Chapter 3

Ella’s POV

The pig screamed when I stuck it.

Not for long, the scream became a gurgle, then a sigh, then nothing. Blood gushed into the bucket between my boots, steaming in the cold air of the slaughterhouse. I held the pig steady until the kicking stopped, then wiped my blade on my apron and reached for the hook.

"Ella!"

Greta's voice came from the front room. I didn't answer. My hands knew this work—lift, hook, slit, drain—and I needed to keep them busy. I needed something to distract me from the morning's memories.

Caleb's voice echoed in my head. "You're too... crude."

The word he'd swallowed. The look on his face.

I couldn't even be bothered to spare him a glance.

The hook caught in the pig's tendon. I yanked, harder than necessary, and the carcass swung wild, splattering my cheek with cooling blood.

"Ella! Customer!"

I wiped my face with my sleeve and walked to the front. My apron stuck to my thighs where blood had soaked through. Three years at this block, and I still hadn't learned to stand far enough back. Father used to laugh about it. My girl, wearing her work. Then he'd hand me a rag and tell me to wash before Mother saw.

The front room smelled different. Less copper, more perfume. I looked up, and my hands stopped working.

Sally,the Alpha's noble daughter, stood by the counter, all bones and angles, her wolf form probably sleek as a knife. Blonde hair caught the morning light through the window, pinned with silver combs I'd seen at Alpha John's gatherings. She wore a riding habit, green velvet, cut to show her narrow waist.

"You're bleeding on the floor." She didn't look at me. Her finger traced patterns in the sawdust. "My father wants pork for tonight's feast. The best cut. Not the fatty scraps you usually sell."

I looked at the sawdust. My boots had left red prints across it, a trail from the back room. I should clean that. Greta would slip, break her hip, and then I'd have no one to watch Lily.

"The loin," I said. "Fresh this morning. I'll fetch it."

I turned. Her voice stopped me.

"Caleb tells me you're no longer mates."

My hand found the doorframe. The wood was slick with grease, splintered where generations of butchers had gripped it. I gripped it now, felt a splinter slide beneath my fingernail, welcomed the small pain.

"He tells me," Sally continued, fixing me with a mocking smile, her blue eyes bright with amusement. "that your wolf is malformed. That you can't hold form for more than minutes. That you're—" she paused, head tilting, the silver combs catching light, "—soft. In all the wrong places."

The splinter dug deeper. I thought of the moon ceremony, eight years old, Caleb's hand in mine. Your wolf is small, he'd whispered, but your heart is large. I'll protect you. I'd believed him. Believed him at twelve when he stole kisses behind the smithy. At fifteen when he promised matehood, and I'd wept with joy.

But yesterday, he'd taken every sacrifice I'd made, every piece of my heart I'd given him

"The loin," I said again, and my voice came out flat, dead, the voice I used for customers who wanted to haggle. "Two silver. I'll wrap it."

I walked to the back room. My hands shook on the hook, lifting the fresh carcass. Not from cold. The slaughterhouse was warm with blood and bodies, warm enough that steam rose from the drain grate. My hands shook because I could feel her watching through the doorway, could feel the weight of her gaze on my hips, my waist, all the places Caleb had measured and found wanting.

"Ella?"

I jumped. "What?"

"I changed my mind," she said. "I want sausage. The spicy kind. Father's favorites."

"I don't make sausage until afternoon."

"Then make it now." She stepped closer. The perfume hit me—wild rose, the same as Caleb's collar!

It couldn't be what I thought it was. No. Impossible. I told myself.

Sally smiled. Her smile was cold.

"My father owns this pack. He can close this place. Where will you work? Where will your sister eat?"

I thought of Lily. She was thin. She counted numbers in her sleep. I had given Greta three copper coins this morning. Greta watched Lily now.

I thought of the empty grain bin at home.

"Please," I said. "What do you want?"

Sally moved fast. She grabbed the water bucket. She lifted it. She looked at me. She tipped it.

Cold water hit my chest. It soaked my apron. It soaked my dress. Everything beneath was wet. I gasped. I stumbled back. I hit the block. The pig carcass swung. It brushed my shoulder. Blood and water mixed on my boots. The color was pink.

"Oops," Sally said. She set the bucket down. "Clumsy me. But you are used to that. Clumsy Ella. Your parents were filthy traitors, and you should live in shame for what they've done!"

I hit her.

I did not use the blade. I used my fist. It caught her jaw. Her head snapped back. She fell. Her green velvet spread on the floor. Her silver combs scattered.

Silence came first. Then screaming came.

Sally was dazed. She blinked. Blood sat on her lip. She had bitten it.

The screaming came from Greta. It came from customers. They flooded through the doorway.

"Traitor's daughter!" Someone grabbed my arm. He twisted it. I saw faces I knew. I had sold meat to these people for years. "You attacked Alpha's blood!"

"Hold her!"

Hands gripped both my arms. They dragged me from the block. My feet slipped. The floor had blood and water. I lost my footing. More hands came. More voices came. I could not separate the words. Traitor. Bitch. Kill her. These were the same words from yesterday. They were the same words from the stones. They were the same words from the graves where my parents lay.

I fought. My elbow hit someone's ribs. I heard a grunt. I kicked. My boot hit a knee. But there were too many. There were always too many. Someone struck my face. Someone else struck my stomach. The world became fists. It became knees. It became the smell of copper. This blood was mine. Finally, it was mine.

Through the chaos, I saw Caleb.

He stood in the doorway. Sally was in his arms. Her head lolled on his shoulder. His eyes found mine. They held mine. I waited. I waited for something. I waited for anything. I waited for the ghost of the boy who had promised protection.

"Apologize," he said.

The hands paused. I hung between them. Blood sat on my lip. Water dripped from my hair. My chest heaved.

"What?"

"To Sally." He adjusted his grip. He cradled her closer. Her eyes were open now. She watched me over his shoulder. A small smile played on her bloodied mouth. "She came to buy meat. You attacked her. Apologize. I will speak to Alpha for leniency."

I laughed. It came out broken. It came out wet. It tasted of iron. "Leniency?"

"Ella." His voice dropped. He used the old tone. He had used it when I cried about the pack girls' whispers. He had used it when I starved myself thin. He had used it when I fainted at the moon ceremony. This voice said: I understand. I protect. I stay. "Do not make this worse. You are already—" He glanced at my body. The soaked dress clung to my curves. I had tried to hide these curves. "—in enough trouble."

I looked at Sally in his arms. I looked at the silver combs in her hair. I looked at the green velvet. It was unstained except where she had fallen. I looked at Caleb's hand on her waist. It was proprietary. It was natural. He had always held her there.

I looked at the hands gripping my arms. I looked at the faces. They were eager for my fall. I looked at the slaughterhouse. I had bled here for three years. I had sweat here for three years. I did this to keep a roof over Lily's head.

"No," I said.

Caleb's jaw tightened. "Ella—"

"I said no." I straightened. The hands allowed some movement. I let my voice carry. I let them all hear. "She tipped the bucket. She called me malformed; called my parents traitors — but worse, far worse than that, she—"

“Enough!” Caleb stopped me.

Sally stirred in his arms. She touched her jaw. She winced. She played at pain. "She is mad. Grief-mad. Her parents, you know. The traitor's fire—"

"My father was not a traitor!" The scream tore my throat. It brought fresh blood to my lip. I lunged against the hands. Nails bit my arms. I did not care. "He was hunting! He was—he was—"

The blow came from behind. I saw it in Caleb's eyes first. He flinched. He looked away. Then pain exploded at the base of my skull. My legs went. The hands holding me became arms catching me.

"Take her to the square," someone said. "Alpha will judge."

"Wait." Sally's voice was sweet. It was poison. "She is injured. She is bleeding. We should—" She paused. A smile sat in her voice. "—help her home. To rest. Alone."

The arms shifted. I felt myself lifted. I was not dragged. I was carried. This gentleness terrified me. It terrified me more than the blows.

We moved through the doorway. We moved past the counter. We moved into the cold air of morning. The sky was gray. It promised snow. I watched it spin overhead. The world tilted. The world faded.

I thought of Lily. Who will count for Lily?

The arms tightened. I smelled something through the blood. I smelled something through the fear. It was metal heated to melting. It was the pressure before lightning. It was the same smell from the lightning-struck elm.

 It was Theron — the man I'd pulled from the snow yesterday.

This was impossible. The man was wounded. He was dying. I had left him in my parents' bed. I had given him black bread. I had given him melted ice.

"Sleep," a voice said. This was not Caleb's voice. It was lower. It was stronger. It was the voice from the cottage. It was rough with disuse. Gold eyes watched me from blood-soaked sheets.

I tried to speak. My mouth would not work. The world narrowed to gray. It narrowed to black. I smelled snow. I smelled something underneath it. It was warm. It was alive. It was waiting.

The last thing I felt was arms beneath my knees. They were beneath my back. They lifted me as easily as I had lifted him.

The last thing I heard was my own breath. It slowed. It matched the rhythm of another heartbeat against my shoulder.

Then nothing came.