Chapter 1
The Outcast
Ethan
The hands were rough—one gripped my shoulder like a vice, the other slid down my back, pulling me close. I looked up into huge, staring eyes, the face blurry in the haze. Then I was spun around, and another man appeared—just as big, his mouth crashing against my neck, teeth scraping my skin.
"Mate," he growled in my ear, the word vibrating through me like thunder.
…
I jolted awake, heart pounding furiously, my cheek stuck to the sticky coffee shop table. Damn it. I'd fallen asleep on shift again. Blinking hard, I squinted at the wall clock—8:47 p.m. My shift had ended ten minutes ago. The shop was empty except for the hum of the flickering fluorescent light and the steady drip of the coffee machine.
I grabbed my old backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and hurried for the door. The bell above it jingled weakly as I stepped out into the night.
The street was alive with Friday chaos—cars honking, drunk laughter echoing off buildings, and music thumping from a bar down the block. I shoved my hands deep in my pockets and started the long walk home. The dream still clung to me like sweat. Those eyes. Those hands. That word. "Mate."
What the hell was wrong with me?
I shook my head, focusing on the cracked pavement beneath my sneakers. Four years since Dad died, and my brain still played tricks on me. Maybe it wasn't just the nightmares. Maybe it was exhaustion. I was nineteen, working double shifts at a cheap coffee shop, barely eating, barely sleeping—all just to keep the lights on for a mother who wished I'd never been born.
A hard shove hit my back out of nowhere, knocking me forward. I stumbled, hit the ground hard, and felt my palms scrape open. Pain shot through them, sharp and raw.
"What the hell—?" I looked up, tasting blood from a split lip.
It was that customer from earlier—the one who'd ordered black coffee and stared at me like I'd done something wrong.
"You!" he shouted, yanking me up by my collar. His breath reeked of cheap beer. "You're the idiot my girl was drooling over, huh?"
I blinked, confused, my backpack sliding off one shoulder. "What? I don't even know what you're talking about."
He shoved me against the wall of a narrow alley, brick scraping my back. "Don't act stupid, pretty boy. She couldn't keep her eyes off you while you poured her drink. You think I didn't notice?"
"I didn't even look at her!" I snapped, raising my hands. "I swear, man—"
His fist slammed into my jaw before I could finish. Pain burst through my face, hot and dizzying. Then his friends joined in—one grabbed my arms while the other drove a knee into my stomach. Air rushed out of me as I doubled over, gasping. Then came more punches. One to my ribs. Another to my nose. Warm blood streamed down my chin and onto my shirt.
"Next time, you won't walk away," the leader hissed, jabbing a thick finger toward my face. "Stay away from my girl."
They laughed and shoved me one last time before stumbling off into the noise of the street.
I stayed there for a moment, lying on the cold concrete, chest rising and falling hard. Slowly, I pushed myself up, wiping blood off my nose. It was probably broken—not the first time. Pain didn't scare me anymore. I was used to it.
Ever since Dad's death, pain was just a part of breathing. I still saw it every night—him stepping off the curb, the screech of tires, the way his body folded under the car like paper. I was fifteen, frozen in place. I didn't even scream. Mom never forgave me for that. She said I should have saved him. Like I could have stopped a car with my bare hands.
I walked home slowly, limping, head down. People stared, but I ignored them. Everyone in this town knew who I was—Ethan, the screw-up. Son of the woman who never said no. After Dad died, she fell apart, and the whole town watched. Every man who came to the door, she let in. She said it was the only way to keep the bills paid. I never asked questions. I just worked.
When I finally reached the house, it looked worse than ever—paint peeling, weeds taller than the fence, the porch light flickering weakly. I took a deep breath, then pushed the door open.
The smell hit first—beer, smoke, and something sour. On the couch, my mother sat straddling some greasy-haired man, their mouths locked together like teenagers. She didn't even glance up. I started for the stairs, keeping quiet.
"Ethan!" Her voice cut through the air, sharp and slurred. "You see me here? Or my friend? Greet us right!"
I froze, teeth clenched. "Hey, Mom. Hey," I muttered without looking at them.
She finally pulled away from him, eyes glassy, hair a mess. "That's it? You think that's how you talk to your mother?"
"I'm tired," I said softly. "I just got off work."
She stood, swaying a little, the man smirking behind her. "And what happened to your face? You been in a fight again?"
I met her eyes. "Why do you care?"
Her hand flew before I could blink. The slap cracked across my cheek so hard my head snapped to the side.
"How dare you talk to me like that!" she screamed. "After everything I do for you!"
I stared at her, the sting burning deep. "Everything you do? Like selling your soul to every man in this town?"
Her face twisted. "You little bastard!"
The man on the couch stood up, slow and deliberate. His gut hung over his belt, and his grin was mean. "You better watch your mouth, boy."
I turned toward the stairs. "I'm done with this."
But his hand grabbed my ankle and yanked me down. My chin hit the steps hard. The pain exploded up my jaw. Before I could move, he was on me, flipping me over, his face inches from mine.
"You think you can talk to her like that?" he snarled, grabbing a broom from the corner. "You need to be taught some respect."
The wooden handle came down on my arm. Once. Twice. Pain shot up to my shoulder.
"Stop!" I gasped, curling up to protect my head.
Another hit. My ribs screamed.
"Fucking worthless kid," he growled. "Should've left you in the street."
I looked past him, at my mother. She just stood there, arms crossed, watching. There was no shock in her eyes. No pity. Just hate.
"Teach him, baby," she said flatly. "He needs it."
Another hit. The broom cracked again against my back, the wood splintering slightly. I couldn't even breathe.
"Please," I choked out. "Stop…"
But the man didn't stop. He was panting now, swinging harder each time. I tasted blood, my vision dimming at the edges. The pain was too much. It filled every inch of me until I couldn't feel anything else.
I curled tighter, waiting for it to end.
Mom didn't move. She didn't flinch. She just watched as if this was nothing new. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe this was all I'd ever be good for—taking the hits for the people who were supposed to love me.
Another crack echoed through the room. My arm went numb. My heartbeat slowed. The voices around me grew faint, like they were drifting away into the dark.
My breath caught. Everything hurt. Everything blurred.
And then—
My world went quiet. My body gave up. My mind went blank.
Everything faded to black.