Eli
The crates are heavier than they look.
My palms burn raw as I drag one from the truck's rusted bed, muscles screaming as I stack it onto another.
The wood splinters bite deep, drawing blood that I taste when I suck my fingers clean. I hiss under my breath, shake it off, keep working.
The cold air slices my face like a blade but sweat pools at the base of my spine, soaking the threadbare shirt they threw at me this morning.
This part of the camp breathes menace.
Ancient trees clawing at the clearing's edges, patrol wolves moving like death between the shadows.
I can feel the border not far beyond, marked by hanging bones that gleam white in the weak sun and carved warnings that promise agony.
A reminder that running leads to teeth tearing through your spine.
"Careful with those, pretty boy."
The voice cuts through the air, young and sharp as a switchblade.
I glance over my shoulder. A lanky wolf about my age, maybe a year or two younger, lounges against a crate with a grin that reeks of cruelty.
His hair is too long, dark bangs falling over predator eyes, and his gaze drags deliberately to the mark on my neck.
"You're new," he says, pushing off the crate, sauntering closer with the confidence of someone who's never truly bled.
"The Alpha's breeding whore."
I grip the crate until my knuckles go white. "Go away."
He smirks, circling me like I'm wounded prey.
"Can't hide a breeder's scent, you know. It clings to you like sin. Makes an Alpha go feral with want."
He leans close enough that I can smell the sharp musk of his wolf, feel his breath hot against my ear.
"Maybe I should get a taste before he ruts you bloody."
My stomach drops into hell, fury spiking through me so violent it blanks out thought.
Suddenly I'm not in this clearing anymore. I'm back there.
In the concrete cage they threw me into the day I turned nineteen.
The one that reeked of broken souls and abandoned dreams, heat pounding through my veins like poison while older wolves circled like vultures waiting for carrion.
You were chosen, they told me, voices slick with false kindness. You'll carry strong bloodlines. Don't fight what you are.
I remember the bite of leather straps cutting into my wrists when I couldn't shift. The jeers when the heat didn't take, when my body refused to bend to their will even after four years of being their prisoner.
It didn't keep them from using me, but I was never able to breed.
The sharp crack of a whip across my shoulders, painting my skin with fire. The cold knowledge settling in my bones.
If I stayed, they would break me piece by piece until I begged them to use me, or they killed me for being useless.
The day after my twenty-fourth birthday, I ran.
Barefoot, half-shifted, through mud that sucked at my feet and thorny undergrowth that shredded my skin, not looking back even when I heard the howls of the hunt.
I ran until my lungs burned, until I crossed into Blackthorn territory and met something infinitely worse.
The crates vanish. The cold vanishes. All I feel is the old rage igniting in my chest like napalm.
I turn on the younger wolf, eyes blazing, fists clenched. "Say that again."
He blinks, startled by the venom in my voice. Then he grins wider, showing too many teeth. "Oh, you've got fangs after all-"
I shove him hard enough that he staggers back against the crate, a dull thud ringing through the clearing like a death knell.
His grin drops and he lunges with a snarl.
I meet him halfway, grabbing his shirt, ready to drive my knee into his gut, ready to make him choke on his own blood.
A hand like an iron shackle clamps on my arm, yanking me back so hard I stumble.
Jace steps between us, broad shoulders blocking my view of the younger wolf. His voice is a low growl that promises violence. "Enough."
"He started-" My words snap off when Jace's glare hits me like a sledgehammer.
"You think I give a damn?" Jace's voice is quiet but sharp as broken glass.
He jerks me around to face him, fingers digging into my arm hard enough to bruise.
"You're marked. You swing first, it's his blood painting your Alpha's hands. You want that kind of heat?"
The words punch through my anger, leaving me cold and shaking.
Behind Jace, the younger wolf slinks back with a muttered curse, rubbing his shoulder like a kicked dog.
Jace's grip tightens until I gasp.
"You don't survive here by proving how tough you are. You survive by knowing when to bare your teeth and when to keep your damn head down."
I swallow hard, my breath ragged, the phantom memory of leather straps still ghosting my wrists like brands.
"I know what he said." Jace's eyes flick to my mark, then back to my face.
His voice softens just a fraction, enough to remind me he's not entirely heartless.
"Don't let him see it get to you. That's all he wants. A reaction."
The fight drains out of me, leaving only the hollow ache in my chest and the taste of copper in my mouth.
Jace releases my arm, but his stare pins me a second longer.
"Stack the rest of those crates. And Eli-" his tone drops low, dangerous as a loaded gun, "-next time, think before you move."
He turns and strides away, leaving me in the snow-bitten clearing, breath shaking, hands trembling from more than cold.
I pick up the next crate.
I keep stacking.
But my mind is far away, still running barefoot through the dark, still tasting freedom's bitter price.