A Miserable Life

Steph POV

I was a wolf.

I could shift into a literal wolf with gnashing teeth and claws that could rip prey wide open.

And yet here I was, walking home from a waitress job wearing a fucking bunny-girl outfit. 

It was ironic. I was a predator dressed as prey. The saying was wolf in sheep’s clothing—not wolf in a knockoff Playboy Bunny suit.

No amount of compliments, sleazy purrs, or measly tips could make up for the humiliation that half my ass was out, still smarting from all the pinching, or breaking a nail mopping up some guy’s spilled beer, or how much of a dick my boss was.

The sidewalk was cool under my bare feet, heel straps dangling from my callus-rough fingers. My eyes fluttered closed against the night breeze. I breathed in fresh air, exhaling the bar’s stink.

I took my time getting home. Not just because the night was a solace, but because I couldn’t decide if I hated Howlers or home more. Both had alcoholic men with anger issues. There wasn’t much of an upside to either.

The motion-sensor porch lights flicked on as I mounted the steps. I braced myself for my father’s like-clockwork yell.

Sure enough, Harlon Channer’s voice boomed from within, “’Bout fuckin’ time!”

With one last inhale of fresh air, I entered the house that wasn’t a home.

“Hi to you, too, Dad,” I sighed, aiming to beeline for the stairs to my room. 

I made it two steps before he came hurtling in from the kitchen and snatched my wrist, yanking me down. I stumbled into the wall with a surprised yelp. Harlon snatched my crossbody bag, yanking me forward at the waist to pull it off.

“Tips,” he said raspily, pawing through my bag like a feral raccoon. “Where they at, girl?”

I inched up the stairs slowly, even if my body was thrumming with adrenaline. “Didn’t get any. Slow night.”

Harlon whipped up to bare his teeth, his hazel eyes—my eyes—blazing with feral, drunk rage. He reeked of whiskey, cigars, and shameless desperation—the textbook picture of an alcoholic. Mix that with our wolf shifter genes… not a good mix.

“Bullshit,” he snarled. “That bar damn near a strip club. Where the fuck are they?” He threw his hands up. “Where the fuck is anything?! I need money, Steph!”

The way he said my name made my gut tighten with disgust and shame. He said it like a curse, like I meant nothing to him. Like I wasn’t his little girl. 

I wasn’t anymore. Not since Mom left fifteen years ago.

That was a long fucking time to be an alcoholic—and a long fucking time to live with one day in and day out.

That was why everything I earned was stashed in the attic where he’d never be able to sniff it out.

“No,” I snapped, baring my teeth, too, “you don’t. Get your own fucking money to drink yourself into a ditch! I’m not going to—”

Before I could brace myself, Harlon cracked his hand across my face.

My head snapped to the side, my vision going black as pain radiated through my skull. I slipped on the stairs and went down hard on my palms and knees. On top of everything else, I knew I’d have rugburn by tomorrow.

Harlon didn’t give a shit.

He pointed a meaty finger at me. It used to point and crook at my mother when he was grinning with the good type of sin, coaxing her forward to kiss her. Now, it was just used to accuse me of not funding his addiction.

I used to love him. He used to love me.

“Tomorrow,” he growled, “you give me enough cash for a pack of beer and cigs.”

“Or what?” I challenged, hauling myself up to snatch my ransacked bag. Everything but money was scattered on the stained carpet. “I don’t have anything you can take away, Dad.”

The pure venom in my voice made him pause. Neither of us expected it, but I took advantage of the moment.

I stood tall despite the aches in my body. “I will not be bullied by you anymore, Harlon. I’m going to—”

“Ungrateful bitch.”

I was prepared to give a full life-reclaiming speech. I’d been reciting it to myself for years. I’d rehearsed in the shower for invisible audiences. I’d written it in a damn journal with nothing else to fill its pages.

But my confidence fizzled to ash at those two words, and all the fight left in me, died right on these stairs.

Harlon snorted as if he felt my soul wither a little. “Don’t even try, girl. You’re stuck with me. I’m stuck with you.” He turned to lumber toward the living room. Over his shoulder, he ordered, “Money. Tomorrow.”

My back hit the railing, and I slid down the wall, collapsing on the stairs like a discarded doll. He expected a wad of cash to appear on the kitchen counter as it did once a week, every Friday morning, right out of my tip jar. Never mind that Saturday was just an hour away.

Tears burned the backs of my eyes as I climbed upstairs to my room. I moved on instinct, not wholly present as I peeled off my “uniform” and changed into tattered pajamas, brushed my teeth, dry-shampooed my hair, scrubbed off my makeup, and flopped onto bed.

I barely registered the ceiling. The far corner had a water stain. My closet was torn apart—Harlon had rummaged through it. Of course he had. It wasn’t the first time. The money was never there, but he was too obsessed that he didn’t register that I’d never hide anything of value there—or anywhere in my room. In this house, privacy was a privilege, not a right.

“Just sleep, Steph,” I whispered, rolling onto my stomach and burying my face in the deflated pillow. “Crash, and everything’ll…”

I was out before I even realized it.

*

I dreamt so vividly I thought it was real.

A forest, tinted blue, trees and undergrowth whispering secrets I couldn’t decipher. Birds cooed from branches, bugs chirrped omnipresently, deer snuffled with their fawns just behind them.

But I couldn’t care less about prey as I pushed the ferns aside, and a clearing yawned ahead of me. Moonlight poured from the gap in the canopy. It was full—perfectly round, suspended in a cloudless sky.

Dread crept up my spine. There was nothing here. No one. But I knew something was going to—

A wolf burst out of the undergrowth, pounding toward me at full speed. I shouted and fell hard on my ass, bracing to be torn to shreds.

But that was stupid, of course. I was a fucking wolf. Why would I be afraid—

Hot breath billowed in my face. The wolf’s maw was just inches away, huffing like I annoyed it.

I lowered my arms to meet the hazel eyes of my wolf.

I sighed in relief. “Damnit, you scared the hell out of—”

She rumbled a growl, peeling her lips back. She wasn’t satisfied with that response.

“What?” I demanded in exasperation. “Don’t just stare at me like that. You know I don’t like seeing that.”

Clearly unhappy with me for whatever reason, she lowered her head, baring the mark that would be there no matter what form I was in.

My throat closed in shame. My eyes burned with a new wave of tears.

The letter R, burned and branded onto my skin for the rest of my life.

Rogue.

Outcast. Exiled. Shunned. Disgraced.

I started to shake, trembling like I was in the middle of a snowstorm and not a peaceful, cool forest. But the pressure in my forehead was anything but freezing or serene.

It burned as horribly as the moment itself—flesh burning from the brand, smoking, hissing. The blinding agony that seized my body and soul at just six years old.

They’d let me go after that. They didn’t give a shit. I was marked, and that was all that mattered.

And all I could do was grow my bangs out and spend my tips on expensive makeup.

Oh, and taking a scent-represser that tasted like chalk and gave me double vision.

Rogues’ scent was different from pack wolves. If any wolves scented me, they would know I wasn’t one of them—and never would be.

There was nothing that could change that.

My wolf huffed again, but this time, it was in sympathy. She nuzzled and licked the side of my face. In the dream, she wasn’t slobbering or rasping. What a reprieve. 

She lay down, resting her head in my lap. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop the sob that threatened to burst from my chest.

“I just don’t know what to do,” I croaked, more to myself than her. “Tell me how to make my life less miserable.”

She lifted her head, hazel gaze gleaming, unable to speak.

And then her eyes changed.

Like a shadow over water, the hazel was consumed by red and orange—not like water. Like fire. Like living, moving fire—

I woke up.

I flew out of bed, yanking on a hoodie, shoving into ratty tennis shoes. My skull pounded with a bruise forming from Dad’s hit, but that was the last thing on my mind. I heard him snoring in his chair in the living room.

A walk. I just needed to walk it off.