Her Pack of Possibilities

Rebel’s POV

I used to count the cracks in the floorboards when things got bad.

Three long ones under the bed. A crooked one by the door. A tiny spiderweb crack in the window that I’d stare at until my vision blurred. Anything to keep my mind off the footsteps outside my room. Anything to drown out the sound of my mother’s voice sharpening itself like a blade.

“Sit up straight. Boys don’t cry.”

I was six the first time she said it. Eight when she hit me hard enough to split my lip because my hair had grown too long and she said I looked “wrong.” Ten by the time I learned how to go still, silent, empty so she’d get bored and leave.

My father was worse in the way that mattered. He didn’t yell. Didn’t touch me unless he wanted to drag me somewhere. He just watched and observed like he was waiting for me to slip, to shift, to reveal the wolf he insisted wasn’t supposed to exist.

I hadn’t shifted yet I was still just a kid, but they treated me like a monster anyway.

That night, the night, I remember my mother’s fingers digging into my arm hard enough to bruise. She shoved me against the mirror in my room, forcing me to look at myself.

“Say it,” she hissed. “Say you’re not a girl.”

“I’m not a girl,” I whispered, because it was easier that way. Because she’d taught me to repeat whatever lie kept her calm.

Her reflection twisted behind me, lips curling. “Again.”

My chest tightened. I opened my mouth and the front door slammed open so violently the walls rattled.

My mother froze and my father stood up so fast his chair toppled over. For a heartbeat, none of us breathed.

Then I heard it.

Bootsteps. Heavy. Purposeful. A growl rumbling beneath them like thunder.

“Where is she?” a voice demanded. Deep. Rough. Familiar in a way that made something in my chest lift its head and listen.

My mother’s nails dug into my arm as she dragged me back, hard. “Stay quiet,” she breathed, panic slicing through her words.

The door to my room exploded inward.

I’d seen a lot of men angry but I had never seen anyone look like him.

A massive man with dark hair, leather vest, and eyes gold with fury filled the doorway like he’d been carved out of rage itself. His wolf pressed so close to the surface I could feel it wild and protective.

“Rebel,” he breathed when he saw me.

I didn’t know his name then. I didn’t know anything but fear and confusion and the way his voice somehow didn’t scare me at all.

My father stepped forward. “You have no right to be here, Fang—”

My mother didn’t get to say a word. Fang grabbed her wrist, peeled her off me like she weighed nothing, and planted himself between us with a low, vicious snarl that made my wolf, the small, quiet thing buried inside me, whimper in recognition.

“You don’t touch her. Ever again.”

No one had ever said that for me before.

No one had ever meant it.

He scooped me up like I wasn’t a burden, like I wasn’t a problem he had to solve. Just a kid who needed saving. My cheek pressed against the rough leather of his vest, and for the first time in my life, I felt safe.

“Let’s go home, little wolf,” he murmured.

And just like that, everything changed.

The memory fades like smoke, but the ache in my chest lingers.

I blink at the empty bottles lined across the bar and realize my hand has been sitting motionless over a rag for god knows how long. The clubhouse is dim, humming with low music and the scent of motor oil and shifter musk. Evening’s creeping in through the windows, painting everything in gold.

I’m supposed to be wiping down the counter. Instead I’m staring at a water ring on the wood, lost in a childhood I should’ve buried years ago.

“Rebel.”

A hand snaps in front of my face.

I jerk, rattling a stack of glasses. “Shit, sorry.”

Fang is leaning over the bar, brows raised, concern slipping through the cracks of his permanently pissed off expression. He looks the same as the night he kicked down my parents’ door, broad shoulders, heavy tattoos, a wolf in his eyes that never fully tames.

“You alright, little wolf?” he asks, voice gruff but soft in that way only I ever hear.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking usually means trouble with you.”

I huff a laugh, but my chest still feels tight. “Nothing that dramatic. Just old memories.”

He studies me for a long moment, eyes narrowing like he can see the ghosts clinging to me. Then he taps the bar with two fingers.

“Take a break I’ve got prospects who can handle the rest.”

I nod, swallowing thickly. “Okay.”

As I move to step out from behind the bar, Fang’s hand lands on my shoulder, warm and grounding.

“You ain’t alone, Rebel,” he says quietly. “Never again.”

I know.

I believe him.

But as I look around the crowded clubhouse that was my home, my sanctuary, I can’t shake the feeling that the past isn’t done with me yet.

And something is coming.

Something big enough to change everything, again.