IVY

The orphanage headmistress, Mrs. Daley, is in an excellent mood this morning. The Lycan King is visiting the orphanage today, and the old hag is unusually excited. The Lycan King hasn’t been here once in the eight years that Abbie and I have lived here, so we don’t know what to expect. Mrs. Daley, however, does. She expects perfection and not a thing out of place.

She wasted no time in giving Abbie and me more tasks than we could possibly handle, so many chores we both knew would never be done in time for his arrival.

As I am rushing the dirty laundry downstairs, I can hear Mrs. Daley as she hums along to the radio in the kitchen. As quietly as possible, I sneak past her, not wanting her to add any more chores to the never-ending list Abbie and I already have.

Slipping out to the sunroom attached to the rear porch, I see Abbie with Tyson. She's raised him since he was a baby. Mrs. Daley wanted to kill him. She hated that he cried all the time, so Abbie took him, promising to keep him from bothering her, and she has raised him ever since. I know leaving him behind will be hard for her.

“What are you standing around for, Rogue? Get moving! I expect nothing out of place when the King arrives. You better pray to the Moon Goddess you’re finished in time, or I will teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!” Mrs. Daley screeches at me.

I jump, tossing the basket down, and turn to face her. “Yes, Mrs. Daley,” I tell her, bowing my head.

Her fingers wrap around her cane as she narrows her wrinkled eyes at me. "Where is the other rogue brat?" she asks.

I swallow down my dread, watching her fist the tip of her cane.

"I tasked her with the bathrooms and laundry while you finished the dining hall, didn't I?" she asks.

"I finished quicker, so I thought I would help her, Ma'am," I lie.

"Very well. Now get back to work," she snaps. Just as I turn back to the dirty laundry, her cane smacks the side of my arm, stopping me. "Oh, and tell your little rogue friend, the butcher said he will see her at the town square. He's hoping the Alpha chooses to auction you both instead of killing you. He has big plans for a harlot like her," she laughs cruelly.

Tears burn the backs of my eyes at her words. My hands shake, and bile rises up my throat. The butcher is a vile man, despicable. Instantly, my mind goes to how I found Abbie that day, an image I wish I could forget. And to think the headmistress would sell her like that. To a man like him. It just shows she doesn’t have an ounce of humanity left in her. When I say nothing, Mrs. Daley sneers and wanders off. I quickly place the dirty laundry in the washing machine and turn it on, having just finished the last bathroom.

Thankfully she hadn't noticed Abbie sneak out to see Tyson, or that would have ended with some lashes.

Picking up my peasant skirt, I rush back inside and upstairs to the bedrooms. As I reach the top step and spot the clock high on the wall near the ceiling, I sigh. There is no way we’ll be done in time. I glance down the hall; there are doors on each side—rooms still waiting to be cleaned—and I shake my head. Alpha Brock is going to kill us if we’re late.

Abbie and I have been dreading this day, not because the Lycan King is visiting, but because today is the day we find out if we get to live another or if it will be the day our lives end. Not that I'm expecting anything rosy. Until now, my life has been pretty miserable. I was born a rogue, which is far from the privileged lifestyle of the pack children living outside this orphanage. I’m housed by the very pack that killed my parents, and the Alpha who slaughtered them mercilessly in front of us, making both Abbie and me orphans.

Growing up, I longed to have what my parents told me about packs: unity and family, other kids to play with besides Abbie—whose family lived with us before her parents were killed along with mine. With nowhere left to go, both of us were brought here. Turns out that growing up in a pack is nothing but a disappointment when you're rogue; even more so when you’re an orphan.

Unfortunately, because of some law by which all packs strictly live, I was shown mercy, or a twisted version of it. It's against pack law to kill rogue children. They call it mercy, but in reality, it's anything but. My parents were rogues, meaning they had no pack. Some choose a life without a pack, but typically, most rogues have been shunned by their packs. My parents, however, chose that lifestyle. We lived a life on the run, but at least we were free. Despite the freedom, I could always tell my mother had missed being part of a pack by the way she would sometimes speak of the community side of it. That all ended when I was just shy of my tenth birthday. Now I live in the pack orphanage. Abbie and I are the only two rogues that reside here since Taylor was slaughtered years ago, so we know our future looks bleak. Because we were rogues rather than pack orphans, we were very clearly at the bottom of the food chain. Not a day goes by where we aren’t reminded of our place.

None of that changes the fact that today is an important day. Today, we will be set free, just not in a sense that most would perceive as freedom. But it is for us. So, we tend to our chores, watching the hours tick by.

I start stripping beds of their linens while Abbie rushes into the room, her fiery red locks swishing past me as she dumps the fresh bed linen on the bottom bunk. There are six bunks in every room, and there are twelve rooms. We have to have each room cleaned and made up before starting on lunch. I haven’t eaten lunch, or even breakfast, in years, the same as Abbie. There's just no time; time is something we're already running out of, in more ways than one.

"She almost caught me," Abbie gasps, rushing to dust the chandelier.

I glance at her to see her wipe a stray tear.

"He'll be fine, Abbie" I reassure her, though I have my doubts. Mrs. Daley is a cruel woman, and not even I hold much hope for little Tyson.

"Mrs. Daley…. she told me…" I pause, unsure how to tell her.

Abbie looks over at me. "What is it?" she murmurs.

Swallowing down my fear, I answer, knowing it will break her if Mrs. Daley's claim is true. "The butcher will be there. He's hoping we're auctioned and not killed."

Abbie's lips quiver and she swallows, her eyes darting to the ceiling as she fights back the urge to break down.

"More than my life, Abbie," I whisper.

"I can't promise that; not this time, Ivy. I'd rather death than allow him to get his hands on me again,” she tells me, and I blink back tears. “Don't make me break a promise," she whispers, tears in her own eyes.

I nod, knowing how much she suffered. "More than my life," I repeat.

She knows exactly what I mean the second time I speak it. Those words mean more to us than any 'I love you' ever could.

“No, I won't allow it,” Abbie stammers, sucking in a breath. We have a pact, and she knows I will honor it no matter what.

“More than my life,” I tell her with finality.

Abbie wipes a stray tear and nods slowly, her bottom lip quivering as she looks at me.

"More than my life," she whispers finally before turning back to her task. Abbie says nothing more, and I suck in a shaky breath.

I finish stripping the beds and toss the sheets onto the pile on the floor. Abbie starts pulling back the heavy black drapes, cracking the windows open slightly and letting in the fresh air. It's cold this morning; the air brings in a frigid chill, but I know I'll be sweating by the time I'm done and welcoming that chilly draft.

Now that the bed linen is stripped, I start making the beds. The most challenging part is the top bunks. They can be a real bitch to get flat. Mrs. Daley doesn't like wrinkles in the bed linen, and she always checks while twisting her cane between her hands. She'll check each bed, looking for any reason to punish us while Abbie and I hold our breaths, waiting for the verdict; wrinkled sheets are a good enough reason for the cane she carries.

Heaven forbid she doesn't like something, or we do it wrong. I've lost count of the times my skin was welted by that cane or the thin whip wrapped around its handle. I will never forget the sting, and I have more scars on my back than bare skin from the lashings breaking the flesh when she would go too far.

“Pillows,” Abbie’s soft voice says behind me as I finish the last bed. Turning, she tosses them to me and I place them on each bed. We both look around nervously, ensuring no toys are forgotten and nothing is out of place, double checking the dark rugs are straight and the corners lie flat on the floor. We don’t have time to sweep, something I know Mrs. Daley will notice and make us pay for.

We still have five rooms and only two hours left before being called to the town square to learn our fate. We had both decided we would take the lashes for not cleaning; it would be better than showing up late to see the pack’s Alpha.

He is the one who decides what happens to us. This day has hung over our heads for eight long years, like a dark cloud threatening to rain down on us the closer it gets, and I know today it's going to pour down and drown us.

Rushing to the next room, we start all over again—the same routine every day. Once done here, we have to prepare sandwiches for the kids while praying to the Moon Goddess that we finish before 1 p.m. If we're late, I know he'll kill us. It's a great disrespect to the Alpha if you keep him waiting. The Alpha waits for no one, especially a lowly rogue.

By the time we finish, my arms feel like jelly and my legs burn, threatening to give out under me. Abbie clutches her knees, looking around at the sparsely furnished room. The fireplaces in the corner of each room provide the only heating, the windows the only cooling in this dreadful place. We both stare at the dust on them and sigh. The fireplaces create so much ash that settles on everything like yet another layer of dust, making our job even more problematic in the winter. There won't be enough time to tend to that.

At that point, Abbie is breathing hard, and we still have to make the lunches. Her green eyes stare at me knowingly; we're bound to be late. She knows as well as I do… today we will die. Her already pale face turns white as a sheet as she glances at the clock. We have forty-three minutes and over a hundred sandwiches to make for the resident children.

We hear the click of heels on the black, wooden floorboards heading in our direction. Straightening up, we flatten our aprons, fix our hair, and smooth down our long skirts. Just as we place our hands behind our backs, eyes straight ahead, she steps into the room. Her snakeskin stilettos are loud on the floor as she steps in with her round glasses perched on the end of her nose.

Mrs. Daley sneers at us, her lips pulling back over her teeth as she goes to each bed. With her trusty can in hand, she twists it in her fist before slapping it on her palm menacingly. Abbie’s eyes dart to me nervously. Her eagle eyes scan the room for anything out of place, looking for any excuse to punish us.

Her hair is pulled into a bun so tight on top of her head that it looks painful. Her high cheekbones and pointed, straight nose make her face crueler and sharper; she reminds me of a crow. She pushes her glasses up on her nose as she looks around.

Mrs. Daley is in her forties but looks more in her late fifties; the lines around her lips and deep wrinkles around her eyes give that impression.

We remain like statues, completely still except for our eyes scanning her every move.

She runs her fingers over the windowsill, and I see Abbie tense. My eyes flit toward it to see it covered in soot. Mrs. Daley clicks her tongue, holding her fingers up to show us. I swallow, my mouth going dry.

“What is this?” she questions, rubbing her fingers together. The ash falls to the floor and her eyes follow it. The kids had trekked dirt through the room, and she doesn't miss that as she glances down.

She purses her lips, which only makes her face wrinkle more.

“Who was supposed to do the windowsills?” she snaps at us, cracking the cane on her palm and lifting her chin.

Abbie raises her hand but says nothing. I can see the fear in her bright green eyes, tears already brimming.

“And the floors?”

I raise mine, my stomach sinking. I knew she wouldn’t miss it.

She points to Abbie with her cane. “You! You get three strikes, one for each windowsill.”

Abbie presses her lips together, holding out her hands palm down. Mrs. Daley shakes her head.

“Not good enough. We have important visitors today and I need to show them I don’t slack on discipline,” she says with venom in her voice. I watch as Abbie’s bottom lip trembles. The back is the worst because every move will sting for days.

IVY

One thing we know is that Mrs. Daley likes to show off her handiwork, which is bound to make us look worse when the Alpha arrives. Abbie tugs her white blouse from her skirt, shrugging it off, leaving her in just her thin bra before grabbing the top bunk with her hands. Her nails bite into the wood, turning white under the pressure of her grip. I turn my gaze away before hearing the swish of the cane through the air. I flinch each time it comes down on her back, but Abbie knows better than to make a sound; it would only earn her extra if she did.

When Abbie's punishment is over, Mrs. Daley turns to me and points her cane in my face.

“You! You will get two for each room," says Mrs. Daley with a cruel smile on her face.

I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. Abbie starts to say something, but I shake my head. I know she is going to say half of them are hers, but there's no point in both of us being unable to stand properly, and we only have to endure it briefly anyway. We'll be dead soon enough.

"Hurry up, I haven't got all day; the King will be here soon. You better pray he leaves a good donation because if, by some miracle, the Alpha lets you live, I will kill you myself," she seethes, waving her cane in my face.

Abbie's eyes glisten with tears as I pull my blouse off, taking the same position as she did. I focus on the blue swirl pattern of the comforter on the bottom bunk. Only when she tosses her cane on the mattress in front of me do I blink back the tears. The thin chainlike whip that is usually wrapped around the cane's handle is gone. Abbie makes a strangled noise behind me and yelps when Mrs. Daley hits the wooden bunk beside my hand, making me flinch.

"Quiet, rogue, or I will double hers," she sneers at Abbie.

I stare at the indent beside my hand, a piece of wood splintered off, the whip having sliced it through. Why does she hate me so much? That's one thing I never understood. I didn't kill her mate. He died when my parents were captured, but she's blamed me ever since, so I know I'm about to really get it. I grit my teeth as the first blow streaks across my shoulders, making my back arch. I fight the urge to cry out. As fiery pain slashes through my skin, my mouth opens in a silent scream at the terrible pain.

"Stay still, or I will triple it," she seethes. I clutch the frame of the bunk and clench my jaw, focusing back on the patterns on the comforter and trying to block out the agony. She doesn't hold back. I feel each slice; feel the intense burning; feel the flesh splitting further open where it was hit more than once; feel the trickles of blood running down my back and sides; see my blood spraying on the comforter on the backswing as my skin is carved to Mrs. Daley's liking.

Tears stream down my face and fall off my chin onto the black flats on my feet and the black floorboards beneath, yet not a sound leaves my lips. Abbie whimpers behind me—I know it's at the sight of my back. Yet I make no noise, fearing a worse punishment if I so much as utter a peep.

Mrs. Daley takes a deep breath, like she's exhausted from dishing out the punishment. I shudder, my back burning violently like someone doused it in fuel and set it alight.

"Now, clean yourselves up. I am being lenient today. I had Katrina prepare the lunches. You girls may take your leave now. You can help her clean up before you see the Alpha," Mrs. Daley orders, turning her attention to Abbie.

"Thank you, Mrs. Daley," Abbie and I whisper, and I cringe as I turn to face her. I hear how my voice trembles as I try to stand straighter. Mrs. Daley flicks back the hair that escaped her bun and pushes her round glasses up her nose. Then, she snatches her cane off the bed and re-wraps her whip around the handle.

"Well, you girls have made me all frazzled; I better clean myself up," she says, like we've personally wronged her in some way. I watch as she leaves the room before collapsing onto the bottom bunk. The sudden movement causes me to wince. Abbie comes rushing over, examining my back, careful not to touch the angry red lines that are split open and now forever branded into my flesh.

"Wait here. I will be back. I will clean it up," she says. Her teary eyes look down at me, and she smiles sadly, sniffling and wiping her nose on her skirt.

My lip quivers as I take a quick glance at the clock on the wall. "We haven't got time."

I am about to pull my blouse on but she ignores me, rushing from the room and returning with some wet cloth and a bandage.

"Abbie, we really haven't got time," I remind her, grabbing her hands as she steps closer. Her green eyes hold mine and she smiles sadly.

"We are as good as dead anyway; what does it matter if we are late to our own funeral?" she says, and I feel a lump forming in my throat.

I try to swallow it down, but I know she’s right. It's rare for the Alpha to let any of the rogues live once they hit adulthood. Those that did wish for death. I nod. She's right; we are going to die, anyway. What does it matter?

I let her shaking hands go, sliding over so she can sit beside me. I turn slightly so she has better access to my back. Every dab of the cloth makes me flinch, and I hiss when she drapes the cloth doused in herbs on my back. She leaves it there while unrolling the bandage. I hold on to the corners covering my shoulders as she wraps the bandage around my torso as gently as she can.

The dressing is not long enough to do the top half of my back, but the cloth sticks to it anyway, keeping it covered as my blood seeps into it and holds it in place. She ties it off when she is done, and I let my arms fall. The bandages shove my breasts up my chest and lift my bra higher, which is now a little uncomfortable. At least it helps hold the bandages in place.

Abbie grabs my blouse, helping me slide my arms in. The wet cloth feels cold on my back but soothes the burning sensation from the cuts that now litter my back with the rest of my scars. I dab Abbie's wounds with a wet cloth to clean them, but hers have only puckered the skin. They look angry and raw, but thankfully she is not bleeding. She pulls her blouse on before turning to face me. A somber look takes over her face. She goes to say something but decides against it, closing her mouth.

Instead, Abbie grabs my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. I squeeze hers back but don't let go as we walk out of the bedroom. We walk up the long corridors, passing each room. 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, and Abbie stops at the door of one room. I know she's wondering if Tyson will be okay. Abbie raised the boy and I know she loves him as if he were her own. I give her a nudge toward the exit before we descend the spiral staircase to the floor below.

The slate floors are always cold, and I can feel the cold seeping through the thin soles of my shoes; soles we had to make from bits of cardboard to fill the holes in the bottom of our flats. Not that it does much to protect our feet. Mrs. Daley said she wouldn't waste money on girls on death row.

As we walk out and into the corridor leading to the front door, Abbie looks at me.

"Let's go home," she whispers. She doesn't mean our real home; she means freedom: freedom from this life, the sort of freedom that comes with death and setting one's tortured soul free.

I press my hand on the double doors and see the kids playing out the front on the run-down play equipment through the glass before we even walk out. Abbie and I step into the bite of the fresh air. It feels cold and overcast today. The clouds hide the sun, making it gloomy, echoing how I feel inside.

The kids stop what they’re doing and rush over, grabbing and reaching for us, wanting us to play. We linger a bit, enjoying seeing them one last time and saying goodbye to them. A sleek black car pulls up and parks on the curb. The windows are tinted so dark that I can’t see who is inside.

Not that I care anyway.

The passenger door opens and two men hop out. They are dressed well: clean, crisp clothes, not a hair out of place, looking picture-ready. Neither looks like what I would expect so-called royalty to look like, though. Mrs. Daley rushes out in a flurry, whizzing past us before stopping.

She looks 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?" she asks, looking slightly upset. Abbie nods toward them, and I shrug, looking them over.

"The King couldn't make it, so he sent us instead," says the man who eased out of the driver's seat. He is tall, dressed in a suit. His light brown hair shapes his high cheekbones and sharp solid features and he is built solid, making me wonder if he is Lycan as well. Though, I have heard that only Lycans work for the King and are allowed to live in his kingdom.

Lycans differ from werewolves in some pretty significant ways. For one, they remain upright when they shift and are faster and more powerful. They are pureblood; descended from the Moon Goddess herself. They can also turn a werewolf into a Lycan. Werewolves, on the other hand, are like dogs compared to them. We are smaller, less powerful, and cannot change people into werewolves. This is why the Lycans have ruled over us for centuries. In fact, werewolves like myself are considered half human.

Lycans are also immortal, which is ironic because there aren’t many left. As I look the two Lycans up and down, the wind shifts and I get a whiff of something strong and masculine. My insides warm as I take in a deeper breath, wanting to savor the scent. My mouth waters, and I shake my head, wondering what came over me as my senses try to hone in and focus on it, searching for the source of that wonderful smell. I look back at the men, and my eyes land on the one who had left the passenger seat. He is staring back at me, his expression indecipherable. He appears to be curious for a second, but I shake the thought away when he turns his gaze away quickly. I know I imagined it.

There is, however, something off about him. He seems stronger, in a sense, to the other men. This man commands attention, seemingly without trying. His suit does nothing to hide the bulk of muscle pressed tightly beneath it. My eyes roam over his high cheekbones, firm jaw, five o'clock shadow, and dark, almost black hair. His silver eyes glow back at me when he cocks his head to the side, watching me yet again. Abbie grabs my arm, tugging my attention away from him, and I realize my mouth is hanging open as I openly gawk at him.

"We should go," Abbie whispers, pulling me out of what feels like a trance. I nod to her when another car pulls up, both men looking at it. We walk out the small gate until the man with silver sparkling eyes grips my arm, tugging me to his side. I jump in fright as a whimper leaves my lips.. His hand is warm against my arm, making my skin tingle under his touch while my breath hitches in my throat.

"Rogue?" he says. His voice is smooth as velvet, making me shiver with its depth. He looks at Mrs. Daley and his brows furrow, creating a line between them. He lets my arm go, then looks at Abbie, and we both duck our heads in submission. I hear him growl and I realize the intoxicating scent I smelled earlier is emitting from him.

"Yes, sir. They are just on their way. Run along, girls," Mrs. Daley says, a hidden venom in her voice. We nod quickly and shuffle out of there swiftly. I hear him ask where we are going, but we rush off up the street, getting away as quickly as possible before Mrs. Daley can find another reason to hurt us.

We eventually slow down once they’re out of sight. We’ve found our way into town. This side of the town is run-down, almost desolate. Most of these houses had been destroyed by a storm that blew through the town a few months ago, leaving them abandoned or in ruins.

I hug myself as much as possible without pulling on my torn back too much, running my hands up and down my arms, trying to warm them from the chill in the air. We pause when we come to the cross-section. One way leads to the town, the other leads away. This is the only way in and out of this town, as it only has one road leading in and is on a mountain. The forest surrounding it is vast and dense.

Both Abbie and I look to the forest longingly. If only we could escape. If only we could actually make it. Abbie's mind, I can tell, is also calculating our chances before she sighs. We would no doubt be dead within seconds of stepping into the forest. Border patrol would catch us instantly, and they would make an example of us. Or else we’d starve or get attacked by the other creatures in the woods. We are already doomed. There is no point in making our deaths more painful by attempting to run. The best thing we can do is simply accept our fate.

"Come on," Abbie says, grabbing my hand. We walk toward the town square. As we approach, we can hear people in the town getting ready for the Alpha’s arrival. He rarely comes to town; he has no need to, with servants at his beck and call. However, his presence is required today.

It is the Alpha who gets to decide our fates. Those wishing to join the pack or who are caught are herded to the square once a month and put on display. The Alpha decides whether they let you join, cast you out, or kill you. Abbie and I are hoping to be cast out. We know even the cast-outs are probably dead before they get out of the forest, but we stand a chance as a cast out. We could at least try to run.

The hustle and bustle echoes loudly as we enter the square while pack members go about their day like we aren’t about to be slaughtered by their Alpha. Technically, I shouldn't even be put up yet, but because Abbie is already eighteen and has shifted into a wolf already, and I am only two months out from my eighteenth birthday, the Alpha decided to deal with me today since I would be the last rogue orphan living in the orphanage. Most of the orphans are pack members' children that had been lost in pack wars.

Yet despite everything, I feel grateful that I can stand up on the podium with my best friend and have someone to die with; it seems less lonely. I can accept my fate as long as she is beside me.

People step away from us as we enter, giving us disgusted looks as if they believe we are diseased or contagious and they can suddenly catch the disease of being a rogue.

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. Abbie squeezes my fingers tighter. People are watching as we make our way to the stage and take our seats next to it. Townspeople stare at us and spit at our feet, yet they think we are filthy animals? Glancing around, I notice the butcher in the distance watching Abbie.

I peek at her, hoping she hasn’t spotted him. She has. I grip her knee when he licks his filthy lips and blows a kiss to her while grabbing his crotch. Abbie drops her gaze instantly, seeming to shrink next to me while she fiddles with her fingers and keeps her eyes downcast. I have despised no one more than I do that disgusting man after what he did to her. While waiting anxiously for the Alpha, I notice the square filling with pack members wanting to watch our hearing, or should I say slaughter; it’s not like we would be given an opportunity to plead for mercy.

Unlike the way we just came, this part of town is lovely; it has fruit stalls, homemade crafts and goods, and stores lining the sides, making it into the town square. The dead center of the town is where most of the people congregate. It is always bustling with shoppers and people just wanting to hang out and talk. It’s also where all social gatherings are held. Not that Abbie and I could attend those; they are strictly reserved for pack members only.

Silence falls over the crowd, and they take their seats, which proves the Alpha is near to arriving. Usually, the town square is an open space, but someone has assembled rows of chairs for onlookers. Some are still standing around when I hear car doors in the distance. Alpha Brock walks down the aisle between the chairs wearing only a tank top revealing his tattooed arms, and a pair of shorts.

Alpha Brock looks to be in his thirties and only took over from his father a few years ago. He has a reputation for being cruel. Since he has taken over, no rogue has been let go, so we know we are doomed with him as our judge. No doubt he'd also be our executioner. We are seen as less, not worthy of breathing the same air as pack members, let alone actually becoming one. We are considered outsiders and apparently, that is a good enough reason to hate all rogues. It is instantly assumed that without a pack, us rogues are unsafe or are defiant against pack ranking.

I swallow as he approaches. He sneers at us before walking up the steps and addressing the crowd. Alpha Brock isn't bad looking, but his cruelty makes him deeply unappealing. He's also arrogant. He once slapped me for accidentally stepping in his path the last time I saw him. That was the day Mrs. Daley sent me into the town square for supplies. It was humiliating. I was sent to get milk with Abbie. We were carrying the crate of milk and turned, bumping into him. An innocent mistake; one that left me red-faced once his large handprint was etched into it. I had dropped the box, but before I could even apologize, his hand had connected with my cheek.

I shake the memory away, reminding myself why I avoid the town square unless forced to come here. That was the second time I met him in the eight years I have lived here. Today will be the third and hopefully last.

The Alpha calls us up to the stage, and the butcher snickers as he takes a front-row seat. I grit my teeth and reach over to clutch Abbie’s hand, who is focusing on the small cafe that has blue and white little umbrellas out the front, doing her best to avoid his eye contact. I pull her with me, and we walk up to the stage.

“Ah, choices. Now, what should I do with these filthy rogues?” The Alpha laughs; he knows exactly what he is going to do with us. He is just taunting us and dragging out the inevitable.

I clutch Abbie’s fingers when the Alpha grabs my arm, but I refuse to let her go as he motions to the butcher. He climbs the stairs, and my lip quivers as I watch Abbie tense as he pauses behind her. She yelps when he grabs her, his hands wrapping around her middle as he jerks her back against him, one hand squeezing her breast.

“Brock, let me keep this one,” the butcher whines. Her entire body tenses as he yanks a hessian bag over her head.

“What do you want her for?” the Alpha demands.

“She has a tight ass,” he says, running his hands down her arms and gripping her hips, making her whimper.

The Alpha huffs. “No, I want them gone. Besides, you can have any of the girls at the brothel. Why would you want filthy rogue pussy?” the Alpha tells him, and I let out a breath of relief. Death would be preferable to whatever sadistic torture the butcher has in store.

The butcher makes a strange noise behind her before he bumps his crotch against her ass. “Feel that? All you, baby. Goddess, you make me hard,” he purrs before shoving her away.

The Alpha gives his usual speech about what a great Alpha he is and how the pack will thrive without a rogue presence here to tarnish this great little town before he hands down his sentence.