Bound By Four

Growing up in a wolf pack teaches you one lesson faster than any other. Where you come from matters more than who you are. Bloodlines decide everything. Status. Protection. Forgiveness. If you’re born into the right family, doors open before you ever reach for them. People smile when you walk into a room. Your mistakes get softened into learning moments. Your weaknesses get renamed potential, like words alone can change their shape. If you’re not born right, you learn something else. You learn how to stand very still. You learn how to be quiet without being asked. How to take up less space than your body actually occupies. How to exist without being seen, because not showing up at all is its own kind of crime. I’ve lived on both sides of that line, and it’s thinner than anyone likes to admit. One wrong moment is all it takes. One wrong loss. That moment came when I was five. My mother died protecting me. We were in the woods that afternoon like we always were. She loved it there. Said the trees listened better than people did. The deeper we went, the quieter everything became, until it felt like the rest of the world couldn’t reach us even if it tried. She held my hand while we walked, her grip warm and steady, her pace slowed just enough so I didn’t have to rush. We were picking wildflowers. She showed me which ones were safe to touch and which ones would sting if I wasn’t careful. I ignored half of it and grabbed whatever looked the prettiest. She laughed every time, soft and real, and brushed my hair out of my eyes like I was the only thing that mattered. That’s what I remember most. Her smile. Wide. Gentle. The kind that made you feel safe just by existing near it. The air changed before anything else did. There was no warning howl. No shout from patrols. No rush of footsteps through the brush. The forest just… tightened. Like it was holding its breath. My chest hurt suddenly, a sharp pressure that made it hard to inhale. Then everything broke apart. They came out of nowhere. Too fast. Too many. I know now they saw me first. A child is always the weakest point. My mother didn’t hesitate. She shoved me behind her so hard I almost fell, screamed at me to run. Her voice cut through the chaos, sharp with fear and love and command all tangled together. I froze for half a second, staring at her as she shifted between me and the threat, her body already turning into a shield. Then she screamed my name. I was five years old. I did the only thing I’d ever been taught to do. I ran. From the moment we’re born, the rule is drilled into us. Run from rogues until you’re old enough to fight. And even then, only fight if you’re sure you can win. I didn’t understand numbers. I didn’t understand odds. I didn’t understand that she was already dead the second she chose me over herself. I only knew her voice. I only knew that if I stopped moving, I would die. So I ran. She gave her life for mine. To me, that makes her a hero. To the rest of the pack, it made her foolish. My father thought so too. He never recovered from losing his mate. At first, the pack tried. They brought food. They showed up without asking. Even the Alpha came more than once, offering support, offering time, offering space my father didn’t want. He shut everyone out. He stopped training. Stopped attending gatherings. Stopped caring what anyone thought. The drinking started slow, then became routine, then became everything. Bottles replaced responsibility. Silence replaced discipline. Before my mother died, my father had been head warrior. Strong. Respected. Feared in the way that actually mattered. Afterward, he became something people avoided looking at for too long. He lost his position, then his rank, then whatever goodwill he had left. Now he cleans toilets and scrubs floors for the same people who used to salute him. We were labeled omegas not long after. It was a fall he never accepted. Every morning when he leaves for work, his shoulders sag like the weight of his past is crushing him from the inside. I see it even when he pretends I’m not there. He once protected the pack. Now he cleans up after them. I used to be popular too. Before everything changed. When we were demoted, we lost our house. A two story place near the center of the territory, replaced by a rotting cabin shoved deep into the woods near the border. Patrols don’t linger out there. Protection is thin, and everyone knows it. Sometimes I think the Alpha hopes the rogues will finish what they started. That morning, I moved through the cabin quietly. The floorboards complain if you breathe wrong, and I’ve memorized every safe place to put my feet. My father was snoring behind his bedroom door, the heavy sound of someone who drank too much and passed out too hard. I didn’t want to wake him. I brushed my teeth at the sink with the tap barely on, packed my school bag, checked my homework even though I knew it was done. Habit. Control. I slipped out the door and jumped the front steps instead of walking down them. They’re the loudest part of the house. The walk through the woods into town was silent. Too silent. The kind of quiet that comes from people pretending you don’t exist. I paused outside the high school and took a slow breath before going in. It was my second most hated building in the pack, only barely beaten by the place I lived. People gave me space as I walked to my locker. No one brushed past me. No one spoke. That stopped bothering me years ago. What bothered me was the sudden impact between my shoulder blades. I slammed into the locker hard enough to crack my head against the metal. The sound rang in my ears. When I turned around, I already knew who it would be. Cindy smiled at me, wide and innocent. “Oh, sorry, Sasha. I didn’t see you there.” It was a lie. I’m six feet tall with snow white hair that falls to my waist. You don’t miss me unless you want to. Cindy gets away with everything. She’s dating the Alpha’s son, Johnny, who used to be my friend before I became the pack’s favorite problem. “Whatever,” I said, turning back to my locker. “Are you giving me attitude?” she asked. “No. I just don’t want to be late.” “What’s going on here?” a male voice asked behind me. I didn’t turn around. “She ran into me and now she’s acting like this,” Cindy said, her friends piling on immediately. “Is that true, Sasha?” Johnny asked. “It doesn’t matter what I say,” I replied. “You won’t believe me.” His hands landed on my shoulders and shoved me forward. I hit the locker hard, books scattering across the floor as a crowd gathered fast. They always do. Johnny leaned in close, his face twisted with disgust. “You will respect your future Alpha,” he said. “Or I’ll make your life hell.” “You already do,” I shot back. The next shove sent my head into the sharp edge of a locker corner. Pain flared bright and blinding. He stepped back, satisfied, and they walked away laughing. I touched the back of my head and pulled my hand away bloody. Some people laughed. Others looked uncomfortable. No one helped. I gathered my books and went to class. All my classes are advanced. Small. Teachers notice if you’re gone. It also means I leave early, which is the only reason I survive most days. At lunch, I went straight to my job at the warehouse. The work is hard, physical, and invisible. The Alpha allows it because it keeps me out of sight. Everyone there is older. Everyone knows who I am. No one speaks unless they have to. About an hour in, my boss called me into his office. Harlen closed the door behind me and stood too close. “I noticed blood in your hair,” he said. “They still bothering you?” “This has nothing to do with my job.” “I’m just concerned,” he said, his hand brushing my cheek. I asked him to let me leave. He didn’t. “You’d make a fine mate,” he said quietly. “I’m seventeen.” “I know,” he replied. “Not much longer.” When he finally stepped away, I left without looking back. I worked until ten that night. When I opened my front door, an empty bottle hit my head hard enough to knock me into the fridge. The sound echoed through the cabin. And I already knew exactly how the rest of the night was going to go.