Sold To The Demon Alpha

Injured, Bullied and The Ruined Dress

A root caught my ankle like fate catches the desperate. One moment I was running through the forest, clutching Cook B's herb bag against my chest, and the next I was sprawling face-first into the dirt. The impact jarred through my bones. My knees struck something sharp, a stone, maybe, or a broken branch, and the pain shot up through my legs like fire climbing a wick.

I sat there in the dirt, breathing hard. Tears welled up in my eyes before I could stop them. Hot and stupid and weak. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, smearing dirt across my cheek.

"You will not cry," I whispered to myself. The same words I'd been saying for years. "You will not cry because that's what they want."

But it hurt. Goddess, it hurt so bad. Sometimes I wondered if the others were made of different stuff than me. If their bones were carved from stone instead of hollowed bird bones like mine seemed to be. They were warriors. Big, hulking with scars across their backs and arms like tree trunks. When they got hurt, they laughed. When I got hurt, I cried like a child.

Maybe that's all I was. A child pretending to be something more.

I pushed myself up, brushing the worst of the dirt from my knees. Blood seeped through the torn fabric of my work dress, but I ignored it. I had to get back. The white moon party started at sunset, and Cook B would have my hide if I was late with the fenugreek.

The white moon party. Just thinking about it made my chest feel lighter, made the ache in my knees fade to a dull throb. Tonight was different. Tonight I turned eighteen. Tonight I might finally shift, finally find my wolf, finally become someone worth something in this pack.

I picked up the herb bag and slung it over my shoulder. The fenugreek leaves were still intact, thank God. Cook B would have made me go back out and find more, even if it took all day. Even if I missed my own birthday celebration.

Maybe even a mate.

The thought came unexpected, the way good thoughts always did, sudden and bright and probably too good to be true. But maybe. Maybe tonight the Moon Goddess would look down on me and decide I'd suffered enough. Maybe she'd send me someone who would love me despite everything. Despite what I'd done. Despite what they all said I was.

The idea made me almost giddy. Someone created just for me. Someone who would hold me when I cried instead of telling me I was weak. Someone who would see past the blood on my hands to whatever good might still be left in me.

I was so lost in the fantasy that I didn't hear them coming.

"Watch where you're going, you stupid b***h!"

The shove came from behind, hard enough to send me sprawling again. The herb bag flew from my hands, scattering fenugreek leaves across the dirt like green confetti. I hit the ground hard, my already-scraped knees taking the worst of it.

Three of them. I recognized their voices before I even looked up. Marcus, the future beta. Dane, the gamma. And Kyle, who was barely older than me but already twice my size.

"Look what you did," Marcus snarled, nudging the scattered herbs with his boot. "Clumsy as always."

I scrambled to gather the leaves, my hands shaking. Some of them were already dirty, ruined. Cook B would be furious.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, not looking up. "I didn't see you coming."

"Course you didn't." Dane laughed, but there was nothing funny in it. "Too busy dreaming about tonight, weren't you? Thinking you'll finally shift? Thinking you'll finally be worth something?"

"Leave me alone." The words slipped out before I could stop them.

The kick came swift and sharp, catching me in the ribs. I gasped, doubling over.

"What did you say?" Marcus's voice was deadly quiet.

"Nothing," I wheezed. "I said nothing."

"That's right. You said nothing because you are nothing." His boot pressed down on my hand, grinding my fingers into the dirt. "Nothing but a murderer. Nothing but the worthless little brat who killed her own parents."

"I didn't..."

"Shut up!" Kyle's voice cracked with rage. "Don't you dare! My father died in that fire too. He died trying to save your worthless life, and for what? So you could grow up to be the pack's charity case?"

The tears came freely now. I couldn't stop them. They kicked at the herb bag, scattering more leaves, stomping on them until they were nothing but green mush in the dirt.

"Pathetic," Dane spat, literally spat, the glob of saliva landing on my shoulder. "Look at her crying like a baby. Eighteen years old today and still can't take a little correction."

Marcus grabbed my hair, yanking my head back until I was forced to look at him. His eyes were cold, gray like winter sky.

"You want to know what your birthday present is, Delilah? It's this: you get to live another year knowing what you are. Knowing what you cost us. And every time you look in the mirror, every time you close your eyes, you get to remember that you're the reason good people are dead."

He shoved me back down and they walked away, their laughter echoing through the forest long after they'd disappeared.

I sat there for a long time, gathering what was left of the herbs. Most of them were ruined, brown and crushed and mixed with dirt. Cook B would take one look and know exactly what had happened. She'd probably send me back out for more, or worse... dock my already pitiful meal portions for the next week.

I trudge towards the pack house, all gray stone and tall windows that reflected the late afternoon sun. I could smell the preparations from here: roasting meat and fresh bread and the sweet scent of honey cakes. My stomach cramped with hunger, but I pushed it down. Maybe tonight, at the ceremony, I'd get to eat something besides kitchen scraps and leftover porridge.

Cook B was in the main kitchen, her massive frame filling the space between the ovens. She moved with surprising grace for someone so large, her thick arms kneading bread dough with practiced efficiency. When she saw me coming, she stopped and turned, her small dark eyes taking in my disheveled appearance.

"Well?" she demanded, holding out one flour-dusted hand.

I gave her what was left of the herbs. She looked down at the sad, crushed leaves and made a sound of disgust.

"Tsk. Useless. Completely useless." She weighed the bag in her palm, frowning. "Half of these are ruined. What did you do, roll around in them?"

"I fell," I said quietly.

"Of course you did." She tossed the bag onto the nearest counter with more force than necessary. "Always something with you, isn't it? Can't even gather herbs without making a mess of it."

I waited for the blow. Cook B had a wooden spoon she liked to use on clumsy servants, and I'd felt it across my knuckles more times than I could count. But she just looked at me, really looked, taking in the blood on my knees, the dirt in my hair, the defeated slope of my shoulders.

"Clean yourself up," she said finally. "You look like something the dogs dragged in. And if you're late for kitchen duty tomorrow because of whatever nonsense is happening tonight, you'll be scrubbing pots until your fingers bleed."

It was as close to kindness as I was likely to get from her. I mumbled my thanks and slipped away, heading for the narrow stairs that led to the servants' quarters.

My room was tucked beneath the main staircase, so small that I had to duck to avoid hitting my head on the slanted ceiling. There was just enough space for a mattress on the floor and a single drawer beside it. The drawer held everything I owned: three work dresses, a bar of soap, a wooden comb with half its teeth missing, and, folded carefully at the very bottom, my treasure.

I knelt beside the drawer, my scraped knees protesting against the hard floor, but i ignore it. My fingers found the soft fabric, and I pulled it out gently.

My mother's dress. Sky blue and shimmery, made of the finest organdy that caught light like water. She'd worn it to her own eighteenth birthday party, the night she'd met my father. The night her whole life had changed.

"Happy birthday, Delilah," I whispered to myself, holding the dress up to catch what little light filtered through my single small window.

I'd spent weeks preparing for this moment. I'd taken in the waist and hemmed the skirt to fit my smaller frame. I'd washed it carefully and hung it to dry in secret, away from prying eyes. Tonight, for just a few hours, I would look like I belonged. Like I was someone worth celebrating.

I stood and turned toward the small mirror mounted on the back of my door, holding the dress to my chest.

My smile fell right off my face as i stared at the dark stain that spread across the front of the dress like spilled blood. Dark and wide and utterly, completely ruining everything.