His Broken Mate

The bruises on Celeste Whitemoon’s skin were always the same shade as the sky before a storm—purple, yellow, and fading into ash. She no longer bothered to hide them. The pack didn't care. The alpha certainly didn’t. And the omegas had learned to look away like her pain might spread if they made eye contact too long. Her morning started like every other days-cold, silent, and alone. The sun wasn't up yet risen when she rolled out of the straw mat she called a bed, the thin blanket barely clinging to her skinny shoulders. Her limbs ached. The bruises from yesterday’s training still throbbed beneath her skin, glowing reminders that even the weakest were expected to fight, especially her. She winced as she stood. Her ankle was swollen again. They had made her run laps until she collapsed the day before—training, they called it. Punishment, more like. For what, she never asked anymore. Existing, maybe. Breathing too loud. She was born without a wolf that spoke to her like the others. Celeste was the cursed one. The silent one. She reached for her water bucket and found it empty again. Someone had poured the water outside her door, leaving nothing but the shattered handle and a puddle that was already freezing in the morning cold. She knelt down, picked up the broken handle, and sighed. No time to cry. No one to notice if she did. By the time she limped into the training grounds, most of the warriors were already present. Their laughter echoed off the giant stone walls, bright, emotionless, and cruel. She kept her head down, arms wrapped tightly around her ribs. “Late again,” barked Beta Garren, his voice like broken gravel. “Did you fall asleep in your pretty little dream world, runt?” A few chuckled. Celeste didn’t respond. She never did. “Fifty push-ups. Now. And use your fists.” The gravel beneath her hands tore into her skin as she lowered herself to the ground. One. Two. Three. Pain. Ten. Fifteen. Blood. Twenty-five. Her breath caught around thirty, and she forced herself to keep going. Her wolf stirred slightly in her chest—not to help, but to flinch. Still silent. Still sleeping. Maybe even ashamed of her. She was almost at forty when a kick landed in her ribs. “Faster, Whitemoon,” Garren growled, stepping over her like a rock in his path. “Or don’t bother showing up tomorrow.” She finished all fifty. Barely. And when she stood, panting and raw-knuckled, no one clapped. No one even looked. She walked to the edge of the training grounds and sat on the cold ground, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth and comfort. The others sparred in pairs—Celeste wasn’t allowed to. Not because they were worried she’d get hurt. Because they were scared she’d break too easily and ruin the rhythm. Lunch was worse than training. At least the pain had a rhythm. Hunger didn’t. The warriors piled their plates high with roasted meat, thick bread, and gravy. Celeste stood near the back of the line like always, hoping no one would notice her—but they always did. “Not for you,” snarled one of the kitchen omegas as she reached for a piece of bread. “Alpha said extras are only for those who contribute.” “I helped clean the kennels this morning,” she whispered, voice scratchy with cold. The omega sneered. “You call what you do ‘helping’? Get out of the way, runt.” She stepped back, lips pressed tightly together. Her stomach twisted, aching for even a crust. She scanned the tables. No one would offer her anything. Not out of fear. Not out of kindness. The pack had learned early on that pity was punished. Hard. As she turned to leave, someone’s shoulder slammed into hers. She staggered. “Oh, sorry,” said Maren, one of the alpha’s favored she-wolves. Her voice was thick with mock sweetness. “Didn’t see you there. So small and forgettable.” The warriors at her table burst into laughter. Celeste kept walking. Outside, behind the training barn, she sat in the snow, putting her hands beneath her tunic for warmth. A few leftover nuts from last night’s squirrel hunt was all she had. She chewed them slowly, pretending they were something better. Pretending someone cared whether she ate or not. Her wolf stirred again. Still no words. No comfort. No rage. Just that low, dull ache in her chest where a voice should be. Why won’t you speak to me? she thought. Why are you hiding? There was no answer. There never was. Some said her wolf had died at birth. Others whispered she was cursed—born without a real connection to the Moon Goddess. She’d stopped asking questions years ago. Her wolf was there. She could feel it. But it was like a locked door behind her ribs. Sometimes, she thought she could hear scratching on the other side. The snow fell heavier than usual. Her fingers were nearly numb. Still, she didn’t go inside. She preferred the cold. It reminded her that she could still feel something. The snow seeped into her body through the back of her tunic, but Celeste didn’t move. She stared at the line of trees beyond the training grounds, where freedom lived in thick forests and silence. She often imagined running—disappearing into the woods and becoming a ghost no one missed. But that would be too easy. And too kind. The door to the training barn creaked open behind her. She stiffened. “You’re not finished,” Garren’s voice growled. “Get up.” Celeste stood without a word. Her knees cracked as she rose, fingers burning from the cold. She didn’t dare to meet his eyes because of the consequences. “You think you can rest as you wish just because you’re weak?” he sneered, stepping closer. “This pack doesn’t carry dead weight. You want to eat? Earn it.” He tossed a wooden bucket at her feet. Inside was a twisted brush and a rag that smelled like blood and something worse. “Clean the latrines. All of them. With your hands if you have to. No tools. You’ve already broken two.” Celeste picked up the bucket. “And if I find one speck left behind,” he said, voice lowering, “I’ll tell the Alpha you’ve been disrespecting pack orders. You know what that means.” She nodded once and walked away. The latrines were behind the northern barracks, barely more than a row of filthy pits and half-rotted doors. The stench made her gag, and she pressed her sleeve against her nose. She cleaned for hours—hands numb, arms shaking. She didn’t stop until her knuckles were raw and the bucket was dark with grime. The sun dipped below the trees before she finished. When she returned to the barn to drop off the supplies, no one was there. She left the bucket near the door and headed toward her sleeping quarters—an old storage shed behind the mess hall. The inside was colder than the snow outside. Her blanket was damp. Someone had poured water on it. Again. Celeste curled up on the floor anyway, wrapping her arms around herself. Her stomach growled. Her hands throbbed. Her wolf... nothing. Not even a whisper. She closed her eyes and whispered to the darkness, “Why did the Moon Goddess give me a wolf at all if she never meant it to wake up?” Still silence. She didn’t cry. Not because she wasn’t broken, but because she’d already cried everything out years ago. Now there was only space. Cold space. Inside and out. Sleep didn’t come easy. But eventually, her body gave up, and the dark swallowed her whole.