"Mamma..."
The word slips from her lips, a whisper caught between hope and fear. She shivers as the water curls around her ankles, cold as glass, cold as the air on her skin. But there is a deeper cold, one that seeps into her bones — a coldness that comes from her mother's arms, stiff and unyielding.
"Mamma?"
Her voice is small, unsure. Her mother must be asleep. How else to explain the stillness, the silence? The child's thoughts wrestle with the impossibility. Her mother won't move, won't speak, won't pull her close, won’t kiss her forehead. She stares at her mother's face, trying to make sense of eyes that are open yet unseeing. How can someone sleep with their eyes open?
Time stretches. It feels like hours, though less than one has passed. "Mama, time to wake up." Her voice, usually a melody that would warm a heart, is swallowed by the river's roar, lost to the world, lost to anyone who might hear — but there is no one, no one alive to hear. Her little fingers brush against her mother's lips.
"Bue," she murmurs. "Pitty."
Blue and pretty. The words are twisted by her young tongue, but there is no one left to correct her. She shivers again, the small body trembling.
"Cold, mama. It shcold." Her words stutter in the air.
Instinct takes over, and her tiny legs begin to move, pulling her from the water's edge. She stumbles over the rocks, each step sharp, painful, the stones too big for her little feet. She glances back, fear lacing her wide eyes. Her mother is still, tied to the log by a leather belt — the same belt her mother had knotted around the branch, calling it their lifeline. An adventure, she had called it, in the frantic rush when the fireworks began. The log is lodged by the riverbank. Surely her mother is safe. She must be safe.
The little girl's eyelids grow heavy. She barely feels the cold now, hardly senses the burn across her chest. Everything becomes a haze.
"What... Oh..."
A young woman appears, someone the child does not know. "Oh my, goddess!" The stranger's voice is sharp with alarm.
There is warmth now, an arm around her, pulling her close. The child clutches the necklace her mother had given her — a necklace with letters she is too young to read.
The young woman watches as the child's eyes drift shut. Her gaze falls to the necklace, the tiny hand clutching it tight.
"C-Cassidy?" she whispers, staring at the child. "How did this little thing end up here?"
The moon is a perfect, glaring orb in the sky. I stand naked under its light, not by choice. I should be running in the forest, my feet pounding the earth, but I am here instead, waiting for the next strike.
The whip cuts into my back again, a burning sting that I’ve grown used to, and I hiss, but I will not scream. I’ve learned to swallow my cries.
"That's enough," one of the guards mutters, voice weary.
I am twenty-three, and they say I have not learned my lesson. But what lesson? That I should endure their insults and abuse, stand quietly, take it all without protest? Never. Let them whip me, let them punish me. I will not go quietly. When they unchain me from the post, my knees buckle, unable to hold me up.
"Let's go." They haul me up by my arms, one on each side, dragging me along.
My vision blurs, edges softening, but I catch a glimpse of the forest trail. They will leave me there, as they always do. I drift in and out of consciousness, holding on until I see my sister’s face, then let go, surrendering to sleep.
Flashback
"Give it back!" I shriek.
"You can't be weak all your life, Cass. Try to take it from me!" Colton taunts, dangling my rag doll out of reach.
"Colton! Give it back!"
"That should be Alpha Colton to you," Kaylin chimes in with a smirk.
"He's thirteen! He's not Alpha!" I jump, my small arms reaching, but Colton is taller, holding the doll high above. "But he will be," Kaylin insists, "so you should show some respect."
"No! Give me my doll back!"
"Say please," Colton says, a big, mocking smile on his face.
His grin ignites something in me — a hot flash of rage. I pull back my arm and swing it up into his nose, and he recoils, shocked, clutching his face.
The others gasp. I am thrown to the ground, their feet kicking mud onto me.
"Who do you think you are?" they shout as they kick me again.
"Hey! Don't hit her! She's a little girl," Colton says, his voice cracking.
"So? She punched you!" Ezekiel snaps back. "And she's the Runt of the pack!"
Kaecy nods. "Yeah, no one likes her anyway. This is what Mom and Dad would do to someone like her."
"I don't care," Colton mutters. "It's not like it hurt that much."
"Dude, you're bleeding," Ezekiel points out, and Colton wipes his nose.
"It's fine." He tosses the doll at me. "Here, you can have it back."
I reach for it, my eyes wet, but Ezekiel grabs it first. "Aww, she's gonna cry!" he laughs.
Kaylin joins in, their laughter ringing in my ears.
"Give it..." I try to hold back my tears.
"Kiss my feet, and I'll give it back to you, Cassidy," Ezekiel sneers. "What an ugly name... Her mom must have been crazy to name her that."
Anger explodes inside me, and without thinking, I launch myself at him, knocking him to the ground. I keep punching, even though he shields his face with his arms. I know I’m not hurting him much, but it feels good to see the fear in his eyes.
Stupid Alpha kids.
"CASS!" someone yells, yanking me back to the present.
"What?!" I jerk, startled.
"What are you doing?" Laurel asks, frowning.
"Uh..." I glance around the vegetable field. "Oh... sorry. I spaced out."
"Well, don't. We have to finish this before the festival tonight."
Damn. I spaced out. Why was I even thinking about that?
I quicken my pace, picking tomatoes, trying to shake the memory loose. It must be because of the festival, in his honor. I was eight then, pulled away from Ezekiel by the Alpha himself. Of course, I got punished. I always do. I try to control my temper, but it’s hard when you're always the one getting in trouble for being the victim.
"How does it feel?" Laurel asks quietly.
"Like getting whipped," I reply.
She narrows her eyes. "It's better, healing fast, like always."
She sighs. "I know it won’t matter, but I'll say it again — try to stay out of trouble. I worry they won't bring you back next time."
"I'll be fine," I joke, "Maybe I’ll make a career out of getting whipped."
Her serious stare makes me laugh. "Did I ever tell you you're not funny?" she says, shaking her head. "You need to keep that temper of yours under control."
I nod. It wasn’t always like this. When I turned eighteen and got my wolf, something changed. I have to manage my anger or lose myself. Even though the punishments are harsher now, I haven’t learned to keep quiet. Most bullied members stay silent, become invisible. Not me. I won't be that broken, shy little girl, too scared to stand up for herself. I’d rather take the beating than be their plaything. But I’ve learned to control my rage, at least a little. It’s not easy, but it makes the punishments bearable.
"Look! They’re back!" someone shouts.
The young warriors return, but I don't feel the same excitement as the others. I smooth my unruly, curly hair and watch the vans arrive in the distance.
Laurel touches my shoulder. "I know it’s hard for you, but please, control yourself. I’m sorry I have to say that. I know it's not your fault, but—"
"I know, Laurel. I know."
She gives me a sad smile, apologetic.
My poor sister. She’s afraid for me. I’ve earned a reputation as the troublemaker, and she often pays for it. I am an angry soul. I’ve become this way over the years. I am only at peace when I’m alone.
Taking a deep breath, I return to my work. There are many roles in a pack. Mine is a field worker. We till the fields, tend to crops. My status? A Runt, the lowest of the low. I excel only in having a fighting spirit.
I watch the crowd gathering to greet the returning warriors, those who have been away for months at the fort camps, training young members. Omegas and Runts like me are barred from joining — we are seen as liabilities, too weak for anything but menial work.
"Ignore it. Let's just finish," Laurel says.
I nod, following her lead.
We fill our baskets and head to the kitchen, handing the vegetables to the cooking staff. I dust the dirt from my clothes — a hand-me-down white shirt and a khaki dress that feels more like a potato sack. On the way, I see the courtyard where rogue prisoners are displayed. Their bodies are marked with fresh wounds, bloodied.
I stop, staring. Even as rogues, hated by most, I feel a strange sympathy for them. We Omegas aren’t treated much better, punished harshly for any infraction.
"I’m hot. Are you hot?" Laurel asks suddenly.
I shake my head. "No."
"Maybe I’m horny," she says with a grin.
I gasp, "Laurel! Stop! I don’t need to know that!"
She laughs, "You’re going to have to stay away from the house when Jamey gets back."
"Gladly!" I retort, and she keeps laughing.
She’s good at telling me to control my anger as if it were that easy, but she can’t control her own tongue. This woman and her shameless mouth!
