Sold to the Cruel Alpha

The Old Life

Sierra

Another morning comes, and I wake to the sound of wind scraping against the windowpane. Pale morning light filters into the room, and for a second—just one suspended heartbeat before I open my eyes—I forget where I am. For that moment, I think I’m home.

Home, where the forest stretched for miles, and the moon watched us like a guardian.

Home, where I was Sierra Lark, daughter of the Alpha, heir to the legacy of a proud and powerful pack.

But the illusion shatters in the next moment. I roll over and see the cracked walls and threadbare quilt. My breath catches in my throat.

I’m not home.

I’m in hiding.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the ache in my chest to disappear. It doesn’t. It never does.

Instead, memories rise like mist, wrapping around me before I can stop them.

I’m eight years old again, barefoot on the cool stone floor of the great hall. The walls are carved from dark mountain rock, the hearth roaring with firelight that reflects inside the stained glass windows. My mother stands behind me, brushing my hair with gentle fingers, her humming soft and steady.

Outside, the pack gathers for the Hunter Moon festival.

I hear the drums, the chants, the laughter of pups chasing each other through the grass. My heart thrums with excitement. This is our night. The Lark Pack’s pride is on full display. Our strength. Our unity. Our home.

“Almost done, my little star,” my mother whispers, looping the moonstone pendant around my neck. “Tonight, you walk beside your father.”

My chest swells. I nod solemnly. I’m the Alpha’s daughter. Someday, I’ll lead them all.

That pride still lingers like a scent in my memory—sharp and heady, like pine smoke and snow-soaked fur. It clings to me even now, tucked in the crevices of my mind, refusing to fade no matter how many seasons pass.

I remember how my father used to stand at the center of the courtyard, towering and unshakable, his presence commanding even the wind to still. His voice would rise above the crowd, rich and sure, echoing through the mountain air. Every head would bow in his presence, every knee would bend—not out of fear, but reverence. He was the Lark Pack. Our strength. Our spine. Our Alpha.

And I was the Alpha’s daughter.

During ceremonies, he would rest a heavy, calloused hand on my shoulder—warm, grounding, a weight I wore with honor. I used to straighten my spine just a little more, chin tilted up, breath held as if I could somehow hold onto the moment longer. I can still feel the leather of his bracers brushing against my neck, the way his scent—cedarwood, steel, and something distinctly him—wrapped around me like a cloak.

He would look down at me with eyes full of fire and certainty, not a shadow of doubt in them.

“This is Sierra,” he’d proclaim, his voice carrying like a drumbeat through the crowd. “The future of the Larks.”

And oh, how the pack would howl.

A single voice would rise first, then another, then dozens more, until the air pulsed with it—wild, ancient, glorious. Our howl was our bond, our blood, our promise to each other. I would stand at the center of it all, surrounded by my people, and feel it vibrate in my bones. The sound of unity. Of loyalty. Of belonging.

We weren’t just wolves. We were royalty among them.

Every eye that met mine shimmered with hope. Every elder bowed in respect, not because I had earned it yet, but because they believed I would. My name carried weight. My steps had meaning. Even the moon seemed to shine a little brighter on those nights, like it recognized me.

But now?

Now, I wake with dirt under my nails and silence pressed to my ears like a curse.

No drums shake the air. No chants rise to greet the morning. There is no warmth waiting by the fire, no sea of familiar faces howling their loyalty to me. Just creaking wood, a leaking roof, and the slow crawl of winter wrapping its fingers around this forsaken little village. Even my father is a shell of who he once was.

Now, there's just wind–it whistles through the trees like a taunt, cold and empty, never quite saying what it wants. Some days, I think it remembers, too. Whispers of our songs. Fragments of our legacy. But it offers no comfort.

And I am no longer Sierra the Future.

I am Sierra the Forgotten.

---

I dress slowly, choosing one of the few shirts that isn’t threadbare and ignoring the ache in my chest. My fingers brush against the pendant around my neck. The leather cord is frayed now, but the moonstone remains unbroken.

Like me.

I tug on my coat and step outside. The village is quiet in the early morning. Smoke curls from chimneys. A dog barks in the distance. I walk with no destination, letting my feet carry me, because if I stay still too long, the memories creep in again.

But they don’t need my permission. They come anyway….

My senses carry me back to when I was fifteen, running through the woods with my packmates, our wolves wild and free beneath the full moon. The forest sang around us—branches shifting, leaves rustling, animals scattering. I leapt over a fallen log, paws hitting the earth with power and grace.

Luca, my closest friend since childhood, bounded beside me, nipping at my heels.

“Race you to the river!” he called through our mind-link.

“You’ll lose again,” I teased, surging ahead.

Our laughter echoed through the trees. That’s what freedom felt like—no fear, no hiding. Just fur and fang and the rush of belonging.

We collapsed by the water’s edge, panting and laughing, and Luca looked at me with a grin.

“Someday,” he said, “you’ll be the best Alpha we’ve ever had.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re only saying that because I outran you.”

“No. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

And I believed him.

---

Wind and tears sting my eyes as I walk past the edge of town. I stop by the old bridge that crosses the creek and sit on the railing. The water below is slow today, like it’s lost its purpose.

Like me.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the photo I keep hidden from my parents. It’s worn around the edges, but I can still see all of us—Luca, me, my father with his arm slung around my shoulders, my mother standing tall beside us. The sky behind us is blazing with orange light. A harvest celebration.

Our last one.

I trace my finger along the edge of my father’s image. Back then, he was strong. He was sure of everything. He had our whole world in the palm of his hand. And I worshipped him.

But power like that is fragile. I see that now.

We didn’t fall because we were weak.

We fell because we were too proud to see the knife until it was already in our backs.

I was seventeen when it all came crashing down. One week before my transition into adulthood, my father called an emergency meeting. His voice was tight, angry even. I didn’t understand why at first; it was rare.

“The Draven Pack is moving in,” he said, his tone like ice. “They’ve already taken two of our allied territories.”

There was silence in the great hall. Then whispers, followed by panic.

“They won’t stop until they’ve gutted every family that stands in their way,” my father went on. “We will not bow. We will not bleed.”

But we did. Within weeks, we were on the run.

Our allies vanished. Some were slaughtered. Some turned into traitors.

We became ghosts. I lost my friends, my pack, my identity.

My stomach tightens. I fold the photo and tuck it back into my pocket.

I never got to say goodbye to Luca. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. My father doesn’t speak of the others. When I ask, he changes the subject. When I push, he walks away.

It’s like they never existed. But they did. They were my family. My people. My pack.

Now, all I have are memories—and the guilt of surviving.

—

When I return to the cabin, the scent of stew hits me before I even open the door. My mom stands over the stove, stirring. She looks up when I enter, her smile a little too bright.

“Hungry?”

“No.”

I shrug out of my coat and hang it by the door. I linger there, unsure if I want to say what’s been building in my throat all day.

“Do you think about Luca?” I ask quietly.

My mother stiffens. The ladle pauses mid-stir. “Of course.”

“Do you think he made it?”

She sets the ladle down carefully, like it’s glass.

“I don’t know,” she says, her voice soft.

“We should’ve tried to find them. Anyone. We just… disappeared.”

Her shoulders slump. “Your father made the decision to protect you.”

“And did anyone protect them?”

Her sad eyes flicker to me with the weight of tiredness. “Sometimes surviving means making impossible choices.”

I sit down at the table, my fingers curling around the edge.

“I still see them, you know. In my dreams. All of them. The way they looked at me when I walked into the council chamber with Father. Like I mattered.”

“You still do,” she whispers.

“Not like that.” I stare out the window at the distant trees. “I’m not angry that we had to run. I’m angry that we’re pretending none of it ever happened.”

“We’re not pretending.”

“Yes, we are. We don’t say their names. We don’t mourn them. We just exist.”

She comes to sit beside me, taking my hand. Hers is warm. Mine feels numb.

“I miss them, too,” she says. “But we’re not safe yet, Sierra. That’s why we have to stay quiet.”

I nod, but the ache doesn’t go away.

Quiet is killing me faster than any enemy could.

---

I sit outside beneath the stars, my breath curling in the air. Night has fallen, and the moon is full again. It's not the Hunter Moon, but it's bright enough to stir something inside me.

My wolf whines in the back of my mind. She wants out. Not to run. Not to hunt.

To remember.

To howl for the ones we lost.

I press my hand to my chest, over the pendant. I can almost feel my old pack around me—warm bodies, familiar scents, voices raised in song. I used to belong to something bigger than myself.

Now, all I have are the echoes.