"Why run from me, Rielle? We're not real siblings, remember?"
The words made her blood freeze. Rielle staggered back, the dull throb in her bad leg flaring with every panicked step she took. Her breath came short and shallow as she tried to get away, but the limp in her foot refused to cooperate. Her fingers gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, but even that felt like it might slip from her grasp.
She had been quietly tidying the dishes, stacking plates one by one and wiping the counter with a worn cloth. She had hoped to finish early, retreat to her cold little room, and rest her aching joints. But then it happened—the familiar, disgusting pressure of hands grabbing her from behind.
Her body stiffened in horror, and she spun around quickly, ignoring the stabbing pain in her ankle. She already knew who it was. She didn't even need to look.
"Andros," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Her stepbrother, the only one who ever dared to touch her like that.
He grinned at her, eyes roaming with no shame at all. "You should stop pretending you don't like it."
Rielle swallowed hard, the bitter taste of fear rising in her throat. "G-go away," she stammered, pushing at his chest. "D-don't t-touch me."
"Stop pretending you don't want this, Rielle," he said, leaning in. His breath was hot against her skin, and she recoiled from it, trembling. "We both know you're just playing hard to get."
"N-no. You're w-wrong," she whimpered.
He didn't care. He never did.
She tried again to escape, moving toward the kitchen entrance where she knew a few maids would be passing soon, but he was faster. With a cruel grin, he caught her waist and yanked her back against him. She twisted in his hold, struggling, nails digging into his arm, but it only made him laugh.
Then, as she lost her balance, they tumbled.
She landed on top of him with a painful thud, the air rushing from her lungs as her bad leg screamed in protest. Panic surged in her chest as his hands gripped her hips tightly. His eyes darkened.
"See? It's not so bad, is it?"
"Let go o-off me!" she gasped, pushing, kicking, but he held on.
Just then—
"What the hell is happening here?!"
The voice cut through the room like a knife.
Lariette stood at the kitchen doorway, eyes wide, fury blazing in them. Myra, her stepsister, stood just behind, her lips curled into a smug smile.
Rielle's heart pounded in her chest, harder now from humiliation than fear. Maids began to appear. One by one, they filtered into the hallway, drawn by the commotion. Like spectators gathering before a play.
Andros shoved Rielle off instantly, standing and brushing his clothes as if he were the one offended. "Mother," he said smoothly. "I tried to push her away. She just threw herself at me."
Rielle scrambled to her feet, wincing. "N-no, he—he forced—"
But she didn't finish.
PLAK
Lariette's hand came down hard across her cheek. The sound of the slap cracked like thunder in the kitchen, and her head snapped to the side. Pain bloomed in her jaw and cheekbone. Her knees nearly buckled.
"You ungrateful, ugly little thing!" Lariette spat. "We feed you. We give you a roof over your head. And this is how you repay us?"
"He's l-lying," Rielle whispered, tears springing to her eyes. "He t-touched me…"
"Enough!" Lariette screeched, grabbing Rielle's hair and yanking her to a half-stand before shoving her hard to the floor again. Her knees hit the cold tiles with a painful crack.
"You're lucky I don't throw you out into the woods! I should've known when you made that nonsense claim before. You really have no shame."
Rielle clutched her side, trembling, remembering the last time she'd confessed to Lariette about Andros touching her inappropriately. She had cried, begged her to believe her—thinking, maybe, as a woman, Lariette would understand. But no.
Lariette had slapped her then too. And called her a temptress.
"Let's go, Mother. She's not worth your time," Andros said casually, placing a hand on Lariette's shoulder.
Lariette nodded, smoothing her dress, her glare never leaving Rielle. She turned on her heel. But not before Andros flashed Rielle a smirk. A knowing, cruel grin.
The maids had all vanished during the chaos, except one person.
Myra.
She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a twisted smile on her face. "Poor thing. Getting slapped again? You really are the star of this household, huh?"
Rielle didn't look at her. She stood slowly, her body screaming from the pain, and turned toward the counter, grabbing a cloth.
Myra stepped closer, her words like honey laced with venom. "Honestly, if I were you, I'd be embarrassed. Always getting hit like a stray dog someone forgot to put down."
Rielle stared at the fridge handle, hand trembling as she reached for it. She had learned long ago that reacting only gave Myra what she wanted.
Silence. Detachment. That was her only shield.
"What? Now you're ignoring me?" Myra hissed, grabbing Rielle's hair and yanking it back hard. "Who do you think you are?"
She shoved Rielle before stalking away, muttering under her breath.
Rielle gritted her teeth. Myra only ever got physical when she didn't get the reaction she wanted. Her cheek still throbbed, and her scalp burned where Myra had pulled her hair. She finally opened the freezer and placed the ice pack gently against her face.
Another day. Another wound.
**
Later that night, Rielle sat on her mattress, nursing her bruised cheek in silence. Her room was barely more than a closet. The walls were bare. The bed was nothing more than a thin mattress. The blanket barely covered her, full of holes and about as warm as paper. But it was hers. A small space away from everyone.
Knock. Knock.
Her brows furrowed. No one ever knocked. Not here.
She opened the door slowly.
It was Beta Finn.
"The Alpha wants to see you in the study."
Rielle blinked. "M-me?"
"Yes. Now."
Her heart raced. What had she done now?
"O-okay," she mumbled, keeping her head down as she followed quietly. No use arguing.
She couldn't think of any single good reason her father would ask for her. Being his illegitimate child already meant he kept her hidden. Her limp, her lack of a wolf—she was a walking disgrace in his eyes. He never defended her. Never scolded her abusers. Just let them ruin her one blow at a time.
By the time they reached the study, her legs were sore and heavy. She paused at the door—it looked more like the entrance to a prison than a room. Her stomach twisted.
The last time she was here, she was a child. And she left with tears and bruises.
Beta Finn opened the door.
"Go in," Finn said flatly.
She stepped in. Her father sat behind his massive desk, scribbling something onto parchment. "You're here. Good," he said without looking up.
Rielle stood awkwardly just inside the threshold, her hands clasped tightly in front of her shawl-covered dress. The silence thickened between them.
"Y-you wished to see me, Father?" she asked quietly.
Harold finally set the pen down and leaned back in his chair. His eyes lifted to meet hers.
He said nothing at first. Just looked.
Observed.
Rielle's breath caught in her throat. There was no warmth in his stare. Not a trace of affection—only the kind of look you'd give livestock you were about to sell off.
She stood straighter despite the pain pulsing in her leg.
He didn't ask her to sit.
Not even a glance at the darkening bruise on her cheek.
"You're of no use to me here, Rielle. And frankly, I'm tired of the constant trouble you bring."
Rielle flinched.
The words were expected, but hearing them aloud carved another hollow inside her.
"But now, you might actually be useful."
Rielle's eyebrows drew together.
"You're going to marry the alphas of the Bloodfang Pack."
It was quiet. So quiet it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.
Rielle's mind stumbled. She blinked. Once. Twice. But the words didn't go away. "M-marry?" she echoed, voice a breathless stammer. "M-me?"
Her knees almost gave out just hearing the name.
The Bloodfang Pack.
Even someone like her, stuck in the far corners of the estate, knew that name. Everyone knew the stories. And none of them ended well. A place where mercy went to die. Ruthless. Unforgiving. Its Alphas were said to rule with an iron fist and blood-stained claws. Even rogues feared wandering too close to their borders.
And now she was to be sent there.
"F-Father… please, can't we talk about this?" she whispered, her voice trembling with desperation. "I'll do anything else, I promise. I-I'll work harder, I won't complain—just don't ma—"
"Enough."
Harold's sharp glare cut her off. "You should be grateful I even found someone willing to take you."
Rielle's lips trembled as her gaze dropped to the floor. Shame curled through her gut like rot.
"I gave you food. A roof. A name. You were nothing. This is your chance to repay me."
And just like that, the decision was final.
Either die here.
Or die there.