Chapter 28 - The Price of Three Kilos
1607 Words
Florence opened her eyes slowly.
For a moment she did not move.
The ceiling above her was familiar—wooden beams darkened by age, the faint smell of herbs lingering in the air. Her room. The same room she had grown up in. The same cracked plaster near the window, the same old wardrobe in the corner.
But something felt wrong.
Her body felt heavy, distant, as if it no longer belonged to her.
Then the pain returned.
A deep, dull ache spread through her ribs, her arm, and her leg. It pulsed slowly, like a cruel reminder that she was still alive.
Florence inhaled sharply.
Her chest burned.
A shadow moved beside the bed.
She turned her head slightly.
The healer was there again.
The old she-wolf stood beside the bed with a small wooden bowl filled with a dark green paste. Her thin fingers moved with mechanical precision as she spread the thick ointment across Florence’s bruised skin.
The paste smelled of bitter herbs and smoke.
Florence watched her silently.
The old wolf did not look at her.
Not once.
Her face was hard, expressionless, as if Florence were not a person but merely an injured animal brought in for treatment.
The healer finished applying the ointment to Florence’s shoulder and began wrapping a cloth around her arm.
Her movements were quick, practiced.
Not gentle.
Florence clenched her teeth as the pressure sent another wave of pain through her bones.
Still the healer said nothing.
Not a single word.
Florence had already noticed that.
Not once since arriving had the old wolf spoken to her with kindness.
No reassurance.
No comfort.
Only silence.
When the bandage was secured, the healer finally touched Florence’s wrist and ankle, carefully pressing around the injured bones.
Florence winced.
The healer frowned.
“They haven’t healed yet,” she muttered under her breath.
Her voice was rough, unimpressed.
She shook her head slightly.
“What kind of wolf are you,” she added coldly, “if you can’t even mend your bones?”
Florence didn’t answer.
She didn’t have the strength.
The healer wiped her hands on a cloth and stepped away from the bed.
At that moment the door opened.
Florence heard the quiet creak of the hinges before she saw him.
John.
Her father stood in the doorway.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
The healer cleared her throat awkwardly.
“I’ve done what I can for today,” she said.
John nodded.
The old wolf gathered her bowl and cloths and left the room without another glance at Florence.
The door closed softly behind her.
Silence filled the room.
Florence slowly turned her head toward her father.
John looked tired.
More tired than she had ever seen him.
In his hands he carried a simple wooden bowl.
Steam rose from it.
Soup.
Or what passed for soup in this house.
Florence already knew the taste.
Her mother’s cooking had always been… unfortunate.
When her mother cooked, meals usually consisted of thin soups or watery stews that somehow managed to taste like nothing at all.
Even when food was scarce, wolves expected flavor.
But not here.
Florence remembered countless evenings when bowls of soup sat untouched on the table while everyone pretended they were not hungry.
John walked slowly to the side of her bed.
He pulled a chair closer and sat down.
For a moment he simply looked at her.
Florence could not read the expression in his eyes.
Guilt.
Perhaps.
Or shame.
He lifted the spoon and stirred the soup gently.
Then he brought the spoon toward her lips.
Florence hesitated.
But the pain in her body had drained most of her strength.
She opened her mouth and swallowed the liquid.
It tasted exactly as she expected.
Warm.
Thin.
And completely without flavor.
She forced herself not to grimace.
John watched her closely.
“You can say it isn’t good,” he said quietly.
Florence remained silent for a moment.
Then she spoke.
“If you keep feeding me like this,” she said weakly, “I could probably learn to eat hay from the stable.”
John froze.
The spoon remained suspended in the air.
He slowly lowered it back into the bowl.
Embarrassment crossed his face.
He placed the spoon carefully on the edge of the bowl.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Finally John sighed.
“We are not bad parents, Florence.”
Florence looked at him.
Her eyes were tired.
Empty.
“You might not believe it right now,” he continued, “but we did what we had to do.”
She turned her head away from him.
The window beside her bed showed a strip of gray sky.
“We cannot survive outside the pack,” he said softly.
Florence closed her eyes.
Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Then let me die.”
John inhaled sharply.
“Why all this?” she continued quietly. “Why keep me alive?”
John rubbed his face with one hand.
“We are not monsters, Florence.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“But we cannot abandon you in a time like this.”
Florence laughed weakly.
It was a hollow sound.
“You sold me,” she said.
John’s eyes widened.
“For three kilos of gold.”
Silence fell heavily between them.
John stared at her.
Florence slowly turned her head back toward him.
Her lips curved into a sad smile.
“I heard everything, father.”
His hands trembled slightly.
“You were there,” she continued softly. “You and mother.”
John opened his mouth to speak.
But Florence continued before he could.
“You said it would be easier if I died.”
John’s face went pale.
“You said the pack would not accept a weak wolf.”
Her voice trembled now.
“And then Alpha Anthony offered gold.”
John looked away.
Florence swallowed painfully.
“You agreed.”
The words felt heavier than the pain in her body.
Her father said nothing.
“So,” she continued quietly, “you called the healer.”
Her eyes filled with tears she refused to let fall.
“And now I’m still alive.”
John’s chest rose and fell slowly.
He wanted to speak.
But the words would not come.
Florence watched him for a long moment.
Then she smiled again.
But this time the smile was different.
Tired.
Resigned.
“I understand,” she said softly.
John looked at her.
“You don’t—”
“I do.”
Her voice was calm now.
Almost peaceful.
“You chose the pack.”
Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling again.
“That is what wolves do.”
John leaned forward.
“Florence—”
But she closed her eyes.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Leave me what little dignity I have left.”
The words cut deeper than anger.
Deeper than accusations.
John slowly stood.
He looked at his daughter.
The daughter he had once carried on his shoulders when she was small.
The daughter who had laughed in this very room.
Now she lay broken in the bed.
Sold.
And still she had thanked him.
His throat tightened.
But he said nothing.
He turned and walked toward the door.
When it closed behind him, the room became silent again.
Florence did not open her eyes.
For a long time she lay perfectly still.
Then the tears came.
Quietly.
Not dramatic.
Just silent tears slipping down the sides of her face into the pillow.
She pressed her hand weakly against her chest.
Why?
Why did it hurt so much?
Not the broken bones.
Not the bruises.
But this.
The truth.
She had heard everything that night.
Every word.
Her mother’s quiet voice.
Her father’s tired arguments.
The sound of gold coins placed on the table.
Three kilos.
That was the price.
The price of her life.
The price of a daughter.
And still…
Even now…
Even after everything…
She wanted them to love her.
The realization hurt almost more than the betrayal itself.
She hated herself for it.
Why did she still want their approval?
Why did she still hope that one day they would look at her with pride?
Florence wiped her tears with trembling fingers.
The truth slowly settled into her mind.
She was no longer their daughter.
She was property.
Purchased.
Owned.
A slave to another pack.
To Alpha Anthony.
The thought should have terrified her.
But strangely…
It didn’t.
Because something inside her had already broken.
And when something breaks completely…
It no longer fears falling apart.
Florence opened her eyes again.
The room looked the same.
But she felt different.
Calmer.
Not hopeful.
Just… empty.
She inhaled slowly.
Then whispered to herself.
“So this is what I am now.”
Her voice was barely audible.
“A slave.”
The word felt strange on her tongue.
But she repeated it again.
“Slave.”
This time it didn’t hurt as much.
Acceptance was a strange kind of armor.
It didn’t heal wounds.
But it made them easier to carry.
Florence turned her head slightly toward the window.
Somewhere outside wolves were living their normal lives.
Training.
Studying.
Laughing.
Belonging.
She would never belong again.
And perhaps…
Perhaps that was easier.
Because when you belong to no one…
No one can betray you again.
Florence closed her eyes once more.
And for the first time since waking…
She allowed herself to rest.
Not as a daughter.
Not as a member of a pack.
But as something new.
Something broken.
Something that had nothing left to lose.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD