Broken Wolves

3

AMANDA

I don’t want to live.

Some days, I’m lucky if I can even remember what it’s like to breathe without pain. To just… breathe. My lungs feel heavy, like I’m always gasping for air, like I’ve been drowning for weeks and the surface keeps slipping further away.

I’m alive, but it’s not living.

Survival—survival is all I have left. Every second is a battle, every moment a choice between fighting or fading into nothing. I don’t know which is worse. Sometimes I don’t even know if I’m awake, or if I’m trapped inside some nightmare that I can’t escape.

I hear them—shouting, laughing, sometimes mocking. It all blurs together, too much noise, too many words, too much pain. My body is nothing but a broken shell, and I’m trapped inside it, fighting not to fall apart. My legs shake constantly, weak and trembling. I don’t know if it’s from hunger or exhaustion or just the constant terror running through my veins. Maybe it’s all of it.

I’m lucky if I get a minute to breathe, a moment where I’m not being dragged, pushed, or hurt. But those moments—those rare seconds of quiet—they never last.

I try not to think about them, the ones who did this to me. I can’t let myself. If I let my mind wander, I’ll lose control. I’ll break, and that’s something I can’t afford. So I focus on staying sharp, staying alive.

Every bruise on my skin, every cut, every sore muscle—those are the markers of how long I’ve been here, how much of me has already slipped away. But I hold onto the parts of me that still want to fight. That still want to make them pay.

But every time they hurt me, it gets harder. Harder to think, harder to breathe, harder to care. I can feel myself breaking down, piece by piece.

I’ve tried to escape. Tried to fight. But it’s like I’m stuck in a cage that’s too small to move in, too tight to breathe. I’m like an animal—scratching, clawing, desperate just to survive. But even survival is slipping from my grasp.

I don’t even know if I want to survive anymore.

Today’s no different.

The sound of the gates opening—slow, deliberate—sends a wave of cold fear through my bones. The kind of fear that makes my body lock up, makes my mind scatter, makes every muscle scream for escape that I can’t find.

I crawl back into the corner, my body moving without thinking, a desperate instinct to get smaller, to disappear. It’s the only safe place left. The only place where I can pretend that I don’t matter. That I’m not here, not in this room, not in this cage.

But then, I smell him.

His scent invades me—sharp, overpowering, like blood and earth. He’s close. Too close. And I can’t stop the way my heart skips, a sick, choking thud that feels too loud in my chest. I try to make myself smaller, hide deeper, but it doesn’t matter.

I hear him then. The heavy steps. The door creaking open, his shadow falling across the ground like a curse.

"Well, well, well," he says, his voice low and smooth, almost mocking. "Look what we have here."

His eyes settle on me, inspecting me like I’m some kind of f*****g specimen, like I’m nothing more than something to play with. He crouches in front of me, eyes tracing over my face, the bruises, the cuts, the mess he’s made of me.

I can't look away. His gaze feels like a weight, crushing me even harder.

I want to scream. To lash out. But my throat feels raw, like I don’t have the strength to fight him anymore. The words are stuck inside me, too afraid to break free.

"Are you ready for today's session, love?" he growls, fingers drawing circles on my arms. I'm lucky if that is all what he does but that cuffs and crane in his hand made me wish to die.

Goddess. Not again.

"Please," I want to beg, but the word won’t come out. My mouth is dry, and every part of me is screaming to escape, but I’m stuck. Trapped. Again.

He laughs softly, the sound like a blade scraping against bone. "Please?" he mocks. "I don’t think you’re in any position to ask for anything, love."

His grip tightens on my arm, dragging me roughly up from the corner. My legs shake so badly I can barely stand, but he doesn’t care. His other hand pulls at my hair, forcing me to face him. The movement is brutal, violent, like I’m nothing but a doll to him, something to break.

I try to hold back the tears, but they come anyway. They always do. The pain, the hopelessness, the constant dread—it all surges up and spills over, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

He leans in close, his breath hot against my cheek, and I can smell the alcohol on him. He’s drunk, but it only makes him worse. More unpredictable.

"Tell me about your power, Amanda," he demands, his voice a cold command.

I don’t answer. I can’t. The truth would kill me.

He steps closer, fingers digging into my arm. "What can you do?"

I swallow hard, trying to hide the fear clawing at my throat. My pulse pounds in my ears, but I won’t give him anything. I can’t.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," I say, my voice shaking.

His grip tightens. "You’re lying. You’ll talk. Eventually."

I feel his breath hot on my face. "Tell me, or I’ll make you."

I stare at him, trying to keep my breath steady. I won’t break. Not now. Not yet.

“I told you,” I rasp, “I don’t know anything.”

His laugh is cold, hollow. "Really?"

Then, without warning, he slams the crane down on my shoulder, the metal biting deep into my skin, tearing through muscle and bone. A scream rips from my throat, but I can’t stop it. The pain is blinding—like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and it threatens to swallow me whole.

I curl into myself, my body shaking uncontrollably. I gasp for air, every breath a struggle, my heart pounding as the searing pain twists inside me.

"You will talk," he growls, his voice low and taunting. "You can’t take much more of this."

I can’t think. I can barely breathe, my body trembling, my vision swimming. Every nerve is on fire.But it feels like my body is used to this.

Six months ago, I left the Crescent Prince on my own volition. Three months ago, these rogue wolves found me, and now, they’ve made sure I’ll never forget what I left behind.

But then—a noise. A door slams open, loud and sudden. Footsteps—heavy, fast—coming toward me.

My heart stutters. My breath catches in my throat. Who? Who the hell is it?

For a moment, my mind doesn't know if it’s real. If it’s just another hallucination, another trick. I’ve been through enough to not trust anything. But no—this is real. This has to be real.

The footsteps come closer, faster, each step pounding in my chest like a drum. And for the first time in a long while, a spark of something—I don’t know what—flashes in my chest. Hope? Maybe. But hope hasn’t felt like this in months. No, it’s more than that.

It’s a f*****g chance.

I can feel my breath coming easier now. Not because it hurts any less—hell, no—but because there’s a chance. A way out.

I try to lift my head, my body screaming at me to stay down, to stay still, but I have to see. I have to see who’s coming.

“Stay here,” he orders, his voice flat.

I blink, forcing my eyes open, my vision blurred with blood and tears. I stay still, not daring to move, not trusting my body to obey. Each breath feels like the last, but I’m not dead yet. The guy looks look he’s scared too.

“Let her go!” A voice. Familiar. Furious.

I try to turn, try to see, but everything’s a blur. Pain lances through me, but I don’t care. I hear him. The roar of a beast.

And then—nothing.

I black out, my body giving in to the chaos. Was it a savior? Or my executioner?

I can’t tell.