ANNALISE
Annalise Keaton, 14 Years Old
The rain had made the training grounds a pit of sticky mud, the smell of wet dirt combining with the sweat and musk of the pack members standing on the sidelines. My clothes stuck to me, soaked from the rain, but I barely noticed the chill. The burning pain of my latest beating overrode everything else.
A cruel kick to the ribs and I rolled over, and there was laughter exploding out of the pack.
"Come on, Omega," growled Nicholas, the Alpha's son. "Are you not going to stand up for yourself?"
I lay where I was, the coppery flavor of blood in my mouth. I'd discovered all those years ago that it was always worse when you defended yourself. My ranking meant nothing. I was nothing.
"She's worthless," grumbled one of the she-wolves. "Always was."
I clasped my hand around the mud, trying to still my breathing. My wolf whined inside me, worn out from all those years of neglect. While the others were never allowed to train, never had the chance to master the strength of my wolf,
"Let's see how fast an Omega can move," Nicholas sneered, motioning to his followers.
I barely had time to shift when arms wrapped around my shoulders, dragging me up. I was pulled towards punishment posts—the ones where slaves were whipped.
"No," I struggled to gasp, resisting. My wrists were tugged above me, bound to the wooden frame. Panic consumed my chest. I knew what was about to happen.
"Maybe this will teach you obedience to your betters."
A crack tore through the air. Fire erupted on my back as the first lash took hold.
I gritted my teeth behind my lip, trying not to scream.
One.
A second crack. The pain tore through my body, white and impenetrable.
Two.
A third, and I felt the trickle of warmth down my sodden shirt.
Three.
The pain was familiar, but this time, something inside of me broke.
I was done.
Done being their punching bag. Done being the meek, submissive Omega they could beat up whenever they felt like it.
They wanted me to run?
Good.
I would.
But not the way they expected.
I moved through the packhouse like a ghost, my steps silent as I strode through the familiar corridors. The scent of pine and smoke hung in the air, but I didn't care, my mind fixed only on my plan.
I had been preparing for months, stockpiling what little food I could, watching the patrol schedule. It was risky—no one ever left the Winnor Pack without permission.
But I had nothing to lose anymore.
Every breath pained my ribs, but I pushed through the agony, running past the last group of guards. The moment my feet touched the muddied forest floor on the opposite side of the line, my heart pounded wildly.
I ran.
I didn't even look over my shoulder.
For the first time ever in my life, I was free.
Human existence was louder than I had expected.
The city buzzed with life—cars honked, humans zoomed by in a flash, and streetlights flashed in the distance. Everything was going too fast, smelling too strange. Gasoline and food carts mixed with the occasional scent of dirty flesh. It was much unlike the forest I had grown up in, but I had no choice.
I was on my own now.
I slept the first night or two in an empty bus station, curled up in a corner with my stolen backpack hugged to my body. Hunger was clawing at my stomach, but I would not steal food from trash cans. If I moved, I could hunt, but I did not. To move would make me prey, and no one in this world could be told what I was.
I needed a plan.
By the time I was fifteen, I had learned to get by.
I worked odd jobs off the books—washing dishes at a diner, sweeping the floor of a convenience store, cleaning motel rooms when the owners didn't care about paperwork. Long hours, minimum wage, but I kept every cent.
I never stayed in one place too long.
I learned the hard way that humans were nosy. They asked too many questions. Why was it that a young girl was traveling on her own? Where were my parents? Why did I have no records?
I lied when I needed to. Sometimes I said I was waiting for a foster family, other times that I had run away from a violent home. It wasn't that far from the truth, but I never let anyone get too close.
The streets taught me how to be invisible.
I'd falsified enough forms at age sixteen to make it into high school. It was scary walking in the door that first time—crowded hallways filled with adolescents, the smell of perfume and lunches from the cafeteria thick in the air. Not many people took much notice, and I was fine with that.
I kept my head down, never speaking unless forced. If a teacher asked me a question, I answered as quickly as possible, careful not to draw attention.
Having friends was never an option.
I devoted everything to school. Books were predictable, safe. They didn't hurt, didn't question, didn't betray you.
I stayed late in the school library, studying textbooks until my eyes dried up. Science fascinated me—biology, anatomy, chemistry. I memorized all the bones of the human body, all the functions of the heart and brain. It gave me focus, a sense. If I was going to survive in this world, I needed something to anchor me.
At seventeen, I'd won a scholarship.
My school officials called it a miracle—a girl who was orphaned and had no resources to an upperclassman at the top. They did not know about the nights I had spent studying by the street lamps, the tiredness that felt heavy on my bones from working shifts before and after school.
They did not notice what sacrifices I made.
I did not care about being acknowledged. I just wanted to keep moving forward.
Human tried to reach out, of course. A kind teacher, a curious classmate, a well-meaning guidance counselor. But I had spent years building walls, and I was not about to let someone push them aside.
When a boy from my chemistry class invited me to study with him, I said no.
When a girl invited me to a birthday party, I ignored the invitation.
I never laughed at jokes. Never confided to reveal intimate information. Never let my guard down.
Not that I did not wish to bond—I could not. The pack had taught me to trust was danger, that pity was expensive. I had been nothing to them, and I would not allow someone to make me nothing again.
I was alone then.
And I convinced myself that I enjoyed it this way.
By age eighteen, I had only one thing on my mind: medical school.
If I could be a doctor, I could live the life that was truly mine. I could be on my own, untouchable.
I could leave the past in the past.
Or so I thought but I did, got into Med school, became the best Cardio god in the nation, made top ten across the continent.
But no matter how fast I ran, how diligently I worked, there was one thing I could never shake.
I was still a wolf, A rogue nonetheless.
And no degree of human achievement would ever erase that but it didn't matter, I was good on my own or so I thought until one night when I received a letter that changed everything.
"Annalise Keaton, we know who you are. The Wolf King is dying. And you're the only one who can save him."