Jackson is an heir to the fortune built on the suffering of enslaved werewolves. Angry at the injustice of it all, he has no choice but to play along with his father's wishes and bend to the society's pressure. Until one day he is ordered to purchase a werewolf 'worthy of standing by his side' at the market. So, maybe he obeyed his father's wishes, but to him it's the first step in his one-man rebellion, a spark that will kindle the flames, when he chooses a werewolf who is needier than the rest. Now Jackson must stoke those flames, while nurturing the traumatized wolf to health, before the world crushes his soul for good. Check out the artwork from chapter ‘Date’ on my Instagram (willowwrites1994) here - https://www.instagram.com/p/CIgP2PQFF8W/
View MoreJackson didn’t want to be in the marketplace. It was revolting. Too many people walked the narrow paths, brushed against him, trying to find their next purchase. The scent alone was strong enough to make him want to gag. Filth and unwashed bodies and overflowing trash cans… Jackson hated it.
The dirt under his feet was hard packed. The sun beat down on him relentlessly. Not a single awning to relax under. Any shade trees that might have grown in the area before were chopped down to make space for more cages. No. The fat pockets of the market owners meant nothing in terms of how their product was displayed. And the displays could use plenty of work.
Iron bars created cages. The werewolves inside were cuffed and collared. Jackson paused in front of a particularly crowded cage. It was packed full of women werewolves. Revulsion choked him as he read the sign - breeding stock. He squeezed through the crowd as quick as he could to put as much distance between him and that cage as possible.
Sweat rolled down the back of his neck. He could feel the skin of his nose burning. He kept walking until the crowd began to thin. The next cage he paused in front of wasn’t near as packed. There was no sign on the cage that he could see. Only four werewolves were inside, all men as best Jackson could guess. They wore thin pants and long sleeved shirts, unlike any of the rest who had as much skin as was ‘decent’ on display. Not many people stopped at this cage. They glanced in and kept going without a moment of hesitation.
“Hey,” Jackson flagged down one of the workers passing by. “What’s in here?” He gestured at the nearly empty cage behind him.
The worker laughed and clapped a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. Jackson glared at him, but the worker didn’t seem phased in the slightest. “Those will be too expensive for you, boy. Best just continue on.”
“I didn’t ask how much they cost. I asked what they are.”
The worker rolled his eyes. “You can’t afford them,” he repeated slowly, as though Jackson hadn’t heard him the first time. “It doesn’t matter what they are if you can’t afford them.”
Jackson let out a laugh, loud and cruel. “Oh geez, thank you, sir. I suppose when my dad, Steven Carmillan, asks where my new wolf is, I’ll tell him the worker at the market could only say that we can’t afford them. Boy, I sure bet he’ll be happy to hear that. Don’t you…” Jackson squinted at the name tag, “Paul Smith?”
Paul Smith’s face slowly drained of color. “Of course, sir. I’m sorry, sir. These are fighter wolves. These particular four are fairly well known and there has been plenty of talk about them. You’ll notice their arms are not only shackled behind their backs, but their hands have been enclosed as well. The blindfolds are customary for our fighter wolves that come through this market. We keep them covered to hide their scars. We don’t want people to be disgusted by the sight of those scars and leave without purchasing their own wolf, after all.” He let out an uncomfortable chuckle. “Are you looking to get started in the fights?”
“Maybe I am.” He wasn’t. He was just annoyed at the man. “Let me see their profiles.” He felt disgusted as Paul Smith pulled out his tablet and started scrolling. Forcing the wolves to fight for money was a whole new level of low.
Paul handed the tablet over with four profiles pulled up. Jackson took his time reading through them, pretending to be mulling over the best option. The first three were in their early twenties. Two undefeated, one, the oldest one, lost a single fight and was sold because of it.
It was the fourth one that had him pause. “Is this accurate?”
“Of course, sir. We take care to ensure every bit of information is 100% correct.”
Werewolf number four on the list, ID number - C36M657. Coastal region, in the mountains. Undefeated. That wasn’t what had made him pause though. He was 32 years old, started fighting when he was 8. Undefeated after 24 years of fights. Only one previous owner. Specialties were listed as fighting, of course, and then… personal.
Personal could mean anything. Personal attendant was technically what Jackson was supposed to be looking for, but personal was close enough. He smiled at Paul Smith. “What subspecialty is personal supposed to be under?”
Paul shifted his weight. “I’m afraid the previous owners would only say personal.”
Literally anything. Jackson shrugged. “All right, I want him. Wolf C36M657.” He heard chains rattle behind him at his words, but kept his back to them. “I want to be out of here in 10 minutes.” He smiled at Paul. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem, right?”
Paul smiled back nervously. “Of course, sir. I’ll be right back.”
Jackson watched him walk off then turned back to the cage. Wolf C36M657 was tensed against the far side of the cage. He stood, head angled down, arms so tight behind his back that his shoulders couldn’t relax if he wanted to. The blindfold was snug over his eyes. His lips were tugged down into a small frown. His hair was pitch black and a matted mess of curls. Jackson felt disgusted just looking at him, but he did what he had to do. He had a werewolf.
Great.
Jackson dug their big knife out of the drawer. He crushed and minced the garlic and scraped it to the side of the cutting board. “Wren?”“Yeah?”“Check the chicken.”There was a rattle behind him. Jackson turned to the carrots and started peeling them. The peeler was apparently a little loose and cocked the side after just two swipes. “Chicken’s good. Want me to adjust that?”“Nah, I got it.” Jackson straightened the peeler clamped on the edge of the counter. He tightened the grip and switched back to peeling the carrots. “Has anyone texted yet?”“Kia and Belle said they might be a little late. Otherwise, no.”Jackson glanced over. Wren was leaning his hip against the counter. His hair was loose around his shoulders. The sun beamed through their kitchen window and lit him in a warm light. Jackson set the half-peeled carrot down and stepped forward.
Nine months since he’d lost his arm and he and Wren were homeowners. Jackson laughed as he caught sight of the white flakes swirling in the wind outside the kitchen window. He opened the cabinet doors in search of the cocoa. Wren was starting a fire in the fireplace. The first snow of the year was later than normal and nothing more than barely there flurries. “Wren,” Jackson called from the kitchen.“Yeah?”“It’s snowing.” Jackson found the container. He braced it between the counter and his hip and used his hand to pry off the top. He mixed the chocolate into the hot milk, squeezed the excess out of Wren’s tea bag, placed both cups on his tray and carefully carried it into the living room. “Our first kiss was in the snow.”The fire was just starting to catch on the logs. Wren settled on the couch next to him and reached for his steaming mug on the coffee table. He tossed his other arm across Jack
Six months of therapy and rehab and sympathetic looks and Jackson was sick of it. He was tired of living in the hotel. He was tired of nonstop people. Nonstop sound. Nonstop everything. For a moment, he considered asking Wren if Wren would want to move in with Grandma Rose and Grandpa Frank. Then he realized what they could do. What they had the means to do.Wren stepped into their room. He was sweaty from the run with Zain. His dark hair stuck to the back of his neck despite the ponytail’s effort to keep it off. Jackson pushed his laptop to the side and rose up on his knees.Wren leaned forward for a kiss and Jackson pulled him in closer with his arm around Wren’s neck. Wren chuckled and gently disengaged. “What’s going on?”Jackson fell back and reached for his laptop again. He avoided eye contact as he pulled up the screen he had minimized. “I was just thinking that maybe it’s time we get a house? Just for the two of
Three months. His scar was still red and angry. Jackson’s therapist was great. Really. He knew any body image issues he might have were something he’d get over with enough time, but for now, staring at the angry red skin that marked where his arm should be… He felt a stupid mixture of embarassment, shame, and disgust. Jackson was pale. He’d always been pale. He’d never had an issue with it before, but now, the paleness of his skin made the scar look all the more alarming. The knock on the door startled him and he realized he’d been standing there for a little too long. “Just a second,” he called. The shirt was still a struggle to get on, but he was getting quicker every time. Jeans were a no go since he couldn’t button them one handed so he spent all of his time in sweatpants. Sweats were comfortable, but they were just another reminder of what he couldn’t do anymore. What he didn’t have anymore. The empty sleeve hung limp over his shoulder. Jackson turned hi
His dad was on his way to Jackson’s hospital room. Grandma Rose had reassured him countless times that if he changed his mind then she would personally escort him from the entire country. Jackson appreciated the thought, but he needed to talk to his dad. It had been a week since Jackson woke up. A week and Jackson was leaving the hospital in hopefully another day or two. He wanted to talk to his dad now, while he was still in such an impersonal place such as a hospital room.Jackson stared at the door. His dad should be arriving any minute. His dad had told Grandma Rose that he would be there at noon and it was currently 11:57. Wren sat next to him, on his left side, the side of his missing arm. He glanced at the clock. Then the door. Then the clock.When the knock came, he jumped and glanced at Wren. “Can you get it?” Jackson asked. Walking across the room in his hospital gown with one sleeve hanging limp would have put him in too vulnerable a positi
About two hours after your shooting, all of the collars in Oconee stopped working.Jackson didn’t understand. “That’s not possible. I know the coding in those collars backward and forward. There are countless fail-safes. For them to just, stop working…” Jackson shook his head. He was already feeling tired again, but he pushed through. “Do we know what caused it?”“There was a statement put out from that Carmillan Collars PR lady that they were looking into what caused the problem, but that was three days ago. There’s been no word since.”Three days. “What day is it?”“You were shot four days ago. You’ve been in and out of consciousness but every time was only for a few seconds and you were pretty confused,” Kia said. “You mentioned geese a couple of times.”Jackson’s lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “I think I was dreaming of
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