Chapter 6
661 Words
The next morning, I wake before the sun.
My room in the pack house is small and plain: bed, wardrobe, dresser, nothing fancy. No photos, no fairy lights, no shelves full of memories. I don't decorate. Easier that way. If you don't build roots, you don't have to rip them out.
I throw on training clothes and head downstairs. The pack house is quiet at this hour, just a few warriors moving around and the faint clatter from the kitchen. I grab a quick breakfast on the way out, something I can eat in three bites and still breathe.
The training field is still cloaked in early morning darkness with drops of dew on the grass when I reach it.
Perfect.
This is my favourite time of day. No one yelling. No one watching. No one reminding me what I don't have.
Just me, the cold air, and the steady rhythm of my body working.
I stretch, then push into a full hour of hard training, sprints, drills, strength work, combat combinations. Sweat stings the scrapes on my knees from yesterday's patrol, but I push through it. Pain is familiar. It's the staring and the whispers I can't stand.
When the hour's almost up, I slow into a cool, down lap, lungs burning in that good, satisfying way.
That's when the peace ends.
The biggest jerk in my orbit steps onto the field like it's a stage and he's the headliner.
Jaxon.
My pack's future Alpha. Lucky us.
"Well, well, look who's out here pretending she belongs," he says, voice dripping arrogance.
He angles himself right into my path. I veer to go around him, but he already has a wolf and that comes with speed I don't have yet. He shifts, fast as a blink, and slides his foot out just in time.
My boot catches his ankle.
I go down.
I hit the ground hard, catching myself on my hands and knees. Gravel bites into my palms, and my knees crunch into the packed dirt. A jolt of pain races up my legs.
"You should really watch where you're going," he snickers from above.
I grit my teeth, staring at the dirt for a heartbeat before pushing myself up. "Yeah," I say flatly. "I'll add that to my list."
He smirks. Of course he does. He offers me a hand like some hero in a movie, but I ignore it and stand on my own.
"Wouldn't kill you to act grateful," he says lazily. "Considering my family let you stay here and all."
There it is. The same old line.
He's never liked me. Says I'm basically a stray they felt sorry for. As if I chose to be left on the border as a baby with nothing but a blanket and a scent trail that ended at fear.
I brush dirt and gravel off my palms, wincing when I see the blood. My knees are scraped open again, tiny red streams trickling down my shins. Great. That's going to sting in the shower.
I check my watch. Fifteen minutes until my patrol shift. The guards won't complain if I show up early, they're always happy to hand over the post.
I turn away from Jaxon, but his fingers close around my arm.
His grip is too tight, a hot band around my skin. I can already tell it'll bruise.
"Hey," he says. "Let's patch that up before you go anywhere. Let me help."
"Get lost, Jaxon." I yank my arm free. "I'm fine."
He mutters something under his breath as I walk away, but I don't bother listening.
I reach my bag and pull on my tights over my shorts, hissing a little when the fabric drags over the raw skin. Then
I start strapping on my weapons, thigh sheaths, waist, back, shoulder, every blade sliding into its place like a checklist I've done a thousand times.
Once everything feels right and balanced, I head out for patrol.
- Writer
