* BETTY'S MEMORIES* The house always smelled like smoke, rotting wood, and cheap liquor. Not the kind that warmed you from the inside, but the kind that soured a man's blood and twisted his soul. Betty remembered that scent more vividly than she remembered her mother's lullabies. It was the scent of her childhood. Their house wasn’t a home. It was a broken thing — four damp walls stitched together by mould and silence. It stood on the far edge of the pack’s land, tucked away behind the chicken coops and drying lines where no Alpha ever bothered to look. In winter, the wind slipped through the cracks in the wood like a thief, stealing warmth, stealing hope. There were nights it felt colder inside than out, and Jasper would curl into her side, shivering, as if her ribs could offer what the world refused: comfort. Their father was always out — gambling, drinking, spilling stories in smoke-filled dens about the Luna he could’ve had, the warrior he would’ve been, if not for the curse
Last Updated : 2025-08-12 Read more