Abbie

“Oh, Abbie. Finally, you’re awake.” A sad smile flickers across my best friend Ivy’s face. “How are you feeling?”

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 in this orphanage. It's been eight years that Ivy and I have lived here.

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. The orphanage headmistress 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.

“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.”

Ivy and I had been dreading the day—the day we would find out if we get to live another, or if it would be the day it all ends. Because of some law by which all packs strictly live, we were shown mercy or a version of it. It was against the pack law to kill rogue children. We lived a life on the run, but at least we were free. That all ended when I was just shy of my tenth birthday. Now I live in the pack orphanage, and Ivy and I are the only two rogues that reside here. Alpha Brock 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 got.

“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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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!”

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.

“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.”

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.

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 70’s 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.

The Alpha calls us up to the stage, and the butcher snickers as he takes a front-row seat. I refuse to look at him, focusing on the small cafe with blue and white umbrellas out front. “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 and dragging out the inevitable.

I clutch Ivy’s fingers when the Alpha grabs her arm and tears her away. My lip quivers, and the Alpha motions to the butcher as he climbs the stairs. I feel his presence behind me as he yanks the hessian bag over my head like the Alpha did to Ivy.

“Brock, let me keep this one,” the butcher says, gripping my shoulders behind me, and my entire body tenses. “What do you want her for?”

“She has a tight ass,” he says, squeezing my shoulders as his hands trail down my arms. I am thankful for the Hessian bag so that I do not have to see him touching me. Knowing is bad enough; I don’t think I can handle seeing his face as the last thing before I die.

The Alpha huffs, “No, I want them gone. Besides, you can have any of the girls at the brothel. Why would you want rogue pussy?” I hear him tell the butcher, and I let out a breath of relief.

The butcher makes a strange noise behind me before I feel him bump his crotch against my ass. “All you baby, god you make me hard,” he whispers before shoving me away, tears spilling down my cheeks.

The Alpha gives his usual speech about what a great Alpha he is and how the pack will thrive without rogue presence here to tarnish this great little town before handing down his sentence. The relief I feel upon hearing it is like no other.

“I now sentence you both to death by beheading,” the Alpha says, his voice ringing out loudly across the crowd. The crowd cheers, acceptance settling over me, and tension leaving my body. Finally.

Blindly, I reach out and find Ivy’s hand and clutch her fingers, letting her know I am right beside her, and we will go together. “Don’t cry. They don’t deserve your tears,” I whisper to her, hoping she hears me. She must have because she squeezes my fingers back and tames her emotions.

The Alpha rips her away from me, and I have to stop the whimper trying to escape me. I can just see through the Hessian bag enough to see him shoving her over the stone block. I swallow. I want to go first; I do not want to witness her death. Calm, Abbie; it will be over soon, I tell myself.

The sound of the blade dragging across the stone makes my teeth ache, and I clench them trying to stop tears freely flowing down my face and dripping onto my chest.

“What do you think you are doing?” a deep voice says, silencing the crowd. I hold my breath trying to peer out through the tiny gaps of the Hessian bag before hearing a collective gasp.

“Putting this rogue out of its misery,” Alpha Brock says.

“She is not even of legal age for this. Free her now,” comes the voice loud and clear; his aura menacing and stronger than any werewolf aura.

“Under whose authority do you have the right to demand that of me?” Alpha Brock asks, sword sliding off the stone block and hitting the ground.

“Are you questioning me, Alpha? If you do not heed my warning and let her go, I will be forced to take your life. Now free her and hand her over to me,” comes the voice with a rush bursting out from him. The stranger’s aura bursts out, and I hear the Alpha take in a sharp breath; my knees shake as pain ricochets up my spine under its pressure.

“Lycan,” Alpha Brock gasps; though some pressure lifts the aura remains.

“Correct, it is about time you recognized your superior, Alpha,” the man says.

“Pack law says we are allowed to decide how we choose to handle rogues,” argues the Alpha.

“Yes, rogues of age; she has no wolf or else I would have sensed it. Now free her,” says the voice drawing closer with nervous laughter from the Alpha.

“You have no authority here. This is my pack,” Alpha Brock stammers. Idiot, I think. Lycans rule, they are the superior species, and my Alpha is treading dangerously into uncharted territory. Despite being the Pack Alpha, Lycans, no matter their status, overrule any werewolf and can do whatever they liked.

“You dare speak to a Lycan like that? Have you forgotten your place on the chain of command, Alpha?” comes another voice. You could hear a pin drop, and I am suddenly too scared to even breathe loudly.

His aura is even stronger, and I forget how to breathe under it. I thought the pain was bad before, but this is something else and if I was frozen in place under it, I know I would be on the ground writhing in agony.

“I, King Kyson, order you to free her now!” the deep voice sounds threatening, despite how calm he spoke. Alpha Brock whimpers before the sword falls from his hands, clanging loudly on the wooden stage beside us. Footsteps move up the steps before I feel a presence move behind me and over to where Ivy is, yet the aura coming out of whoever it is makes me tremble violently.

“You dare speak out against my Beta. Who do you think you are?” the voice booms loudly.

His anger makes his aura stronger and my knees hit the ground hard, my kneecaps feeling like they are about to split down the middle. The air is suddenly sucked from my lungs, and I am suffocating under the pressure of it.

I hear movement and a whimper as Ivy is dragged off stage and a tear slips down my face. At least she will be saved and free of this place. It is clear the man only wants her and that is reassuring, though I hope it isn’t with ill intentions.

Suddenly the pressure is lifted when the man drops his aura. For a few seconds nothing remains but impenetrable silence. Then the Alpha growls on stage. My startled shriek is loud as Alpha Brock grabs me in his tight grip dragging me toward the stone block. He bends down and snatches his sword from the ground and shoves me over the block.

I close my eyes, this is it, I am going home. I let out a breath waiting for the sword to slice through my neck.

“No,” I heard Ivy cry out. It’s okay, Ivy, I think to myself, just go and live. I never wanted her to die with me, I wouldn’t be a good friend if I did.

“Please, please don’t let him kill her,” she begs someone, and I worry she will get herself in trouble.

“Please, just let him kill me. I want to be with her,” Ivy begs, and tears burn my eyes at her words.

“Stop, I want the other girl, too,” his voice booms, and I gasp.

“Hand the girl over, you heard the king,” the King’s Beta says. Alpha Brock growls but grabs me, hauling me to my feet, then shoving me down the steps. I stumble before hitting someone. Hands grip my arms and whoever it is growls at the Alpha. The Hessian bag is suddenly lifted off my head and my eyes instantly go to search for Ivy. She’s by another man who is watching her. I don’t understand the look in his gaze, but I understand the expression on her face, relief and I rush to her.

I throw myself at her, clutching her. Ivy squeezes me and I can’t help the tears. I wanted death and this man wants her but where will that leave me now? Will I be cast away without Ivy? Death I can handle, but the unknown without her I can’t?

“Thank you,” I whispered though I wasn’t sure if I should thank him yet, still I bare my neck to him, and he nods once before his eyes fall back on Ivy.

“Follow me,” he says. Turning on his heel, he starts walking. I glance at Ivy before his Beta stops next to us.

“You heard the king, follow him,” the man says, staring at us both on the ground, though his words were soft, which I didn’t expect of him. We scramble upright, rushing after him and ignoring the shocked expressions of the town’s people.

We follow the king back to the orphanage and Ivy peers around nervously, as do I. What does he want with us? Or her, anyway; the only reason I’m here is because she begged him to spare me. The king walks rather quickly; we have to jog to keep up with him. His Beta follows behind us a few steps before we stop. Mrs. Daley is standing out the front and rushes over, staring with her mouth open, gaping at us.

“Hurry up, girls. Get inside,” she says, clearly shocked, but recovering quickly. We go to do what she says when the king opens the car door of his sleek black car and steps into Ivy’s path. He grips her arm, stopping her from passing him.

“Get in,” he says, and we stop. I clutch Ivy’s arm tightly while Ivy’s fingertips hold the side of my shirt, not willing to let me go, either.

“Your friend can come, but you are coming with me, so get in the car. I don’t like repeating myself,” he says to her sternly. I swallow, worried she wil anger him.

“Gannon, sir, may I ask what is going on?” Mrs. Daley speaks up.

“No, you may not,” the king snaps, but I could have sworn he said his name was Kyson. She went to speak again when the Beta spoke behind us as we climbed in the car.

“Be wise to close your mouth, lady, the king doesn’t like to repeat himself,” his Beta warns.

“King?” she squeaks, as I slide across the leather seat.

“Yes, King Kyson,” the Beta confirms, and she drops her head. Instead, the king pays her no attention, he reaches inside the car and leans over Ivy. Instinctively I lean away from him, but he only pulls on a strap and clips it in beside her waist.

“Seatbelts,” he says before pointing to the other beside me. I quickly copy what he did and clip it in, Ivy peers at me and I stare out the window to find the man who was smoking leaning against the car door beside me and I quickly glance away.

The king speaks to his men outside the car, and I nervously glance around.

“What’s going on?” I whisper before tangling my fingers through Ivy’s and dragging her hand onto my lap.

“Maybe they are casting us out,” Ivy whispered. I squeeze her fingers when the Beta gets in the driver’s seat, and the king in the passenger’s.

The car starts moving and I clutch my seat in panic and accidentally squeeze Ivy’s fingers too tightly. She tries to pull away, making me loosen my grip so the circulation returns to her fingers.