The Transplanted Mate

I was born without a pack, which in our world means I was born without a name. They call girls like me transplants—rootless wolves raised in state-run orphanages until we’re old enough to be shipped off and buried in someone else’s territory. We are planted, not welcomed. Assigned, not chosen. In the pack I now serve, I sleep in a damp concrete bunker beneath the main house, close enough to hear their laughter through the vents but far enough to remember I do not belong to it. By daylight, I scrub their floors and lower my eyes. By moonlight, I feel the truth clawing beneath my skin. They think a transplant is the lowest rank a wolf can hold. They are wrong. Even something planted in the dark can grow teeth.