Chapter 1

Beth’s POV.

Silence. Finally.

I press one of my thin palms to my chest, closing my eyes and taking in a deep breath. I try to place the scents of the pack members, a ghost of a smile appearing on my face when I realize that they’re all going to school or to their jobs. Even the little kids are gone, sent off to the pack’s babysitter.

I frown a little when I remember how careful the pack is to clear out the whole house before they leave me alone in it, locking doors to all of the bedrooms and the kitchen. They don’t trust me. Not in the slightest. All because of the mistakes my father made.

I sigh, crossing my arms over my chest and hugging myself tight, trying to stop that train of thought. I don’t need the negativity. A familiar pang of hunger slams my stomach, and I step out, away from the wall I was pressed against, and into the hallway.

Holding myself even closer, as if I am about to fall apart, I begin the long walk from my room down to the main floor. My room was moved to the third floor, the farthest isolated from everyone else. No surprise there, but it still hurts more than anything.

I wonder if they left the kitchen unlocked today? I wonder as I cling to the banister and slowly go down the stairs. Hunger burns my torso again, and I know that they must have. They don’t want me to die; oh, no. That would look bad. You know, ruin their reputation and all of that stuff. The neighboring packs would soon find out that I died out of malnutrition, and all of the questions would be turned to our Alpha. He doesn’t want to have to make up an elaborate story and hope people believe him. He’s far too lazy for that. I’m not worth the effort.

So, they feed me. But not much. Only enough to keep me going. To make sure that when I die, there are no physical signs of their abuse.

I sigh, reaching the second floor. I know that I shouldn’t be thinking about my own death so lightly, but I honestly can’t bring myself to be afraid of it. I mean, it’s an end to everything that is going on, all of the pain I’m in, so why should I be afraid of it?

My wolf disagrees, though. The alpha blood running through my veins and pounding through hers makes her refuse to give in so easily. Other wolves would have cracked a year or two ago. Mine? She’s struggling, but still pretending she’s strong. She doesn’t talk to me anymore, however. She hates that I am so ready to leave this earth.

In all honesty, I want death. I just want it to end. The pain. The torture. The abuse. Hell, I want just one day without having suspicious, weary eyes following me everywhere I went and glares burning into my soul constantly.

I step onto the first floor, tearing off to the kitchen as fast as I can without hurting my body.

I sigh in relief, a ghost of a smile tilting the tiniest corners of my lips, when I realize that the kitchen is unlocked, the door swung wide open, inviting me in with the strong scent of cinnamon and cookie dough.

I walk in, stepping up to the counter. The room is a large rectangle, stretching immensely to fit the whole pack, but even with the insane length, it’s still a tight squeeze during pack meetings.

Or, so I’m told. I haven’t been allowed to one in years.

After shoving down a peanut butter sandwich, my shrunken stomach is full and I feel queasy. Tears brim at my eyes, noting how little I can eat now. How small my appetite is. I can’t help it though; after years of only being allowed food twice, maybe three times a week, I can’t handle much.

I head back upstairs, hugging myself once again, as I get a cold chill. My wolf paces restlessly inside of me, frustrated that she can’t get our body temperature back up as she should be able to, but I shake it off. I’m used to it.

I shiver, holding myself tighter, and rush up the stairs quicker, deciding to get a hot bath to help. Why am I so cold? I haven’t gotten the chills like this before. I feel the cold settle into every bone in my body, making my teeth grit together and my body shake slightly. My hands tremble as I run my palms up and down my arms, to no use.

This must be it, I think to myself. My body must be starting to deteriorate. My final days, though probably still months away, are drawing nearer.

"Thank God," I whisper to myself, turning on the tap. I know, I know. It’s morbid. But you don’t understand. You don’t know what I’ve been through. No one can understand.

Tears begin to roll over my eyelids as I feel the pain of everything that has been done to me, the years of pain at my pack’s hands. Nobody can know. Nobody can understand.

As I undress, I can see the affects that they have had on me, like a map of the last eleven years laid out on my body. My bones are prominent, sticking out at weird angles from my body. My stomach is a sickly kind of flat, sinking into my torso, and I can’t count each individual one of my ribs through my shirt. My hair is a dull, mousy brown, thin because of my malnutrition, hanging in greasy sheets to the middle of my back. And my eyes, oh my eyes. They are dull and lifeless, with dark purple bruises under them from my insomnia. Nightmares flash back into my mind the second I lose consciousness, drudging up horrifying scenes from my childhood and making sleep nearly impossible.

I grimace as I slide my shorts off, revealing my damaged legs. There’s a long, pink scar running down the back of my calf from three weeks ago when I walked downstairs at the wrong time, and straight into a pack meeting. The alpha, Joe, held me to the ground as another boy, Tom, dug his long knife into my leg.

I sob as I remember the pain, the humiliation. Crying and screaming, trying my best not to writhe, as they pin me to the floor of the living room. The way that the carpet scraped at my face, rubbing it like sandpaper. The cruel sound of the pack’s laughter, no one even trying to stop the boys. They were entertained by it.

"I don’t deserve this!" I cry, tears making my body tremble. "I don’t deserve this. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m suffering dad’s mistakes. I need this to end." My eyes burn, and I rub at them, glancing hatefully back at my body.

My arms are cut countless times, by my pack members as well as myself. I’ve never tried to kill myself, but I’ve cut before. Not deep. I was careful about that. I just wanted to know that I still feel things. There’s a long scrape on the back of my right shoulder. Purple bruises blossoming on my left. And there are yellowing bruises along my torso.

I wipe the tears from my eyes, even though they are quickly replaced with a fresh wave. I shiver again, and step away from the mirror, pulling my eyes from my disgusting body. I lower myself into the tub, covering everything from my collar bone down in scalding hot water and yelping slightly. I shift, trying to become comfortable in the water, and put my hands in to tight little fists to stop myself from getting out.

"Just think." I whisper to myself, the words echoing in this big, empty house. "It’s almost over. My time’s fleeting. I can feel it."

I’ll be dead soon enough.