Before I Die Young

I woke to the sound of dripping water, a steady rhythm that marked time in my windowless cell. Eighteen years old today. The thought settled heavy in my chest as I stared at the cracked ceiling, counting water stains that had bloomed like dark flowers since yesterday. In another life, the one I was raised to expect, this birthday would have meant something. The coming of age, the possibility of finding a mate, of belonging. But my wolf had never awakened, and I had been cast aside, forgotten in this damp corner beneath the feet of those who once called me their daughter.

The thin mattress beneath me had long ago surrendered its shape, conforming to the concrete floor beneath. My blanket, threadbare but clean, at least, provided little warmth against the basement chill. I lay still for a moment longer, listening to the pipes groan overhead, carrying hot water to those who mattered while I shivered below.

Eighteen.

The age when most she-wolves trembled with anticipation, wondering if today might be the day they'd catch their mate's scent. The age when they would be presented to visiting packs, paraded like prized breeding stock, but with the privilege of choice that came with having a wolf. I had neither wolf nor choice.

I pushed myself up, my muscles protesting after yesterday's double shift in the laundry. The lone lightbulb dangled mockingly above, casting my shadow long and distorted against the wall.

"Happy birthday to me," I whispered, the words falling flat in the empty room.

I dressed quickly in the standard servant's uniform, gray cotton pants and shirt, marked with the Silver Lake pack symbol in faded blue thread. Once, I'd worn silk and cashmere, colours chosen to complement the copper of my hair. Now, I tied that same hair back with a fraying elastic, not bothering with the cracked mirror propped against the wall. There was no one to impress, no one who would notice or care.

The lock on my door clicked; a sound so familiar I could distinguish it from all other basement noises, and Lily slipped inside, her face flushed with exertion and something else. Excitement, perhaps. It looked strange on her face; we'd both learned to keep our expressions neutral, our emotions hidden deep where they couldn't be used against us.

"Quick," she whispered, producing a small, misshapen object from beneath her shirt. "Before anyone sees."

I recognized it as a cake only by the single candle stuck into its center. It was lopsided and frosted unevenly, clearly pilfered in pieces and reassembled in secret.

"Lily, you didn't." My chest tightened with equal parts gratitude and fear. "If they catch you…"

"They won't," she said with the stubborn confidence that had kept her standing tall through years of servitude. "Not if we eat the evidence." She grinned, producing a small match from her pocket.

The tiny flame illuminated her face, casting shadows that softened the hardness life had carved there. For a moment, I saw the girl she might have been in another life, one where her mother hadn't been used and discarded by a pack guard, one where she hadn't been born into service.

"Make a wish," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

I closed my eyes, knowing better than to wish for anything but still unable to stop myself. I wished for freedom. For dignity. For the wolf that had never come. Then I blew out the flame, plunging us back into the dim light of the bare bulb.

Lily hugged me fiercely, her thin arms stronger than they appeared. "Happy birthday, Amelia." She pressed the cake into my hands.

I broke the cake in half, offering her the larger portion. 

We ate quickly, the sweetness foreign on my tongue after months of bland servant's rations. For a few stolen moments, we were just two girls celebrating a birthday, not cast-out and servant, not the lowest of the low.

"I have to go," Lily said suddenly, cocking her head toward the door. Her heightened senses caught something I couldn't. "Kitchen duty. They're already looking for me."

She slipped out as quietly as she'd come, leaving nothing but crumbs and the lingering warmth of her embrace. I brushed the evidence from my shirt and bed, swallowing the last bite as I prepared to face another day of labour.

But then the door crashed open before I could reach it.

Julian Forsyth filled the frame, his lean body coiled with the casual menace of a predator who never needed to rush for his prey. The pack's Gamma, the enforcer, the nightmare whispered about by servants and pack wolves alike. His gray eyes swept the room, missing nothing.

"Birthday celebration, Amelia?" His voice was soft, almost pleasant. That's how he always began, seemingly reasonable, even kind, before the mask slipped to reveal the monster beneath.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my face carefully blank. "I don't know what you mean, sir."

He smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. "Victoria mentioned missing dessert. Strange coincidence on your birthday, isn't it?" He stepped closer, and I fought the urge to back away. "I thought perhaps we should discuss the Silver Lake pack's policy on theft by servants."

I held my ground even as my stomach twisted with dread. "I haven't stolen anything, sir."

His nostrils flared slightly. "Lying as well? I can smell the sugar on your breath." He clicked his tongue as if disappointed. "You know, in the old days, they'd cut off a thief's hands." His gaze dropped to my hands, and I instinctively curled my fingers. "But we're more civilized now. Ten lashes is the standard punishment for petty theft by a servant."

I swallowed hard, tasting cake turned to ash in my mouth.

"But," he continued, "since you're eighteen today, an adult by all standards… I think a special birthday present is in order." His smile widened, revealing too many teeth. "Fifteen lashes instead. Let's call the extra five a coming-of-age gift, shall we?"

He grabbed my arm, fingers digging into flesh that would bruise by evening. I didn't resist, I knew that would only make it worse, as he dragged me from my room, up the narrow servants' stairs, and through the main hall of the pack house.

Faces turned as we passed, some curious, some indifferent, some secretly pleased to see the once-privileged girl reduced to this. I kept my eyes down, focusing on the gleaming marble floor that I had scrubbed just yesterday. My cheeks burned with humiliation, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of tears.

The morning air hit my face as Julian pushed me through the doors and into the courtyard. A small crowd had already gathered; news of punishment traveled fast in a pack that thrived on hierarchy and displays of power.

"Kneel," Julian ordered, producing a whip from seemingly nowhere.

I knelt on the cold stone, my back to the assembled wolves. Julian tore my shirt open from behind, exposing my back to the elements and to the eyes of those who had once callcalleda packmate. I fixed my gaze on a small wildflower pushing through a crack in the courtyard stone… defiant, resilient, yet so easily crushed.

The first lash came without warning, fire exploding across my skin. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, determined not to cry out. The second fell before the pain of the first had fully registered, and then the third. I stopped counting after seven, my world narrowing to the rhythm of agony and the taste of blood in my mouth.

When it finally ended, I remained kneeling, waiting for permission to move. Blood trickled down my back, soaking into the waistband of my pants.

"Clean yourself up," Julian said, his voice bored now that the entertainment was over. "The dishes won't wash themselves."

I pushed myself to my feet with trembling arms, keeping my face turned away from the dispersing crowd. My birthday gift had been delivered. Another day in the life of the girl without a wolf.