Chapter 1

Diana

I rub the back of my neck as I drag my exhausted body out the kitchen. Every single joint in my body aches. I have been on my feet since morning but thankfully, I am done with my duties for the afternoon. I have a few more hours till I have to come back to make dinner so I should be able to squeeze in a nap in the meantime…

“Ahhh!”

I scream as pain explodes on my shin- a force making my body fly forward. 

Next thing I know, I find myself sprawled face-first on the hard ground. The fall is a nasty one as sharp pain explodes in my nose. The attack had been so sudden that my flailing hands had done nothing to catch my fall. It also didn’t help that my reflexes are near non-existent. 

With a whimper, I scramble to my hunches, crouching on the balls of my feet as my hands instinctively come up to cup my face. A viscous red liquid stains my fingers. I feel it gush down my nostrils and drip down my chin and neck, before seeping into the front of my shirt, quickly staining the top of the faded beige-colored sweater a bright red.

In my mouth, I taste the metallic quality of my own blood and as I tentatively touch my nose, the resulting sharp pain actually brings tears to my eyes, making me once again release another pitiful whimper. 

Someone had tripped me.

A snicker from above my head makes me look up.

“What kind of werewolf are you that something like that is enough to get you? Even an Omega could have dodged that”, a boy, around the age of twelve or thirteen, snorts before putting on a face of mock realization as though he had just remembered something, “Oh that’s right! You can’t even be considered a true werewolf, can you? You’re so weak!”, and he guffaws, finding himself funny.

My face pales at the jab. I take a painful shuddering breath through my mouth and drop my eyes to the floor- training my gaze on the spot of blood that has dripped onto the polished wooden floors.

Though shame fills me at my own weakness. there is also outrage stifling my throat. I bite down hard on my lip, distracting myself with the coppery taste of blood on my tongue and the zinging pain spreading over my face to stop myself from reacting. I also make sure to keep my face expressionless. I refuse to let him see that he has gotten to me.

I hear faint murmurs and look back up only to realize that the sitting room is actually full of pack members- each regarding me with varying looks of disgust, disdain and the occasional cool indifference.

My anger is instantly doused as the shame overshadows all other emotions. I feel like a spectacle in a zoo, placed on exhibition for the amusement of others- and even at that, not even an animal that is liked. Like the lowliest of the low…a disgusting worm…

This is the kind of pack the Zervos Pack is. 

The hierarchy of werewolves goes Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta and Omega in order of strength. The stronger a wolf, the more he is perceived to be able to contribute to the pack, which in turn corresponds to his value in the pack. Naturally, stronger wolves are treated better and can practically do whatever they want.

The teenage boy is a Gamma wolf and as such, a member capable of bringing actual contributions to the pack. 

After all these years, I am of course used to the unkind words and disregard of the pack. I’m not completely immune to them, but at least they no longer stab me as badly. Thus, in truth, it is not the boy’s words themselves that hurt right now. It is something else. Or rather, someone else.

I look up, my eyes making direct contact with that of a young man in the living room. He is sitting languidly on a two-seater sofa, his back resting against the cushions, his legs splayed open comfortably and his arm resting on the sofa arm- his posture one of complete relaxation and nonchalance.

I see nothing in his familiar dark brown eyes but complete indifference- his face stoic and without any emotions. Our eyes meet for only a second before he looks away. 

My heart twinges painfully at his stark indifference to my plight and my lips tug up with a sardonic smile. 

What did I expect? For him to stand up for me? To protect me? He hasn’t done that in a long time…I can’t say I’m surprised by his nonchalance. However, at the same time, I can’t stop myself from hoping he would do something. Anything. To show that he cares, That I matter to him…even a little bit. I look away from him as well,

A situation whereby anyone can bully me and get away with it is nothing new, but it still doesn’t stop me from feeling so small and insignificant.

The boy squints down at me, and for a split second  I see him contemplating the idea of hurting me some more. I stiffen as I await the impending blow but then his eyes run over my face, taking in the damage and I visibly see him calm down.

“What a waste of space”, he sneers before jamming his hands into his pockets and sauntering away.

I am left there, kneeling pathetically on the ground. As I dazedly stare at my blood on the floor, my subconscious whispers maliciously“You know you’re still gonna have to clean that up don’t you?”

and I wince. It is the cruel truth.

With a bloody hand braced on the floor, which just smears more of the viscous red liquid on the polished oak, I stagger to my feet and stagger back to the kitchen to get cleaning supplies. I then come back and clean up the blood on the floor; each of my movements made much harder by the excruciating pain in my nose, zinging through my face. 

I blink back the tears, determined not to let them fall. I am aware that the only thing I would get is more snide remarks should I actually cry.

The entire time I do this, most of the pack members ignore me, chatting among themselves, and I find myself conflicted as to whether to be happy that they aren’t kicking me while I’m down or sad that my pain isn’t even worth their concern.

When the floor is clean, I take the cleaning supplies back into the kitchen, replace the paper towel on my nose feeling it quickly getting soggy with blood as well…

Taking in a deep breath through my mouth I train my eyes on the ground as I speed-walk out through the sitting room, down the hall, and out of the Pack House.

The moment I’m out, I sprint the rest of the way towards my little house at the far southern ends of the pack territory, my chest stifled, face hurting and eyes stinging with unshed tears.