Alpha Doyle
Eighteen. She was eighteen. She was younger than my daughters and she had already lived through more than my daughters could ever imagine. Standing there before her, I realized, she had an internal strength that she wasn’t able to see for herself yet, a strength she had acquired after everything that she had been through.
She had to possess an inner strength to have survived the horrors and atrocities she had borne witness to at her fathers and brothers’ hands, and the hands of her pack members for so long. She had survived their abuse, their torture and their torment, along with their contempt. The fact that she was standing here before me now, whole, was a miracle within itself. Few people could survive what she had endured. Many would have ended up broken, whether that be
