Chapter 5

At first, there were only two of us. I am the oldest of my siblings. Two daughters, born a year apart - Naomi and me. One dark-skinned – me. One fair skinned. This is a big deal to my mom’s family – of course making me a black sheep. We were always dressed neatly, always well-fed, always presented as though we were the jewels of the household. To anyone outside, we looked like blessings - healthy, bright-eyed, and thriving. But survival is not always visible in the shine of a child’s hair, the cleanliness of her skin, nor the neatness of her dress.

We each found our own ways to endure. I was the nerd, always lost in books. I devoured stories with a hunger that had nothing to do with curiosity and everything to do with escape. Between the pages of fairy tales and legends, I could breathe in worlds that were not my own, where monsters were slain, heroes rose, and endings could be rewritten. The words became my refuge, the only places where the horrors of my real life could not follow. Everyone saw me as the smart child destined to do great things and how lucky I was to be so smart.

Naomi’s solace was different. She turned to her dolls, her small hands stitching scraps of fabric into elaborate dresses. She would line them up, comb their hair, whisper stories into their silent plastic ears. She crafted tiny worlds where she was the creator, where order could be stitched into every seam. In those moments, I think she was trying to control what none of us could - giving her dolls the safety and beauty that we ourselves never had. Everyone saw her as the creative genius with the ability to make things others saw as impossible to do. She would decorate shelves and make beautiful knickknacks to give as gifts and most thought they were store-bought.

Nine years later, our brother arrived, and with him, a shift in the air. Reign Jr. - the long-awaited son. The one my father had been waiting for. His pride was palpable, a satisfaction that rolled off of him like heat. Finally, he had a boy, an heir, a vessel to carry on the Alpha genes he held in such twisted reverence. A son to mold into the image of power and dominance he worshipped. A s0n who would shine in his image. Often calling him the king. As if. But we had a common ground as he was dark-skinned too.

And of course, the house bent around him. Naomi and I were still expected to be perfect, still polished and silent, but his arrival crowned us with new roles: caretakers, examples, guardians of the boy who was to become everything our father idolized. Reign Jr. was innocent then, a wide-eyed child with no idea of the shadow he was born beneath. But even as a baby, my father’s pride claimed him, staking a future over his crib like a brand pressed into the flesh.

No one ever saw the bruises, nor could they know that we had endured unspeakable acts committed against us. No one smelled the liquor that lingered in the house or noticed the way my sister and I flinched whenever a male walked too close. I was often told I had such sad eyes. I would just smile. Later in life, I would realize it wasn’t that my eyes were inherently sad - it was that I carried a sadness that no child should bear, the weight of horrors awaiting me every time I went home.

In our pack, power and blood dictated everything. My father, despite his Alpha blood, chose to serve as Beta under my uncle Roman, one of the few men in the family who carried the title and the responsibilities of leadership with honor. The rest of my uncles - Mateo, our Delta, and Hamza, our Gamma - were steeped in corruption, cut from the same rotten cloth as my father. They were wife-beating, alcoholic, child predators, too consumed with cruelty and depravity to bear the mantle of Alpha. The eldest three sons avoided the burdens of leadership, leaving the youngest, Roman, to inherit the title. In the world of the Moon Claw Pack, the Alpha is not only the strongest and fastest but also the guardian of the pack, the keeper of order, and the wielder of our bloodline’s legacy. Leadership is a sacred duty, one my father’s family perverted with violence and fear, leaving me and Naomi to survive under the shadow of monsters masquerading as pack leaders. Despite this, they proudly called themselves leaders, warriors, and protectors of the pack. But in truth, they were nothing more than low-life child predators, hiding behind the law of the pack and the fear they cultivated. They never protected their families from themselves, never shown the strength, honor, or wisdom that true leadership demands. Their titles are empty, their power a mask for cruelty, and their legacy a shadow of the violence they inflict.

Our grandfather believed women existed for little more than kitchens and childbirth. Nothing else mattered. From the earliest years, Naomi and I were trained in the duties expected of us: cooking, cleaning, tending to the household. By the time we were nine and ten, we could have dinner prepared, the table set with precision, and the house spotless before our father or grandfather ever stepped through the door. And after meals, we were responsible for the cleanup, scrubbing dishes, cleaning the floor on our hands and knees, and wiping counters until the scent of soap mingled with the lingering aromas of food. Every motion was rehearsed, every chore a silent lesson in obedience.

I learned many years later that my grandfather’s hands were far from gentle. He often beat my grandmother, his anger leaving bruises no child should ever witness. It was only after Uncle Roman returned from the Alpha Academy - ten long years away - that his violence finally ceased. Even then, though the physical blows stopped, the damage had already been done. To his mother, to his sisters, to their wives, and to the nieces and nephews who suffered in silence. I do not know whether Uncle Roman learned of the abuse immediately, or if it came to him through whispers among staff and family. His brothers hid their darker natures well, and the truth had layers of secrecy and denial.