Sold to the Cruel Alpha

Sierra Briar Glen doesn’t exist on any map I’ve ever seen. It’s hidden deep between mountain ridges, surrounded by endless forest, the kind that swallows sound and secrets whole. The single road into this lonely town is little more than gravel and dirt, winding like a scar through the trees. I sit in the backseat of the car, my forehead pressed to the cold window, watching as we pass the village sign: Briar Glen—Est. 1843. The paint is chipped. Moss creeps along the wooden frame. Fitting, I guess—this place is old, forgotten, and perfect for people who want to disappear. People like us. My father drives in silence. His hands are clenched tight around the steering wheel. His shoulders are stiff, his jaw locked. Every inch of him radiates tension. My mother in the passenger seat stares straight ahead. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap like she’s holding herself together with nothing but expectations and prayer. No one says it out loud, but we all feel it—this town isn’t a home. It’s a cage. Our destination—a secluded cabin—comes into view just past a thicket of moss-covered trees. It’s small, built of dark wood, with a thin ribbon of smoke curling from the chimney. Pines crowd in on every side. There are no neighbors. I roll the window down and hear no noise, aside from the wind through the trees, and a few chittering birds. We park. No one moves for a moment. Then, my father steps out without a word. I join him and then drag my bag out of the trunk, the strap rough against my fingers. The cold air bites at my skin, sharp and clean, but I barely notice—what I do notice is its smothering weight of exile. My wolf stirs beneath my skin—uneasy, caged. She doesn’t like this place. Neither do I. Inside, the cabin smells like old wood and damp earth, as expected. It’s sparse—just the essentials. A small kitchen. A stone fireplace. A threadbare couch. Nothing of who we used to be. I drop my bag by the stairs and cross my arms. “Is this it?” “It’s safe,” my father says, setting down a box without looking at me. “That’s what matters.” I raise an eyebrow. “Right. Because hiding in the middle of nowhere is exactly the life I’ve always dreamed of.” He turns, his eyes sharp. “Watch your tone.” “Or what? You’ll ground me for being right? What kind of life is this?” His silence is answer enough. My mother steps in quickly, trying to smooth things over like she always does. “It’s not the time, Sierra. Let’s not fight. We’re all tired.” I clench my jaw and look away. It’s always like this now—tense, quiet, heavy with the things we don’t say. No one talks about the pack. No one talks about what we lost. And no one, especially not my father, tells me anything real. I head upstairs before he can lecture me again. The bedroom is small. It’s furnished with a bed and a desk. There’s a window that looks out over the trees. I press my palm to the glass and stare at the forest. It goes on forever. Wild and deep. The kind of place that could swallow a person whole. Part of me wants to run straight into it. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I can feel her—my wolf. She’s restless, pacing just beneath the surface of my skin. It’s been weeks since I let her out. Months, really. The last time I shifted, we were running for our lives. I ache for it—the wind in my fur, the earth under my paws. I yearn for freedom. But I already know what my father would say. No shifting. Ever. Not here. Not now. Not where someone might see. Because the humans in this village don’t know about people like us. They don’t know that monsters walk among them, that some girls shift into fur-covered beasts that trod on paws, and hold enormous power within. They don’t know who I am. I drop my hand from the window and sink onto the bed. The mattress creaks. The silence stretches. And all I can think is: this isn’t living. This is waiting. --- Dinner is quiet. My father reads some old book, barely touching his food. My mother stirs stew over the fire, humming softly like that’ll make things feel normal. I poke at my bowl, my appetite gone. “I’m not a child anymore,” I say, breaking the silence. My mother turns to me. “We never said you were.” “Then stop treating me like one.” My father looks up. “You’re still too young to understand the full picture.” “Because you won’t show me the whole picture. You don’t explain it to me; you won’t even talk about it. How am I to understand?” He frowns. “And what would you do with the truth? Go chasing after ghosts? Make the same mistakes I did?” “I’d know who I am. I’d live the life I was made for.” “You’re Sierra Lark. That’s all that matters.” I shake my head. “No. That’s just a name. I want to know what it means. I want to give it meaning.” The air goes still. My mother tries to intervene again, her voice soft. “Sierra, please—” But I’m already standing. “I need air.” I leave before they can stop me. Outside, the cold wraps around me like a second skin. The wind cuts through the trees, whispering secrets I can almost understand. I walk toward the forest, boots crunching frostbitten grass, heart pounding with something between rage and longing. At the edge of the trees, I stop. My wolf thrums inside me, begging. Just one shift, one run, one moment to feel real again. I close my eyes and imagine it: My bones changing. My skin pulling and twisting. The shift. The wild. The freedom. But I don’t move. I can’t. No shifting. Ever. Instead, I open my eyes and stare into the woods. They look back at me, silent and watchful. And then—just for a second—I feel it. A presence. Something is out there. Not an animal, but not human, either. Something other. I spin, scanning the trees. Nothing moves. Nothing speaks. But I know I’m being watched. --- That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My parents are asleep. The fire is dying. The whole cabin creaks and sighs around me. And I feel it—that hollowness, deep in my chest. The hole where my life used to be. My pack, my home, my future. All of it—gone. I press my hand to my side, over the scar I never talk about. It serves as a reminder of the night we lost everything. I wish I could say I understand why we’re here, why we’re hiding. I wish I at least understood why no one will tell me the whole story. But I don’t. I only know that I’m supposed to pretend this is enough. But it isn’t. The forest calls to me. And deep in my bones, I know this life of silence and hiding can’t last. Something is coming. Something is already here.