The Wild Wolf Who Shouldn’t Exist: Kill Her or Claim Her

The dirt stung my knees, but I didn’t flinch. I pushed off the ground, my breath shallow but steady, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. Sweat dripped down my spine. My hair—dark, wild, and too long for this heat—clung to my skin. The desert sun hadn’t even reached its peak, and already, the sparring ring was soaked in blood, dust, and testosterone. Mostly mine. “Again,” I said, spitting into the dirt. Brody, towering and half-shifted, let out a low growl. He was all muscle and ego, with claws fully out and a smirk that said he’d enjoy knocking me down again. The crowd murmured, their shadows sharp against the canyon floor. They weren’t here to cheer. They were here to see the shiftless girl get put in her place. The girl with no wolf. The girl with no power. The girl who didn’t belong. I rolled my shoulders back, black tank clinging to my skin, leather jacket already tossed somewhere near the edge of the ring. My eyes locked on Brody’s, calm and sharp and cold as moonlight. I didn’t need claws to break him. “Come on then,” I said, cracking my neck. “Or are you scared of a girl in boots?” He lunged. Fast. Predictable. I sidestepped, ducked, and slammed my elbow into his gut. Felt the breath whoosh out of him. But he was still faster. Stronger. He spun, caught me across the ribs with a backhand that would’ve broken someone else. I hit the ground. Hard. But I didn’t stay down. I never stay down. I grabbed a fistful of gravel, shoved off the floor, and launched myself at him. My fist connected with his jaw, and for one glorious second, Brody staggered. The crowd went quiet. Then— “Enough,” barked a deep voice from behind me. Alpha Cassian. His presence settled like a shadow over the ring. Tall, silver-streaked, cold-eyed. Watching me like I was a problem he couldn’t quite solve. “You both lack discipline,” he said, voice cutting. “But you—” His eyes locked on mine. “You need to remember what you are.” A ghost of a smirk pulled at my mouth. I knew exactly what I was. I just wasn’t ready to say it out loud. Brody stalked off, grumbling under his breath. I stood alone in the ring, chest rising and falling, dust clinging to the cut across my collarbone. The crowd had already begun to lose interest. They always did once the punching stopped. But I felt it—beneath my skin, beneath my blood. Something old. Something waiting. They didn’t know me. Not yet. But they would. Because I wasn’t made to shift when they said I should. I wasn’t made to follow their rules. I was made of grit. And when the time came, they’d see what I really was. The crowd was already breaking up when I ducked under the ropes and grabbed my jacket. The adrenaline had faded, and now everything just throbbed — my ribs, my jaw, my pride. I bit back a hiss as I pulled the jacket on. It was stupid, really. Wearing black leather in the heat of the desert. But it made me feel strong. Shielded. Even if strength was the one thing they said I’d never have. “Millie.” I turned, and there was Boris. Golden-boy Boris. Tall, broad-shouldered, messy blond hair curling at the nape of his neck. His green eyes scanned my face like he already knew where I hurt. “You were good out there,” he said softly, stepping into my space like he always did. Like he belonged there. “I got knocked on my ass.” “Yeah,” he said, smiling, “but you made Brody bleed. So, y’know, I call that a win.” I huffed a tired laugh and leaned against the fence post. The scrape on my arm was already crusting over, dark against my skin. He reached out, his fingers brushing the cut. Gentle. Hesitant. And all I could think about was how people looked at me. Not just the bruises. Not the lack of a shift. Me. They said I was too pretty for a fighter. Too exotic. Like being found in the woods as a baby had somehow made me look different — like the moon had marked me for something else. It was my eyes. Always the eyes. Too blue. Too bright. Too unnatural. The boys wanted me. But not in the way that felt good. In the way that made them mean. Hungry. Like wanting me gave them permission to treat me like I owed them something. The girls hated me because the boys stared. Because I didn’t have to try — and they thought that made me dangerous. But what they didn’t get was that I never asked for any of it. I didn’t want their attention. I wanted respect. I wanted to stop being the girl everyone whispered about. “Millie,” Boris said again, his voice low, pulling me back. I met his eyes. He looked at me like I was something worth protecting. That’s what made him different. That’s why I let him in. “You good?” he asked. I nodded. “Yeah. Just bruises. Nothing new.” His hand was still on my arm, warm and steady. “You scared the hell out of me when he got you in the ribs.” I smirked. “Didn’t hurt as much as the time I broke your nose sophomore year.” He grinned, the memory softening his whole face. “You really know how to flirt, Wild.” A breeze stirred my hair, lifting strands off my sweaty back. For a second, we just stood there, the sounds of the training grounds fading behind us. “Your birthday’s soon,” he said quietly. “Yeah. A month.” “You think it’ll happen then?” He meant the shift. Everyone was wondering. No one said it out loud except him. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But it’s coming… I have a good feeling about this year” Boris still hadn’t let go of my arm. His thumb brushed lightly over my skin, tracing the curve of the scrape like he could erase it if he just tried hard enough. “You know,” he said, his voice dropping lower, rougher, “if you wanted to rough me up, you could’ve just asked.” I laughed — a real one, bubbling out of my chest before I could stop it. God, he was such a cocky i***t sometimes. But the kind that made your stomach flip in a good way. I tilted my head, giving him a crooked smile. “You offering yourself up for sparring practice now, tough guy?” “Only if it ends with you on top,” he said, flashing that slow, lazy grin that had probably gotten him into trouble more times than he could count. Heat bloomed under my skin — from the fight, from the sun, from him. I hated how easily he could make me forget everything else. I stepped closer, the space between us shrinking until I could feel the warmth radiating off his body. He smelled like pine and sweat and something earthy and familiar — like safety. Boris’s gaze dropped to my mouth. A beat of hesitation — that rare, vulnerable flicker that only I ever got to see — and then he leaned in. I met him halfway. The kiss was slow at first — more question than demand. Soft. Careful. But then his hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and I let myself fall into it. Into him. Into the one place that, for now, felt safe. When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing hard like we’d just gone another round in the ring. “You gonna meet me later?” he murmured, lips ghosting over my skin. “Where?” “Old river trail. After sunset.” I smiled against his mouth. “I’ll think about it.” “You better not leave me waiting, Wild,” he said, grinning. I slipped out of his hold, backing away toward the lockers, my heart hammering in my chest. Still sore. Still scraped up. Still burning from the fight. But lighter somehow. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I called over my shoulder. His laughter followed me all the way across the field.