Sandalwood and Fresh Rain

⚠️TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains graphic depictions of physical abuse, assault, intimidation, alcohol-influenced violence against a vulnerable character, and themes of helplessness and repeated trauma. It may be deeply distressing for some readers. Please skip if easily triggered.

MIRABEL

I only wanted to double-check. One quick sweep through the house to make sure nothing was out of place, no forgotten glasses, no crumbs on the counters, no beds rumpled from careless afternoon naps, before the pack returned from the ball in a drunken, irritable swarm. If Alpha Sebastian walked in and found even one thing wrong, the night would end in blood. Mine.

In and out, I repeated silently, the words a shaky mantra as I slipped from the narrow door of my shack. Just in and out. Fast and quiet.

Every instinct screamed at me to turn back. My pulse hammered in my throat, loud enough I was sure someone would hear it from the ballroom half a mile away. But fear of punishment outweighed fear of the empty house. I needed to finish my chores. I needed to survive tonight without fresh bruises layered over the old ones.

I moved on tiptoe anyway, ridiculous, since the house was silent except for the distant throb of music drifting across the grounds, but habit had carved caution into my bones. The kitchen first: stoves cold, gas knobs firmly off, pots scrubbed and stacked, the faint smell of rosemary and roasted meat still hanging in the air like a ghost. Everything in order.

I darted through the rest of the lower floor, straightening cushions that had somehow shifted, smoothing sheets I’d already smoothed twice today, gathering stray socks and shirts and folding them back into drawers with trembling fingers. Faster. I need to be faster. The clock in my head ticked louder with every step.

I was almost done. One last glance at the kitchen range, flame extinguished, pilot light steady, then back to the basement stairs. Safety. Sleep. Three hours, maybe four, if the Goddess was kind.

The front door exploded open. Laughter, sharp, slurred, too loud, flooded the foyer like spilled wine.

Rebecca and Trish, Alpha Sebastian’s daughters, stumbled in first, arms linked, cheeks flushed from liquor and whatever else they’d taken at the ball. Behind them, Logan, Beta Joshua’s eldest son, fourteen years old and already moving like he owned every inch of floor he touched.

My stomach dropped. I spun toward the basement door, too slow. Logan was faster. He appeared in front of me like a wall, blocking the stairwell, reeking of whiskey and cheap cologne. His eyes, glassy, amused, locked on mine for one terrible second before I dropped my gaze to the floor.

“Where are you running to, little rabbit?” His voice was thick, words sliding together.

The girls giggled behind me, high and mean.

I didn’t answer. Answering never helped. Trish’s nasal whine cut through the laughter. “Did you steal something, stupid?”

Her makeup was a mess, pink lipstick smeared across her cheek like war paint gone wrong, mascara streaked under her eyes. She looked more clown than she-wolf, but the cruelty in her voice was the same as always.

I kept my head down. Eyes on the tiles. Hands loose at my sides. Don’t look. Don’t speak. Don’t give them a reason.

They didn’t need one anyway.

Rebecca moved first, grabbing my left wrist. Trish took the right. Their nails dug in hard enough to leave crescent marks.

Logan stepped closer. His breath was hot and sour against my face.

“You know I hate it when you don’t reply, right?”

The slap came fast, open palm cracking across my cheek. My head snapped sideways. Copper bloomed on my tongue; blood welled from the split in my lip.

I tasted it, swallowed it and didn’t cry out. Crying doesn't help, it only make things worse. Trish drove her elbow into my ribs, sharp, and sudden. Air punched out of me in a quiet wheeze.

Rebecca shoved, both hands on my shoulders. I dropped hard to my knees, tile biting through the thin fabric of my dress. Pain flared in my side, face, and knees. I cradled my cheek with one hand, the other pressed to my ribs, careful not to curl too tight. Curling made them angrier. Made it last longer.

They towered over me, swaying slightly, giggling like this was a game.

I stared at the floor, small dark drops of my blood already spotting the marble and waited.

With any luck they’d get bored fast. A few more kicks, a last round of laughter, then they’d stumble back to the lights and music and leave me bleeding on the marble.

Luck never lasted long.

Rebecca’s boot slammed into my ribs first, sharp, and deliberate. Trish followed, heel grinding against my hip. Logan stood over me, grinning, directing them like a game.

“Lower. Aim for the kidneys. Make her feel it.”

I curled tighter, arms wrapped around my middle, but it didn’t matter. Not that I didn't anticipate their attacks, just because I saw it before it happened doesn’t make it hurt any less. Wolfless meant no quick healing, no thick hide, no numbing adrenaline rush other wolves got. Every strike landed raw. Every crack of bone, every burst of fire in my lungs, felt exactly as bad as it was supposed to.

“I was just leaving,” I whispered, voice cracking. “Please.”

Blood trickled from my split lip, warm and coppery down my chin. My hands shook as I clutched my stomach, trying to hold everything together.

Logan laughed, low and ugly, the sound of someone who’d already decided how this ended.

“Sure you are.”

Trish cooed, sickly sweet. “Awww, but we just want to play, little rabbit.”

Logan’s fist closed around my hair. He yanked my head back so hard I felt strands tear free from my scalp. My neck strained; tears blurred the edges of everything.

“You look disgusting,” he spat. “I want to puke just looking at your face.”

Another slap, harder. My ears rang like struck bells. The world tilted sideways.

He released me. Rebecca grabbed the same handful of hair and dragged.

Tile scraped my knees, then my shins, then my elbows as I scrambled to keep up. I clawed at her wrist, begged in hoarse gasps “Please, let go, I won’t come back, I swear” but my voice was small, swallowed by their laughter.

They hauled me into the kitchen.

Rebecca stopped abruptly, squatted low, still gripping my hair so tight my scalp burned white-hot. She forced my face up. One eye was already swelling shut; the other watered from pain and smoke and shame.

“Why were you in the kitchen after everyone left?” she hissed. “Planning to poison us?”

The absurdity almost made me laugh. I’d been cooking their meals for years. If I’d wanted them dead, they’d have been gone long ago.

I shook my head, small, frantic and tried to speak. “I was just...”

She didn’t care. Trish wandered to the stove, flipped the burner on high. The blue flame hissed to life beneath the kettle I’d left cooling.

“Didn’t she promise last time she’d stay out of sight?” Trish said, almost conversational. “And here she is, strutting around like she owns the place.”

Rebecca snorted.

“I wonder,” Trish continued, voice dreamy, “what burnt flesh on a wolfless girl looks like.”

Logan barked a laugh. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would.” Trish’s smile turned sharp. “What if she did poison the food?”

They looked at each other, silent agreement passing between them like a shared secret.

Then the kicking started again.

Shoes to the stomach. To the ribs. To the back. Over and over. I tried to numb it the way I always did, close my eyes, drift somewhere else, let the body take the hits while my mind went quiet, but tonight the pain wouldn’t fade. It built. Layer on layer. Until breathing felt like swallowing glass.

Rebecca crouched again. “Think she’ll scar if we pour the boiling water on her face?”

“Who cares?” Logan said, grinning. “She’s already hideous. You’d just be giving her permanent makeup.”

They laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

I curled tighter, fetal, small, trying to shield whatever ribs I had left. If this was the end, at least a few bones would stay intact.

I heard the kettle begin to whistle. Heard Trish lift it from the burner. Heard Rebecca and Logan move to pin my arms.

I couldn’t move anymore. Couldn’t fight. My body was there, bruised, bleeding, trembling, but the rest of me had started to float somewhere safer. Somewhere the pain couldn’t reach.

Then the front door crashed open. A scent rolled in like storm wind, sandalwood, fresh rain, something wild and warm.

It wrapped around me and comforted me. The kicks ceased mid-motion. Hands fell away. The kettle clattered back onto the stove.

The scent grew stronger with every heartbeat, closer, filling the entire kitchen until it was the only thing left in the world. I wanted to press my face into it. Bury my nose against whatever carried it. Let it wash away the hurt, the fear, and the years of waiting for the next blow.

My good eye fluttered half-open. I couldn’t see clearly. But I felt it.

Safety.

For the first time in sixteen years. Something or someone had just walked into the house. And the beating had stopped.