Hero Alpha and Dying Stepdaughter

Diane couldn't wait to showcase my value to Alaric.

She sidled up to him, all smiles, her voice eager—like she was pitching a product: "Alaric, Ember has real combat talent. She could shift at fifteen—earlier than most young wolves in any pack."

Alaric said nothing.

The silence didn't faze Diane. She pressed on, growing more animated: "Why not let her spar with your warriors? It'd help her settle into the pack."

The warriors on the training ground stopped mid-drill and turned to look at me. Over twenty pairs of eyes swept across me—curious, and openly appraising.

A scrawny fifteen-year-old girl, ribs nearly poking through, standing among full-grown warriors. She didn't exactly look like a fighter.

Diane's voice climbed a notch, taking on the edge of a command: "Ember, shift for the Alpha. Show him you're not useless."

The training ground went quiet for a beat.

Everyone was waiting for my response.

A gust of wind caught my sleeve, lifting the edge. The claw marks on the inside of my arm burned faintly underneath.

The last Healer's words from my past life were still etched into my brain: "Your wolf can't take any more. Three shifts, at most. Any one of them could be your last."

Three.

I had three shifts left. Every one I used would accelerate the spread of those marks. The next shift might send them straight to my heart.

Diane was boring into me with that look I knew so well—"Do as you're told, or you're worthless to me."

"I don't want to."

My voice was quiet, but clear.

Diane's face changed instantly.

Her mouth twitched. She was about to say something—

"My training ground isn't a stage."

Alaric's voice cut in. Flat, almost indifferent.

"Anyone who wants to join training can sign up on their own."

One sentence. It shut Diane down completely.

The smile froze on her face—too awkward to hold, too embarrassing to drop. But she didn't dare push back in front of Alaric. She managed a stiff: "Fine."

Alaric turned back to watch the training, as if nothing had happened.

But I noticed—just before he looked away, his gaze landed on my arm one more time.

The corner of my sleeve that the wind had lifted was already pressed flat again.

Diane walked me back to the Pack House without a single word.

The second we turned into an empty corridor, she exploded.

"Did you do that on purpose to embarrass me?"

Her voice was low, but every syllable cut like a blade.

"All I asked was for you to show them what you can do, and you refused? What exactly do you want?"

I didn't answer.

"You're just like your father." Diane's lips pressed into a thin line. "Useless."

She took a step forward, backing me against the wall.

"I brought you to Ashford so you could help me secure my position in this pack—not to be a liability. If you can't prove your worth, why would I keep you around?"

I looked at her.

I couldn't tell her that one shift might kill me. Even if I did, she wouldn't care. In her eyes, my value was fighting. If I couldn't fight, I was nothing.

"I'd like to go to my room," I said.

Diane stared at me for a few seconds, as if confirming I wasn't going to explain myself. Then she jabbed a finger into my forehead.

"Get out of my sight."

I was assigned a storage room at the south end of the first floor.

Diane said she'd originally arranged a guest room for me, but after today's "performance," she'd changed her mind.

The room was small. Old wooden crates were stacked against the wall. A thin mat lay on the floor—someone's idea of a temporary bed.

No lock on the door. One tiny window, palm-sized, set at the highest point of the wall.

I closed the door and sat in the corner where the sunlight could reach.

I set the satchel beside me and reached to the very bottom, my fingers touching a small, cold glass bottle.

Wolfsbane extract.

For any normal werewolf, this was lethal poison. A single drop on the skin would cause a burn. Swallow it, and your insides would dissolve.

For me, it was the only painkiller that still worked.

After thousands of fights in the wolf pits, regular painkillers had long since stopped doing anything.

A black-market Healer had taught me the method—micro-doses of Wolfsbane to numb the wolf's pain receptors.

"Keep the dose at this line." The Healer had scratched a mark into the bottle with his fingernail. "Any more and you're dead. Any less and it won't hold."

I unscrewed the cap.

A sharp, acrid smell hit me. My nostrils burned instantly.

I tilted my head back and took a small sip.

My stomach lurched. I doubled over, biting down hard on my lip, forcing the nausea back.

A few seconds later, the claw marks that had been pulsing on my arm went still.

The deep, bone-level chill that had been seeping through me retreated a fraction.

Pain was muffled under a thin layer of numbness, like gauze draped over an open wound.

I leaned against the wall. Sunlight from the palm-sized window fell directly on my face.

Quiet.

It was finally quiet.

No screaming from the wolf pits. No sound of bones snapping. No Gareth in the stands yelling "one more round" at the top of his lungs.

No one calling me worthless.

I closed my eyes.

How long this body could hold on, I didn't know. But at least right now, it didn't hurt.

I fell asleep.