Chapter 3

The forest spat me out into the slums, my legs burning, chest heaving like I had run from the moon itself. For any other wolf, it would have been easier to shift into their wolves and race through but a useless wolf like me only had my legs.

The air hit me hard—smoke, sweat, and something sour, like rotting meat left in the sun. My boots sank into the muddy ground, a mix of dirt and who-knows-what, as I stumbled into the new town.

My pack had a particular scent that bonds everyone together but not for a place like here. There were most huts with only a few houses built with bricks. Lanterns flickered, casting shadows that danced like ghosts, and the noise was everywhere—shouts, metal clanging, wild howls.

This was no pack, no valley with rules and wolves. This was a chaotic place mixed with different kinds of abnormal wolves, and I was just another stray dog in it.

I was still Rose, but the name felt like a bruise, like a stupid word to use in a place like this.

My jacket was torn, branches had scratched my face raw, and my pack’s mark on my shoulder was totally gone now, burned away when I killed my parents.

It still left a dull ache but no guilt. I could smell the blood, whiskey, Mom’s lavender oil clinging to my hands as a reminder.

Their bodies were probably cold by now, the pack howling for my head. I didn’t regret it, but my hands shook, the knife’s weight still heavy in my memory.

I ducked behind a hut, heart hammering, as two rogues stumbled past, fists swinging, blood on their knuckles. One laughed, a jagged sound, as the other hit the ground, groaning.

No one stopped them. No Alpha, no rules—just survival. My stomach growled, empty since yesterday, and my throat was dry as bone. I needed food, a place to stay, but every shadow felt like a threat and every noise like the shout of our pack hunter coming for me.

I moved, keeping my head low, until I tripped over a pile of junk.

Shit

Broken glass, a cracked bottle that smelled like cheap liquor and aluminums.

The clatter was loud, too loud, and a voice snapped, “Who’s there?” I froze, breath caught, as a figure stepped into the lantern light.

A young woman of my age, maybe twenty, with short black hair and eyes sharp as flint. Her jacket was patched, a knife strapped to her thigh, and she held a half-eaten apple like it was gold.

“You look like shit,” she said, sizing me up, her voice rough but not cruel. “Pack kick you out, or you running from something worse?”

I stood, legs shaky, wiping mud from my hands. My cheek still stung from Dad’s slap, and my red hair was a tangled mess.

“Running,” I said, voice hoarse. “Does it matter?”

She smirked, tossing me the apple. I caught it, “Eat,” she said. “You’re no good to anyone if you're dead.” I bit into it, juice sweet and sharp, my stomach clawing for more.

She watched, leaning against a tree, her boots scuffing the dirt. “Name’s Clara. You got one?”

I hesitated, Rose sitting heavy on my tongue.

“Not sure it fits anymore,” I said, swallowing the last of the apple, core and all.

Clara laughed, a short, warm sound that felt out of place here. “Fair enough. Come with me. You’ll die out here alone.” She turned, not waiting, and I followed, because what else was there?

The slums stretched on, a sprawl of shacks and fires, rogues eyeing me like I was prey.

Clara moved easy, like she knew every corner, every danger.

She led me to a house, one of those bigger and built with bricks and cement instead of the mud and wood like others, a fire crackled outside.

Inside smelled of smoke and stale bread, but it was warm, dry. A few other rogues were in there lounged on crates, sharpening knives, as their eyes flicked to me, wary but not hostile.

Clara tossed me a blanket, rough but clean. “Sleep there,” she said, pointing to a corner with a mat. “No one’ll touch you unless you start trouble.”

I sat, blanket heavy on my shoulders, and watched her. She was lean, tough, but her hands moved gently as she cut bread and handed me a chunk.

“Why help me?” I asked, voice low, the bread soft and warm in my hands.

Clara shrugged, sitting across from me, firelight catching her face. “Been where you are. My pack sold me out and my own brother turned me over to slavers to save his skin. I got out, ended up here. You learn quick: you’re either the blade or the meat.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes held something intense, like a wound that never closed. “You killed someone, didn’t you? I can see it in your face.”

I froze, bread halfway to my mouth, my heart kicking. “How—”

“You’ve got that look,” she said, cutting me off.

“Like you crossed a line and can’t go back. Don’t worry. Half the people here have blood on their hands.” She leaned closer, voice dropping. “What was it? Pack Alpha? Lover?”

“Parents,” I said, the word bitter. “They… deserved it.”

I saw their bodies in my mind again, blood pooling, and my stomach twisted, not with guilt, but with fear of becoming something else.

Clara didn’t flinch, just nodded. “Good. If they deserved it, you did what you had to.” Her words were a lifeline, the first kindness I’d felt in years, and it burned, like touching something too hot.

Days blurred into nights as Clara taught me the rules: kill or be killed, trust no one but watch everyone. Her friends were six rogues, all scarred and sharp. They trained me to fight, to move quietly, to use a knife like it was part of me.

My hands blistered, my arms ached, but I learned fast, driven by the memory of Dad’s belt, Mom’s whip, the pack’s hate.

One night, a rogue, a wiry guy with a shaved head and a sneer, cornered Clara outside the house, his knife glinting, his voice low and ugly. “You owe me, Clara,” he said, stepping too close. “Pay up, or I take it from you.” His eyes flicked to her body, and I saw red, the same rage I’d felt with Dad.

I moved before I thought, my training knife in hand, the one Clara gave me. “Back off,” I said, voice steady, surprising me. He laughed, lunging at Clara, but I was faster.

I tackled him, my knife sinking into his side, blood hot and slick. He screamed, thrashing, but I twisted the blade, like Clara taught me, and he went still, eyes empty.

Clara stared, then nodded, a flicker of respect in her eyes. “You’re one of us now. You passed the test.” she said, clapping my shoulder.

The gang watched, their silence heavy, but I felt it, an acceptance, sharp and new.

Blood stained my hands, but I didn’t shake this time. It felt right, like I was born for it.

Weeks passed, and I wasn’t Rose anymore. That name was a chain, tied to a girl who took their hate, who begged for scraps of love.

One night, by the fire, Clara asked, “You ever gonna tell me your name?”

I stared into the flames, the crackle loud in my ears, the heat licking my face.

Rose was dead, left in that cabin with their bodies. “Mia,” I said, the word new, sharp, like the knife I carried. “Call me Mia.”

Clara grinned, tossing me a bottle of liquor that burned my throat like fire. “To Mia, then,” she said, raising her own. The gang echoed her, their voices rough but warm, and for the first time, I didn’t feel alone. But as I drank, the flames blurring, I made a vow: survive, always. Trust no one, not even Clara, not fully.

The slums taught me that kindness was rare and it always came with a price. Love? It was a myth.

I heard whispers of them planning to create a Rogue Pack, a way to carve out power in this chaos, and I wanted it.

Not just to survive, but to lead, to be more than the cursed girl. Mia wasn’t a mistake. Mia was a fierce girl who would cut her own path.

I did it.

Two years passed in a blur of blood and survival. The slums shaped me, hardened me, until the girl named Rose was nothing but a ghost. I became Mia, leader of the Rogue Clan, my heart a fortress no one could breach.

But tonight, as I sat in my room, cigar smoke curling around me, something felt odd inside me.

Suddenly Clara burst into my room, her eyes widened in shock and terror as she breathed heavily.

“We are under attack! Two packs have ambushed us and they are killing everyone!” Her voice cracked, panic in her eyes, enough for me to know there was real danger. She hardly got scared, but this time she was trembling.

“Clara, you have to go out. Follow the secret passageway and escape, please. I will join you as soon as possible.” I said, grabbing my shirt and jacket.

“Please, I’ll be waiting. Nothing just happened to you.” She muffled, hugging me before speeding out.

Screams erupted outside, shrill and chilling, slicing through the night like blades.

We were truly under attack.

Could it be my pack? I thought with fear, guilt seeping in.

I reached the window and peered through the grime-streaked glass. My breath caught as I saw them—big fierce wolves, their fur glinting under the moonlight, tearing through our streets with merciless precision.

Blood stained the dirt paths, bodies littered the ground. We rogues had built a stronghold despite our weaknesses as most of us are wolfless, cursed, or late bloomers, but these attackers were organized, relentless and vicious in killing.

They had come to erase us.

My heart grew heavy, teeth clenched in rage and exasperation.

“What have we done to deserve this?” I mused, staring out the window as my heart boiled, but then suddenly something strange happened.

A scent unlike anything I had ever smelled hit me, warm and earthy like pine trees after rainfall. My wolf who had never spoken to me suddenly stirred and said the one word that chilled my bones.

Mate.

“Move an inch, and I’ll bury three wolfsbane bullets in your skull.” The same voice that had the scent snarled from behind, deep and commanding.

I raised my hand in surrender as I turned to meet my mate—An Alpha who had led his pack warriors to kill us all.