, yet Ivy stares back seemingly mesmerized by him. He cocks his head to the side watching her. I grab Ivy’s arm, giving it a shake, knowing Mrs. Daley will whip her extra good before we leave if Ivy embarrasses her by stealing this man’s attention.

“We should go,” I whisper. I don’t want to leave Alpha Brock waiting; he will make our death particularly heinous, and Ivy nods to me. Another car pulls up, but as we pass, both men are gazing at her. We walk out of the small gate when the man with silver sparkling eyes grips Ivy’s arm tugging her to him, and I gasp as his eyes flicker. Movement out of the corner of my eye moves my gaze to the man who is smoking. He tosses his cigarette to the gutter with a curious expression on his face as he watches the man holding Ivy’s arm.”

“Rogue?” the man says, and my grip on her hand tightens; the way he looks at her is as if he wants to devour her. He turns his attention toward Mrs. Daley and lets her arm go before glancing at me, and I quickly drop my gaze. We both duck our heads in submission. The man growls, and Mrs. Daley bumps me, making my back arch as she moves closer. I don’t miss the way she sneers at Ivy.

“Yes, sir, they are just on their way. Run along, girls,” Mrs. Daley says, and we both nod, and I jerk on Ivy’s hand.

Without uttering a peep, we make our way into town. This side of town is run-down; the lawns are overgrown, litter fills and clogs the gutters, and leaves coat the ground as we walk. Most of the houses have been destroyed by a storm that blew through town a few months ago, leaving most abandoned.

There is only one way in and out of this town as it’s high up in the winding mountain ranges. The forest surrounding it is vast and dense, keeping us secluded from any human towns. Packs tend to stick to themselves and after years of hiding, humans eventually forget about werewolves, and we become folklore or myth. Yet all myths and legends start somewhere, usually with a version of the truth.

Both Ivy and I gaze at the forest longingly; if only we could escape. I sigh; the only freedom we will get is with death, foolish to run, though I can see that Ivy desperately wants to do so, too. However, a quick death is what I can live with—if we run, Alpha Brock will tear us apart piece by piece personally believing we have suffered enough.

“Come on,” I tell Ivy before she gets any ideas; we wouldn’t even make it to the forest edge before they caught us. We stride toward Town Square where we can hear people in town getting ready for the Alpha. He rarely comes to town having no need with servants at his beck and call; however today his presence is required.

The Alpha gets to decide our fates; those wishing to join the pack are herded once a month to Town Square and put on display by Alpha Brock who decides whether you can join. Other options are to cast you out or kill you. I shudder at the latter. The last option is being sold. But I don’t let my mind even go there, knowing the butcher would be the first one to raise his hand. My heart is set on either death or the unlikely miracle of being cast out.

The hustle and bustle echo loudly as we enter the square while pack members go about their day like we aren’t about to be slaughtered by their Alpha. When rogue children turn eighteen, the Alpha gets to choose their fate. It is cruel. You’d think killing parents is enough for him.

I know he will never let us go. Ivy isn’t eighteen yet but once Mrs. Daley declared I would be going before the Alpha, she begged and pleaded to have her case heard at the same time. Mrs. Daley said she would see what she could do but only if she did all her chores. For weeks she busted her ass despite me telling her not to. She wanted to die with me. We have a pact; it is probably silly but where one goes the other goes, even in death.

Mrs. Daley, though, is all too excited to get rid of us, and when Alpha Dean visited next, who is Alpha Brock’s father, he granted Ivy’s wish.

After today there will be no rogue orphans. All the orphans are pack members’ children who have been lost in various pack wars. Yet despite everything, I’m grateful that I am able to stand up on the podium with my best friend and have someone to die with. Though I can’t imagine a world without Ivy in it, and I suppose she feels the same. She is like my sister; we grew up together and I would lay down my life in a heartbeat for her if I could, but she would never allow that. She would lay beside me; that’s how it has always been and how it will be today.

People step away from us as we enter, giving us disgusted looks and a wide berth. Rogues have a particular scent to pack wolves, alerting them to intruders, and that’s how those here in the town square look at us—with judging, unwelcoming gazes. I squeeze Ivy’s fingers tighter as she slows, taking in those around us.

People watch as we make our way to the stage and take our seats next to it. The wind is cool and moves my hair in the breeze. Townspeople stare at us, spit at our feet—one even kicks my foot as he passes us. I can feel a set of unwanted eyes on me which has me nervously glancing around and I instantly find the culprit: The butcher.

Peeking at him, he waves and blows me a kiss, and I close my eyes sucking in a deep breath fighting the memories of what he did to me away—the way he violated me and destroyed me. It’s almost over Abbie; almost over and we will be free, I remind myself.

My wolf sense can pick up his pungent scent from here, and I try not to let it in—try to stop it from assaulting my nose.

Silence falls over the crowd of busy shoppers and those who came to watch our fates. Everyone rushes to take their seats. Usually, Town Square is an open space, but someone has lined rows of chairs for people, some still standing around when we hear car doors in the distance. Then Alpha Brock strolls down the aisle between chairs.

He looks to be in his thirties and only took over for his father a few years ago. He has been cruel since he took over. No rogue has lived, so we know we are doomed. We are outsiders, apparently, which is a good enough reason to hate rogues. It’s instantly assumed that without a pack, rogues are seen as unsafe or defiant against Pack hierarchy.

I swallow as he approaches. He sneers at us before climbing the steps and addressing the crowd. He isn’t bad-looking but his cruelty makes him deeply unappealing. He is arrogant and also friends with the butcher. Good friends. I have seen them together speaking vulgarly, which only eggs the butcher on—even more so when I was younger. However, nothing will ever ruin me like that day when Mrs. Daley sold me to him.