Chapter 4

From the outside, everyone thought we were the perfect family. I am gagging as I write, if only they knew the truth. To neighbors, to the pack, to anyone who glimpsed us in passing, we were polished and enviable - a household that seemed untouched by struggle. My parents made certain of it. We were always clean, always well-dressed, our hair neatly brushed and our shoes shining as though they carried the weight of our reputation. Every gesture was rehearsed, every word measured, as if our very existence had to honor some unseen code. All lies. I learned to hate lies and determined that when I grew up I would only speak the truth.

We were expected to be perfect children - never dirty, never loud, never unruly. To laugh too freely was careless. To speak out of turn was dangerous. Even in moments that should have been light - family meals, birthdays, pack gatherings - we were under constant watch, shaped and molded until our smiles were masks that fit too tightly.

Obedience and respect were demanded above all else, not just as virtues of discipline, but as if the balance of some hidden world depended on it. My father, Beta of the pack, carried himself as if our family name upheld the very order of things. My mother, though softer in her manner, reinforced his expectations with sharp glances and quiet corrections that cut as deeply as any shouted command.

What no one saw was the cost of that perfection. Behind the closed doors of our home, the cracks ran deep. The rules were not about love, but control. The smiles were not joy, but armor. And the perfect picture we presented to the world was nothing more than a lie - a carefully painted mask to conceal a truth so dark it would have shattered the illusion in an instant.

My mother was a beauty, the kind of woman who seemed untouchable to the outside world. Her hair was always smooth, her clothes pressed, her posture elegant, as though she were carved from glass - fragile, flawless, and cold. But even glass cracks. Even glass can shatter. Behind her poise, she bore her own wounds. I had seen them - sometimes hidden beneath fabric, sometimes betrayed by a wince too sharp to disguise. She was beaten, punished by the same hands that ruled our house, and though she suffered, she never faltered in her role.

Perhaps it was survival. Perhaps it was denial. Whatever the reason, she demanded perfection from us with a zeal that left no room for rebellion. Any hint of misbehavior was treated not just as a childish mistake, but as a personal insult, a blemish upon her image. Her corrections were swift and precise - sharp words, hard eyes, hands that gripped too tightly. She shaped us into flawless children, polished and presentable, even as the darkness beneath our home simmered like a cauldron.

I often wondered if she was blind to it, or if pretending blindness was the only way she knew how to endure. Because even in those moments of fear and control, when her voice lashed like a whip, I could feel something stirring inside me - something she could not touch. An unyielding strength, quiet but undeniable, pulsed beneath my skin. It was the thrum of Alpha blood, the legacy of a lineage that refused to bow. It whispered to me, promising that I was meant for more than the cage they built around me.

And yet, for all my strength, a question gnawed at me. What would she think if she knew? If she saw the full measure of the atrocities I endured, would she crumble? Would she turn away? Or would she finally stand against him, even if it meant breaking the façade she worked so hard to preserve?

I do not know. Perhaps she was too wounded to fight. Perhaps she had no power left to give. Or perhaps she chose to survive the only way she knew - by keeping us silent, polished, and perfect, while ignoring the storm devouring her children from within.

My father - Beta of the Moon Claw Pack, born from a long line of powerful Alphas. I am not sure what twisted paths or dark events shaped him and his brothers into the cruel, sick men they became. I never had the chance to interact much with my father’s family, so the full story remains a mystery. I only knew that I did not like being around many of them.

Even as a child, I caught fragments of whispered conversations when adults thought I was not listening - hushed words about my cousins, both girls and boys, being abused. At the time, I did not fully understand what was being said. I was too young to understand that they too were suffering like I was. Only years later, when I was older, did the truth settle in, the horrifying realization of what had been happening to all of us echoing through my mind.

My mother came from the Juniper Pack, a bloodline strong in Alpha heritage, though not without its fractures. She had six brothers and two sisters, and they were constantly at odds with one another. Arguments seemed to ripple through them like wildfire - voices raised, tempers flaring, grudges carried longer than reason could justify. Peace was rare among them, and yet, when they were around us children, the tension gave way to something else. Peace only came at the funerals and even then we had our very own over-exaggerated griever. That one cousin had to yell and cry loudly to show her grief. I, unable to stay silent, would make jokes of her over-the-top dramatics. Who does not laugh at that? Or at least think they are one French fry short of a Happy Meal?

My aunts and uncles on my mom’s side could make us laugh, their antics wild and unpredictable, like mischievous sparks leaping out of the chaos of adulthood. They were rowdy, irreverent, sometimes downright childish. They argued with each other like enemies and teased each other like fools, but for us, they became living contradictions - proof that imperfection could exist without destroying the world. And oh, how we longed for that freedom. Because while they could be rude, disrespectful, even reckless, we, the children, were expected to stand straight, speak softly, and behave like flawless little machines. Perfect little robots. Go figure.