Wolfless, Countryside
1376 Words
I was six years old when my parents sent me away.
"You'll come home when your wolf wakes," my father said.
He didn't look at me. Not once. His eyes stayed on the window, on the estate gates, on anything that wasn't his daughter being shipped off like damaged goods.
"If it wakes."
Those were his last words to me for twelve years.
The countryside was nothing like home.
Home had beautiful decors and marble floors and servants who bowed when you walked past. Home had my mother's perfume trailing through hallways and my father's voice echoing from his study.
The countryside had dirt. And cows. And an aunt who reminded me daily that I was a burden she hadn't asked for.
"Wolfless," Aunt Mei called me, like it was my name. "Broken. Cursed."
She wasn't wrong.
Other children my age shifted for the first time and ran with their wolves under the full moon. I lay in my narrow bed and listened to them howl, chest hollow, throat empty.
My wolf never came.
After a while, I stopped waiting. But I never stopped hoping.
Hope is stupid like that. It doesn't die when it should. I hoped my parents would come visit. They didn't. I hoped my wolf would wake.
It didn't. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as worthless as everyone said.
Twelve years. Wolfless, nothing.
The day before my eighteenth birthday, I was feeding the cattle.
This was my life now. Wake before dawn. Haul fed buckets until my arms shook. Scrub floors. Mend fences. Collapse into bed and do it all again.
Aunt Mei said hard work built character.
I think she just needed free labor.
The barn was quiet that evening. The cattle lowered softly, settling into sleep. Hay dust floated in the golden light slanting through the rafters. My back ached. My hands were raw, blisters fresh despite the worn bandages wrapped around my palms.
I found a corner stacked with sacks, hidden behind hay. Just for a moment, I told myself. Just until my legs stopped shaking.
I sat. Then I lay down. The sacks smelled like oats and dust.
My eyes closed. I don't know how long I slept. I woke up because the air changed.
Not colder. Not warmer. Just... different. Heavy. Like the moment before a storm breaks.
Someone was watching me.
My eyes stayed shut. My breathing stayed even. My heart slammed against my ribs so loud I was sure he could hear it.
He.
I didn't know how I knew. I just did.
Warmth. Not the distant, fading warmth of sunset. This was near. Present. A body close enough that I could feel the fabric of his sleeve brush my shoulder.
Breath stirred the loose hairs at my temple.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe. My wolf? silent, always silent, offered nothing. No growl. No warning. Just the echo of my own pulse.
A hand lifted and touched me.
I should run. Should scream. Should do anything but lie here, pretending to sleep while a stranger traced the air above my skin.
I did nothing.
"Wolfless," he murmured.
Not cruel. Not kind. Just... Touch. Like he'd found something rare and unexpected in the straw. Like I was a puzzle he hadn't expected to encounter.
His hand hovered over my cheek. I felt the warmth of his palm, inches away. Felt the space between us tight.
Then he smiled. I felt it in the shift of air, the soft sound of his exhale.
He fumbled with my clothes. I was too tired to shout. He moved to my shirt, I could feel his hands slipping into my underwear, he slowly climbed on top of me, I could feel his members brushing against my thighs.
"Interesting." He mumbled.
“What are you doing?”. A voice suddenly thundered from the window.
He quickly withdrew.
Footsteps. He left in a hurry. Silence.
I forced my eyes open, looked at the direction of the voice at the window, I froze.
He stood there tall, broad, and well built. A long black coat hung open over his bare chest, revealing sculpted muscle and skin.
His hair was neatly trimmed at the sides, fuller on top, styled with precision. And his face, strong jaw, hard lines and blazing eyes.
Then I saw the light behind him.
White, flame-like shapes flashed at his back, almost like wings made of fire and smoke. Not quite human. Not quite an angel.
He didn’t move, yet he dominated the space.
Looking straight at me.
I sat up slowly, heart still racing. My fingers touched my temple, where the intruder's hand had been. I looked toward the window again, and he was gone.
The barn was empty. Just cattle. Just servants. Just a stranger's breath on my neck.
The hay beside me was undisturbed. No footprint. No scent I could identify. I didn't sleep that night.
Not because I was afraid, though I was. Not because I was confused, though I was that, too.
I didn't sleep because hope, stupid stubborn hope, had clawed its way out of my ribs and wrapped itself around that single word.
What are you doing there?.
Not worthless. Not broken. Not curse. Someone cared for me.
I turned it over in my mind. A stranger saved me in the barn. A voice like winter wind. A hand that didn't touch but still left marks.
I told myself it meant nothing.
I told myself I imagined it.
I told myself I hoped it was a fool's game and I'd stopped playing years ago.
The next morning, Aunt Mei found me in the kitchen before dawn.
"Letter came for you."
She held it like it might bite her. Fine paper. Wax seal. The crest pressed into crimson wax made her face twist into something I couldn't read.
I took the letter. My fingers are eager to read it.
The seal broke easily. Inside, formal script. Brief. Cold.
Leila Yuxan,
“Your presence is requested at the Bloodmoon Pack estate. You will present yourself upon your eighteenth birthday, at the pack’s upcoming summit for reassessment.
Do not be late.
It wasn't signed with love. It wasn't signed at all.
I read it three times. Four. Ten.
Hope, that tireless fool.
They want me back.
Aunt Mei snorted. "Don't look so eager. They didn't want you then. They don't want you now."
I folded the letter carefully. Pressed the creases flat. Slide it into my pocket, next to my heart.
"Then why call me home?"
She didn't have an answer.
Neither did I.
But I was going anyway.
That evening, I packed.
I didn't have much. Worn clothes. A photograph of the rice paddies at sunset, the only beautiful thing in twelve years of gray. A law book my foster father had given me before he died, its pages yellowed and soft from years of reading. Some books from the school Aunt Mei enrolled me in.
Last, I wrapped my grandmother's jade bracelet in cloth and tucked it into my pocket.
I didn't remember her. She died before I was born. But Aunt Mei said she was the one who named me. Leila Yan. Jade elegance.
The bracelet was all I had left of anyone who might have loved me once.
I fell asleep with the letter under my pillow and the stranger's voice in my ears.
“What are you doing there”?
Morning came cold and bright.
Aunt Mei didn't see me off. She was already in the fields, back turned, shoulders rigid. I stood at the gate for a long minute, waiting for something. A wave. A glance. A word.
Nothing.
I walked to the road.
The bus was late. The sky was wide and empty. I gripped my suitcase handle and tried not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
They called me home.
They want to see me.
Maybe this time..
The bus arrived. I climbed aboard. Pressed my face to the cold glass as the countryside I'd known for twelve years blurred and faded behind me.
Ahead: the estate gates. My parents. My pack.
A future I'd stopped believing in.
Hope stirred in my chest, restless and hungry.
Maybe this time.
- Writer
