Nightmare's Grip

CHAPTER ONE

Chapter One: Samantha

I pleaded with my brain to wake up, but it remained unresponsive.

Fear gripped me as the dreadful memory threatened to resurface. My teeth clenched, and my heart pounded against my chest like a wild beast.

Night terrors were torturous.

Though I fought against it, deep down I knew it was a battle I was destined to lose. Still, the desire to resist persisted.

My eyelids refused to part, ignoring every conscious command urging them to open, while my mind stubbornly clung to the images playing out in my head, mistaking them for reality.

Slowly, the scene of the ambush that had taken place when I was just four years old materialized around me, and I became that terrified little girl, clinging desperately to my mother. There was no escaping the nightmare, so I braced myself for its relentless grip, as I did every night.

By the time it finally released its hold on me, it was nearly six-thirty in the morning, and the sun outside was preparing to start its day. And so was I.

But getting out of bed was always the greatest challenge.

My body resisted my commands, begging for the rest it so desperately needed. I used to rely heavily on sleeping medication to endure the nightmares, but after experiencing digestive issues and severe muscle weakness, my doctor advised against benzodiazepines. Therapy was an option, if only it weren't so exorbitantly priced.

Despite my body's protests and reluctance, I forced myself to rise and stood before the mirror, changing into something comfortable for my morning run.

If I was going to survive the day, I needed to jumpstart my sluggish body somehow.

Working at the bar was exhausting. Standing on your feet all day, running errands, taking orders, and enduring the crude remarks of drunken old men who found pleasure in making sexist jokes at the expense of the waitresses was enough to make anyone despise their job. But I had bills to pay and a hungry stomach to feed. It was either endure this or join the ranks of the homeless, fighting for scraps on the streets like starving wolves in the dead of winter.

"One day at a time, Samantha," I muttered, gazing at my weary reflection in the mirror. "Just one fucking day at a time."

My morning run was one of the few things that brought me solace each day. It was the only time when my mind could momentarily escape the multitude of worries that burdened me—of which there were far too many.

I couldn't recall much before the accident that took my parents away; as far as my memory served, my consciousness awakened in that carriage.

We were travelling somewhere—I couldn't recall the destination—but it was just the three of us: my mother, my father, and me. It had been eighteen years, five months, and twenty-seven days since that fateful day, yet the details remained etched in my mind. I remembered my mother's face—the smooth, dark skin, the gentle brown eyes, the cascade of black, tightly curled hair that framed her features. And I could never forget the necklace she wore, adorned with precious stones, resting gracefully against her neck.

I knew I resembled her, even without anyone to confirm it. My father, on the other hand, was a tall, sturdy man with piercing emerald-green eyes, short wavy hair, and a beard that spanned from one temple to the other. I inherited his pointed nose—it was just as sharp as mine.

I often wondered how different my life would have been if they hadn't been attacked on that fateful day. The road was lined with towering pecan trees on both sides; my father sat at the helm, guiding the horses, when suddenly, they refused to move.

"Sofia?" my father whispered, his voice barely audible.

"I sense it too," my mother replied, her grip on my hand tightening. "There are too many of them."

"Keep a close watch over Samantha. If it gets worse, I'll create a diversion. Take her into the woods and make a run for it. They won't follow you into the human city."

I peeked out the window from beneath my mother's protective embrace as people began to surround the carriage. There was something unsettling about them, an eerie stillness as they stared blankly at our vehicle.Intrigued by the commotion outside, I hurriedly dashed towards the other window, desperate to catch a glimpse of the man who had captured my attention. But alas, my mother swiftly yanked me back, denying me more than a fleeting glance at his imposing figure. Shirtless and adorned with an intricate tattoo that spanned his muscular arm, he possessed an allure that was simply mesmerizing. Yet, it was his eyes that truly captivated me; a fiery shade of orange, they radiated an otherworldly glow.

My mother's palm abruptly pressed against my face, stifling any potential outcry and leaving me gasping for air. In hushed urgency, my father engaged in a conversation with the enigmatic man, their exchange stretching on for what felt like an eternity. Then, my father's voice pierced through the tension, commanding my mother and me to flee. Without a moment's hesitation, I found myself torn from the carriage, clinging onto my mother's neck for dear life as she raced through the treacherous woods, disregarding the painful sting of thorns that lacerated both our bodies. Echoing footsteps pursued us relentlessly, prompting my mother to deposit me behind the shelter of a colossal tree, her plea for silence echoing in my ears.

For agonizing minutes, she vanished into the darkness, only to return bearing the marks of a brutal encounter. Her left arm bore a grotesque wound, her once-beautiful face marred by a deep gash that ran from her forehead down to her chin, and her entire being drenched in crimson. Collapsing beside me, she dug her nails into my trembling skin, desperation etched in her voice.

"R-run... flee to the human city, Samantha. Stay safe. Your father and I will follow shortly. We just need a moment to catch our breath. Go!" she implored before succumbing to the ground.

Suddenly, an inexplicable transformation overcame me. My nails elongated into sharp claws, while my canine teeth painfully protruded. It was a perplexing phenomenon, one that baffled not only myself but also anyone I dared to confide in. The staff at the orphanage, where I sought refuge, dismissed my tale as the ravings of a deranged child. Punishments were swiftly doled out by the stern director, Mrs. Abigail, who forced me into silence with her relentless admonishments.

"You are nothing but a liar, Samantha. Children must not fabricate such tales," Mrs. Abigail's shrill voice echoed in my mind whenever I attempted to assert the validity of my experiences.

Thus, I complied with her oppressive rules, enduring ten long years in the confines of the orphanage, branded forever as a deceitful outcast. I became the embodiment of dishonesty, shunned and isolated from my peers. Despite my best efforts to maintain a low profile and exemplify impeccable behavior, impressing Mrs. Abigail to secure adoption, my endeavors yielded no success.

Mrs. Abigail had a predilection for well-behaved children, yet she consistently overlooked me. However, fortune finally smiled upon me when the Patersons, followed by the Frasers, Clarks, and Morrisons, chose me as their ward. Eventually, I reached the age where I could emancipate myself from the tumultuous cycle of foster care and establish a modest abode of my own. Though my dwelling resembled more of an attic than an actual apartment, its dilapidated state did little to dampen my spirits. Lingering mustiness clung to every nook and cranny, impervious to my futile cleaning efforts. A low, water-stained ceiling loomed above, while peeling linoleum floors greeted my weary feet. A solitary grimy window allowed slivers of sunlight to filter into the room, its feeble glow an inadequate source of illumination. The room's meager furnishings consisted solely of a mattress, a duffel bag housing my few possessions, a wardrobe of threadbare clothes, and a small purse where I diligently saved every spare coin.

As my feet touched the pavement, I propelled myself forward with a burst of energy. The cold morning breeze caressed my face, while the wind whispered and howled in my ears, offering a temporary refuge from reality. Oddly enough, I possessed an uncanny ability to cover vast distances in a remarkably short span of time, my stamina exceeding all reasonable expectations. Yet, on this particular morning, a sense of unease gnawed at my core, as if an unseen presence shadowed my every move.

"Hello? Is someone there?" I called out, my voice reverberating through the desolate street, leaving me feeling foolish to any potential onlookers.

Nevertheless, the sensation of being watched persisted, regardless of how swiftly I ran in an attempt to shake off the invisible observer. Desperate to confront my pursuer, I sought refuge within the embrace of the woods, hoping they would follow. And indeed, they did. But before I could devise a plan to ensnare them, a voice pierced through the silence, calling my name.

"Samantha," it whispered.

Frustration and apprehension coursed through my veins, causing me to spin wildly, fists clenched tightly. I was stronger than any boy or man I had encountered, after all.From the halls of high school, I learned a valuable lesson about the consequences of standing up to bullies. It was Samuel Larsson who targeted Gilbert, the scrawny kid from next door. In that small town, where I felt invisible except to my third set of adoptive parents, the Clarks, I felt a responsibility to defend him. Little did I know it would backfire.

As it turned out, men were intimidated by women who possessed boldness, courage, and strength, especially when we were willing to get physical. I flawlessly beat Samuel, but instead of being hailed as a hero, I became the villain in the story. The school expelled me, and the Clarks returned me to social services until the Morisons took me in.

A voice broke the silence, saying, "Who I am is inconsequential to the purpose of my visit." The gender of the voice remained a mystery, its tone flat and devoid of emotion. "Rather, you should have asked why I am here."

Lowering my fists, I turned towards the shadowy figure perched on a tree branch just out of reach. I had honed my ability to sense malicious intent, but I couldn't detect any from this voice. It was a skill I developed during my time at the orphanage, allowing me to identify the danger the Frasers posed, prompting me to run.

"Why are you here?" I asked, curiosity replacing my initial defensiveness.

"To see you, Samantha Parker," the voice replied with a sigh.

Surprised, I questioned, "How do you know my name?"

The figure responded, "Once again, little wolf, you're asking the wrong question. How I know is of little importance; what matters is that I know. Your mother was Sofia Parker, and your father was Augustus Parker of the White Pack Fang."

"You knew my parents?" I asked, a mix of hope and confusion coloring my words.

"Yes and no," the figure cryptically replied.

Confused, I frowned and pressed for clarity. "What does that mean?"

Once again, the figure swung its finger back and forth horizontally, indicating my question missed the mark.

"Did you say pack? Like a wolf's pack?" I asked, incredulous.

"Werewolf pack is a more accurate description," it confirmed.

I couldn't help but laugh. "You must be joking. Werewolves are real? What's next, vampires and unicorns?"

The figure responded with a resolute "Yes, no, and no."

Blinking in disbelief, I shook my head. "None of this makes any sense. Werewolves aren't real."

The figure pointed out the obvious, stretching its hands apart. "I'm standing right in front of you, aren't I? Do I look human to you?"

Before me stood a void, a silhouette shrouded in darkness, a form that defied comprehension.

"No," I admitted, fear and anxiety washing over me as the figure drew closer.

"You possess strength to punch through a concrete wall without flinching. You've never fallen ill. Your senses are heightened, and you can cover four miles in ten minutes without needing a drink. Yet, you believe none of this suggests something supernatural?" the figure questioned.

"I never really thought about it," I confessed truthfully. While I possessed these extraordinary abilities, I had never stopped to consider their origin or whether they aligned with societal norms.

"Of course, you haven't," the figure replied, jumping down from the branch with a graceful landing. It tossed a silver compass onto the ground before me. "There... it will lead you straight to the pack if you decide to go."

My eyes shifted between the compass and the enigmatic figure, growing more bizarre with proximity. I couldn't help but scoff, "So, a mysterious, shady... thing stalked me just to tell me my parents belonged to a pack of wolves-"

"Werewolves," the figure interjected.

"Fine, a pack of wolves," I stubbornly corrected, "and now you're giving me an even shadier-looking compass, telling me to abandon everything and chase after... what was it again? A werewolf pack?"

"Leave what behind? You have nothing here," the figure remarked coolly.

Convinced I must be losing my mind, I waved my hands in frustration. "I don't care what Doctor Nathan says, I'm getting those sleeping meds."

"Do as you please, but if you ever want to uncover the truth about your parents' murder, you may want to keep that compass... just in case," the figure urged.

The mention of my parents' death struck a nerve. No matter how much I wished it weren't true, they were gone. This realization left me with nothing, no path forward, no anchor to the present, and no memory of my past.

In that moment, I made up my mind.

"Will I see you there? If I decide to check it out?" I asked, hopeful for some guidance.

The figure's response held a hint of uncertainty. "Maybe," it said before vanishing into the wind.

CHAPTER TWO

Chapter Two: The Escape

Why did they always think escape was possible? Slipping past the guards was a futile endeavor, considering the marked rogues and the impenetrable wards surrounding the area. It made no sense to attempt such a feat.

"If I have to do this one more time, I swear I'm going to lose it," I grumbled in frustration.

"It's becoming quite annoying," my brother, Zayden, sighed, crouched beside a small bush. "Hear that?"

I nodded in response.

It struck me as peculiar that all the escapees shared two things in common: erratic heartbeats and fragmented memories. Their pulses fluctuated between racing and tranquil rhythms, and none could recall why or how they managed to flee.

"Colson – that's your name, right? I'll give you a warning only once. If you don't comply, I'll resort to any means necessary to bring you in. I assume you'd rather avoid unnecessary bloodshed," I declared, emerging from my hiding spot with my hands raised. "Today is a special day, and I'm trying to be reasonable. Come out with your hands behind your head, and we can return you to your cell."

There was no response from Colson.

With a sigh, I motioned for Zayden to move forward. In a matter of seconds, the chase concluded, and Colson was apprehended and taken back into custody.

***

"Hurry up, Theo! We're going to miss our own birthday party," Zayden urged, throwing his hands over my shoulders and shaking me.

"Just give me a minute," I waved him off.

Hunting down escaped felons wasn't an enjoyable task. There was no thrill to it, just a growing annoyance. What bothered me most was how these rogues managed to slip through the supposedly secure facility's defenses. Nine wolves had escaped in just two months.

"Crouch down next to him, Theo," I instructed.

Colson's hands and legs were restrained in handcuffs as we began the interrogation. His gaze remained fixed on the wall, his eyes glazed over as if trapped in a trance.

"I don't think he can hear you," one of the guards remarked.

I grabbed Colson's arm, pulled up his sleeve, and pressed my thumb's claw into his skin.

"Colson, wake up!" I commanded.

Instantly, his eyes transformed from an icy blue to their original brown color. His confusion about being outside his cell seemed genuine. Like the other escapees, he was blank and unknowing.

"Relax, Colson," I said, wiping my bloodied finger on his shirt. "Do you know who I am?"

His eyes scanned the room before settling on me.

"Who doesn't? You're the Alpha's son," he replied calmly.

He looked at me again, his gaze more intense this time.

"...Theo."

"Do you remember anything from the past three hours?"

"No," he frowned, examining his blistered and bruised feet. "I don't know... I remember being in my cell, and now I'm here."

"He's telling the truth. He doesn't know, just like the others," Zayden confirmed.

I stood up. "Take him back to his cell, and this time, make sure he and everyone else stays put. Otherwise, you'll answer to me."

Zayden waited until the room cleared before speaking. "I don't understand. Do you enjoy instilling fear in people? We're already considered freaks. It wouldn't hurt for you to be nicer sometimes."

I turned, seeking support from the empty room. "Didn't you see what I did earlier? I was trying to be nice today."

He blinked. "You call 'Today is a special day. Come out with your hands behind your head, so we can return you back to your cell and avoid any unnecessary bloodshed' being nice?"

I held my hands open. "Yes."

He sighed, pulling out a package from his jacket. "That's why I got you this as your birthday present."

"How to be empathetic?"

"Check the author's name," he quickly added.

"Zayden Bale," I looked up to meet his eyes. "Really?"

"It's volume one, and I intend to write another twelve."I couldn't help but roll my eyes and shake my head in exasperation. "Let me guess," I quipped, sarcasm dripping from my words, "the other twelve necklaces are supposed to be my birthday gift for the next twelve years?"

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he nodded. "Yes."

As we arrived home, the party at the mansion had already swung into full gear. It was a lavish affair, reserved exclusively for the pack's top officials and elites.

Winslow, a familiar face from my past, approached me with a glass of wine in hand. "Very nice of you to show up to your own party. I almost thought you would be too busy for that, too," she teased, forcing the glass into my hand.

I watched as she kissed Zayden's cheek and walked away, her blood-red hair tied up in a neat bun, perfectly complementing her strapless peach gown.

"Why is she still like that?" I asked Zayden, my gaze following Winslow's departure. "We've been separated for five months now, but she still gives me the cold shoulder every time we talk. Shouldn't she be over it by now?" I turned to face him, seeking answers.

With a knowing look, he replied, "Page one hundred and nineteen of the book will answer your question," before walking away to greet the guests.

Curiosity piqued, I flipped through the pages until I found page one hundred and nineteen.

'Emotions are complex. They're never just black or white; there are always gray areas. Relationships are no different. You can love someone deeply and still understand that being together does more harm than good. Breakups don't automatically erase feelings. It might take weeks, months, or even years to heal.'

"What does this even mean?" I muttered to myself, reading the paragraph again.

The party felt more like a formal gathering than an actual birthday celebration. Adults engaged in civil conversations about pack affairs, with only a handful of people around our age who were mainly Zayden's friends. Winslow was the only one among them that I used to be on talking terms with. We had connected during training, drawn to each other's ferocity and physicality. Our admiration quickly turned into a misguided romantic relationship that ended in heartbreak.

"Everyone, please gather around!" my father's commanding voice boomed, instantly capturing everyone's attention. The room fell silent as people converged around him, their respect evident in their expressions. My father had always been a natural leader, effortlessly commanding authority.

"Today, my sons, Theo and Zayden, celebrate their 22nd birthday, and I couldn't be prouder. These past twenty-two years have taught me the joys of fatherhood, and I want to say how proud I am to be your father. Cheers!" He raised his glass, a toast to our existence.

"Cheers!" echoed throughout the room as people raised their wine glasses in unison.

As the night wore on and the party came to a close, my father summoned us to his private study.

"Diana, we missed you at the party," Zayden greeted the elderly woman sitting in front of my father's large desk, pulling her into a warm hug.

Diana smiled, her eyes twinkling with wisdom. "Ah, you know me, my frail old bones won't allow me to be as active as I'd like. Youth is a precious treasure, boys. Enjoy it to the fullest," she advised.

"We will, thank you," Zayden replied with a genuine smile.

Diana reached into her coat and pulled out two necklaces. "I got you both a present. It's a protection totem," she explained, handing them to us.

Grateful, we each thanked her and placed the necklaces around our necks. Diana was not only our godmother but also my father's most trusted advisor. She had been with him since the inception of the pack, using her magic to protect our boundaries and keep rogues like Colson at bay.

As we settled into silence, my father's somber countenance caught our attention. It was a stark contrast to the joy he had exuded during his speech just moments ago.

"Father, is something wrong?" I couldn't help but ask, concern lacing my voice.

His gaze shifted between the three of us before finally settling on Zayden and me. "Sit down," he instructed, gesturing towards the empty chairs in front of him.

We exchanged glances, a sense of foreboding filling the room, and obediently took our seats. The slow rotation of the exhaust fan above us seemed to amplify the tension in the air, each click at the end of its revolution adding to the weight of the moment.

"Take off your shirts. Let me see your marks," my father requested after a long, contemplative silence.

Without hesitation, we complied, baring our chests and revealing the identical scars that had puzzled us for years. Every time we asked about them, we were met with vague responses, told that we weren't ready to know the truth.

My father's gaze shifted to Diana, silently seeking confirmation.

"Boys, your father and I have something important to tell you," Diana began, her voice filled with a mix of compassion and solemnity. Zayden and I locked eyes, a shared understanding passing between us. Something was terribly wrong.

She continued, "You are both aware of the different stages of the moon cycle, but there's one celestial event you may not be familiar with: the crescent blood moon. It's a rare class six celestial event that symbolizes bad luck and misfortune. Unfortunately, you were born on the night of the last crescent blood moon, and as you know, your mother, Elizabeth, did not survive your birth. But there's more to it: one of you was born without a soul."

My heart skipped a beat, the world around me fading into insignificance as her words sank in.

"What are you saying?" Zayden's voice trembled, mirroring the fear that gripped my own thoughts.

"Listen," my father interjected, his tone soft yet commanding.

Diana took a deep breath before delivering the devastating truth. "One of you has only one year left to live."

CHAPTER THREE

Chapter Three: Samantha

What in the world am I doing out here?

After spending five nights sleeping beneath the eerie shadows of towering pine trees, their branches leaning together like drunken friends, on a bed of decaying leaves next to scuttling wood beetles, and surviving off questionable berries, I finally snapped back to reality. The problem was, by that point, I had ventured too far into this journey to turn back. And with my rent due in just one day, missing work without notifying Manuel was as good as resigning.

Lost in this wilderness, I relied solely on the sun and moon to keep track of time, and a compass that stubbornly pointed north, even though the only thing in that direction was a menacing mountain that I had no intention of climbing.

I trudged a few more miles northwest, hoping to find a way around the mountain or stumble upon a town. It had been five days since I had seen another human being—or any living creature for that matter. But the further I strayed from the compass's guidance, the hotter it grew, as if warning me to turn back.

Reluctantly, I retraced my steps, following the compass until I reached the foot of the mountain.

Up close, the jagged stones and uneven boulders, with their cracks and crevices dotting the landscape, made it clear that climbing this mountain without some sort of mechanical aid was impossible.

"This is what happens when you blindly follow the instructions of a shadow, Samantha," I muttered, shaking my head. It was time to cut my losses. Going back home seemed like a daunting task after everything I had endured just to reach this mountain. Besides, there was no longer any incentive to persevere, like there had been on the journey here.

"I'm sorry, Mom, Dad," I whispered, casting a final glance at the mountain.

It went against all logic to even consider going any further. I took a few steps in the opposite direction when the compass suddenly turned searing red, its heat matching its fiery color.

"I'm not climbing that damn mountain!" I flung the compass away, recoiling at the smell of burning flesh that lingered in the air. The stifling atmosphere did nothing to alleviate the discomfort, so I tore a strip from my mud-stained shirt and wrapped it around my hand.

As I resumed walking, I realized that I hadn't heard the compass hit the ground. I was certain I had thrown it at one of the algae-covered boulders scattered around, but there was no sound of impact.

Turning around, I caught a glimpse of something shimmering. It was small and almost imperceptible, but it was definitely there. Intrigued, I moved closer, extending my hand, only to be grabbed by multiple hands. Before I knew it, my hands were handcuffed behind my back, a cloth was forced over my mouth, and a blindfold covered my eyes. Strong hands held onto my arms, guiding me through a maze of corners until we reached a room.

"Who is this?" a voice, tired and groggy as if just woken up, asked.

"We don't know, sir. Our scouts caught her trespassing into Allen," another voice, close to me, responded.

"How? Humans can't simply pass through the barrier," the voice sounded skeptical.

"Well, you see..." another voice began fearfully, "she wasn't through the barrier when we caught her. She threw this compass and was heading towards it, so we apprehended her and brought her here."

"You expect me to believe that the witch's magic, which is supposed to keep us hidden, is vulnerable to a projected compass?"

"We...we don't know, sir. That's why we brought her to you."

The voice in front of me fell silent for a moment. I couldn't distinguish the shadows, but I could feel all eyes on me.

"And who are you, girl?" the voice addressed me. "Take off her blindfold, you imbecile."

It took a while for my vision to adjust to the dimness of the room. A single window, covered by dark curtains, offered little light, but the lanterns carried by the guards standing beside me and near the door did their best to illuminate the space.

"Well?" the voice urged impatiently. "Start talking." His eyes flickered with a warm orange hue.

"Goddamnit!" I muttered through the gag, feeling a surge of fear engulf me for the second time in my life. Not because of the man's eyes, but because they reminded me of my parents' attackers.

"Goddamnit is right, girl. And if you don't start talking, it'll be the last thing you ever say." He nodded at the men behind me, and a hand swiftly removed the cloth from my mouth.

"My name is Samantha, Samantha Parker."

"And?" he prompted, holding out his hands expectantly. "You didn't think that telling us your name would be enough to secure your freedom, did you?" He burst into heavy laughter.

His face leaned closer to the light, revealing his unsightly features—an emaciated, sickly face, with brown hair and weathered skin that had seen better days, just like his teeth.

Drawing in his fetid breath, I resisted the urge to scrunch up my nose. The last thing I wanted was to offend my captors by criticizing their hygiene.

"I'm..." My voice trailed off. I couldn't believe I was about to call myself a werewolf.

My mind wandered back to my encounter with the shadowy figure in the woods.The mention of my parents being part of a werewolf pack known as the White Fang sent a chill down my spine. And if the compass in my possession was leading me there, then that could only mean one thing...

"A werewolf," I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips.

"What did you say your name was again?" one of the guards questioned, his tone laced with suspicion.

"Samantha," I replied, my voice trembling.

"The other one," he persisted.

"Parker," I answered, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Boss," the guard looked up, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, "remember the Parkers? The principal of the seventh division?"

"Yes, didn't he die years ago?" The man's eyes widened with realization. "Wait..."

"They had a little girl with them, and her body was never identified. Do you think she's..." the guard trailed off.

"Nonsense!" the man spat, his eyes glowing with anger. "She's obviously lying. She's probably an enemy spy from another pack or another witch. This is a werewolf pack, not a bloody coven. I'd rather die than see another one of your people join the pack."

"I'm not a wit-" I began to protest, but before I could finish, he growled, "Shut up or I'll rip out your throat."

Fear gripped me as I realized I had walked myself into a dangerous situation. Brute force and stubbornness wouldn't save me now. I swallowed hard and held my tongue.

"We'll see if you're not a witch," the man declared, rising to his feet. Despite his sickly appearance, his intimidating stature loomed over me.

"Stretch out her arms," he commanded.

The guards uncuffed me, and I complied without resistance. There was something about the situation that made me feel it was best to cooperate, though I couldn't explain why. Oddly enough, a warning echoed in my mind, spoken in Mrs. Abigail's voice.

With a swift motion, a claw sprang out of the man's index finger, piercing through my skin.

Flashes of my mother's words flooded my mind, repeating over and over until they overwhelmed my senses. I vividly saw and heard her telling me to run to the city, assuring me that she and my dad would follow closely behind. But the memories didn't end there. I ran through the woods until I collided with an elderly man who became alarmed by the bloodstains on my clothes. He rushed me to the hospital.

The memories felt too real, as if I were reliving them. I could hear the hushed whispers of nurses' slippers gliding across the floor, the sound of wheeling patients passing through different wards, and the chatter of family members trying to maintain a positive atmosphere in the halls. The putrid scent of decay lingered in the air, ignored by everyone except me.

"Looks like she's fine," a nurse said to the man. "What are we going to do about..."

"...about her now?" the guard behind me interrupted, snapping me back to reality. I glanced around at their faces, sensing a shift in their hostility, yet their caution remained evident.

"What happened?" I asked, examining my arm, which was strangely unharmed except for a trail of dried blood. "Didn't you just..."

They remained silent, their expressions unreadable.

"I don't buy it, not one bit. What kind of werewolf acts this clueless when they're not a child?" the man frowned, clearly unconvinced.

"I don't think she's as clueless as she pretends. A lone wolf just happens to show up right when people are disappearing? Can't be good news, sir," the guard chimed in, eager to score points with his superior.

The second guard looked pained, as if he had wanted to voice the same opinion but was beaten to it.

Pacing the room, the man regarded me thoughtfully. "Kill her," he finally commanded.

"Wait- what?" Panic surged through me.

"If she dies, you die too," a redheaded woman stated as she entered the room. "Alpha's orders. He has also ordered for her to be brought to him immediately."

"Miss Winslow, of course," the man acknowledged with a bow. "How did he know that she was-"

"It's his job to know," she interrupted, pointing at the guards. "Follow me."

Once again, a blindfold covered my eyes, and I was led into a carriage, the journey filled with silence. We arrived at another location, where we walked wordlessly into a spacious room. The cool, clean air eased my senses, and I let out a sigh of relief.

"Uncuff her, take off her blindfold, and leave us," a commanding voice instructed, its tone effortlessly blending authority with politeness.

"Samantha?" the voice called out.

"Yes, sir," I replied hoarsely, squinting against the bright light in the room. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with knowledge and secrets. In front of me sat a large brown leather chair and an equally imposing mahogany desk.

"Tell me how you got here," the voice demanded as the man sat in front of me, maintaining unwavering eye contact. Despite his muscular build, his wrinkled face and white hair spoke of his age. There was an aura of leadership surrounding him, not just in the way he spoke, but in everything about him. It was simultaneously terrifying and surreal, like standing before a force of nature. I knew that making a bad first impression would not bode well for me.

"Remember, tell the truth. I'll know if you're lying," he warned.

And so, I began from the beginning, recounting everything about who I was and the memories I held from the day my parents were attacked. I shared details about my foster home, my job, and the mysterious figure who had given me the compass that led me to the White Fang pack.

"Diana?" the man called out as soon as I finished speaking.

An elderly woman emerged from a door beside us, her steps supported by a large stick. Her eyes twinkled with cunning, a common trait among elders. Despite her age, her expression carried a youthful exuberance, and for some reason, she seemed genuinely happy to see me.

"She's telling the truth, Damian. She's Augustus's kid," she announced.

CHAPTER FOUR

Chapter Four: Samantha

The building stood in defiance of its purpose, far too grand for just the Alpha and his family. We made our way through a maze of patios and balconies, traversing the long hall until we reached the living room. The marble floor stretched beneath us, leading to walls painted in uninspiring hues that reached up to meet the high ceilings. An opulent chandelier dangled gracefully, casting an air of extravagance.

For someone who had next to nothing, this scene was overwhelming. It resembled the living rooms I had seen in the magazines Mrs. Abigail read on Sunday evenings, the kind she would have admired. Classy, vintage, and elegant.

I always suspected it was the British in her.

After a brief question and answer session with Damian and Diana, I learned some information about my parents. They were noblemen, esteemed members of the pack, and their home, just three streets away from the Alpha's residence, rivaled his in size. However, over the course of eighteen neglected years, it had fallen into disrepair, rendering it uninhabitable until renovations were complete.

The Alpha, in his generosity, allowed me to stay in his place while the renovations took place.

"Do you want to eat now, or would you prefer to bathe and join us for food later?" one of the female guards asked, her tone dripping with disdain. She made no effort to hide her disgust, and I couldn't blame her. I was certain I looked as terrible as I felt.

"I'll bathe first," I whispered, suppressing the growl in my stomach.

The other guard sighed. "Who says she can't do both? Delphine, take her to her room. I'll fetch her food."

As we crossed the living room and prepared to ascend the curved staircase, something erupted within me. It was a rush, almost orgasmic, yet it felt incomplete, as if there was more to the sensation. And it came with a scent. Cold and dangerous, yet strangely alluring and intoxicating.

Delphine furrowed her brow. "What's wrong now?"

I looked up at her face, twisted in a scowl. Her eyes revealed traces of annoyance and boredom, but otherwise, her expression remained neutral. It seemed that I was the only one experiencing what I was feeling in that moment.

"N-Nothing," I stammered, turning away and taking one final sniff to appease the cravings in my mind before continuing. "I'm fine."

I couldn't help but wonder if being a werewolf meant experiencing everything on the brink of orgasm.

After a long, indulgent bath, color returned to my life. I no longer smelled of decay and rotting logs. In fact, I hadn't felt this refreshed since my first night alone after leaving my last foster parents. The idea of being on my own had initially seemed thrilling, and for the first few nights, it was. But soon, it gave way to depression, loneliness, and haunting nightmares.

I locked the door and let the wind from the balcony dry my body. A full tray of bread, bacon, fried eggs, and orange juice awaited me. I devoured the meal and then collapsed onto the king-sized bed, drifting into a deep slumber.

When my eyes fluttered open once more, my body hummed with energy, craving action. Thankfully, the guards who had escorted me to the room had left me with options for clothing: a sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, and a flowery-patterned blue gown.

I wandered through the mansion undisturbed, with no one offering more than a passing glance. The roads shimmered in the red glow of the setting sun, its rays piercing through stained glass windows nestled between the pillars. Somehow, I had managed to sleep through the entire afternoon without a single nightmare.

Beyond the mansion's walls, sun-colored daisies, vibrant purple lilies, carrot-tinted hydrangeas, and cotton candy pink hyacinths adorned the broad walk with their colorful presence. Amidst the whispering trees and the laughter of the meadows, lay the picturesque country town, its aesthetic concrete blocks stretching far into the horizon. I couldn't help but wonder about the size of the place and felt an urge to explore.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Going for a... run," I replied, turning to face the familiar redhead from earlier.She led a group of weary-looking girls, marked by the scars of battle and the toll of war, trailing behind her. In contrast, she appeared untouched and pristine.

"Why?" she inched closer to me, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It's just a habit," I replied cautiously, keeping my guard up. "Helps clear my head."

"Do you know why it works?" she murmured, her lips brushing against my ear.

"No," I shook my head, genuinely intrigued despite the impending lecture.

"That's your hyperactivity at play. It's a common trait among werewolves," she circled around me, her voice playfully ominous. "Running isn't the only way to clear your head, you know. You can hunt, conquer, and toy with the weak. You could even go on a killing spree. After all, you are the apex predator. Who could stop you?"

Her tone shifted back to normal, and she added, "Or you could train with us."

I blinked in surprise. "You're just starting training?"

She turned to face the girls behind her. "Yes, we warmed up earlier. The real training starts now. Care to join?"

I realized that the more I learned about being a werewolf, the closer I would get to uncovering the truth about my parents. So, I agreed. The next two hours were filled with snarls, growls, and fierce slashes. Winslow, who was apparently our instructor despite being our age, paired everyone up for sparring matches.

She excluded me from the matches and instead focused on teaching me the fundamentals of lycanthropy, a word I never expected to use. I learned how to unleash my fangs, extend my claws, and how to channel the intensity of my wolf's eyes. The key was to acknowledge the presence of this other side within me and accept it as a part of who I am, rather than an alter ego. For twenty excruciating minutes, I repeated to myself that I was a werewolf until I could accomplish all three simultaneously.

The next set of skills proved to be more challenging. I was slower and weaker compared to the others in the group. They effortlessly overpowered me in submission spars and arm wrestling.

"I want another sparring round," I whispered to Winslow.

She nodded and scanned the group for a suitable opponent. "Delphine! You're up."

"I know you're new at this, so I'll try not to accidentally kill you," Delphine said, stepping forward as everyone else formed a circle around us.

Her eyes glimmered with gold as she lunged at me, her arms fully extended. I managed to dodge her initial attacks by leaping out of her reach, but it only fueled her aggression. While she possessed better coordination, she focused too much on offense, leaving herself vulnerable. In that moment of realization, my mind seemed to slow down, and her claws tore through my arms.

"Oops," she taunted, delivering a kick to my face.

"That's enough, Delphine," Winslow called, but anger surged within me. I rose to my feet, scooping up dirt to blind her for a retaliatory strike. Yet somehow, she anticipated my move and countered with a swift jab that sent me crashing to the ground.

"Rookie," she sneered.

"Are we finished here?" Winslow sighed, approaching me. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I brushed away her hand, consumed by rage.

"Don't take it personally. We were all born into this. We knew we were werewolves before we even learned to speak, and we've been training our entire lives. You're a mutt, but your progress today speaks volumes about your potential."

"Right," I walked away from her, aware that she was trying to console me. But anyone with eyes could see how terrible I was.

Each person there showcased the vast gap in power between us, toying with me as if it were a game. They reminded me of the dreaded trio at the orphanage—three blonde girls who banded together, tormenting anyone younger than them. I mostly avoided them since they were Mrs. Abigail's favorites, but on the day they targeted me, I made sure they never dared to do so again, consequences be damned.

Acknowledging my weaknesses, I knew that if I wanted the respect of the girls under Winslow's guidance, I had to defeat their ring leader—Delphine.

"Where are you going?" Winslow called after me.

"Anywhere but here," I muttered under my breath, not caring if she heard me or not.

CHAPTER FIVE

Chapter Five: Theo

I had a sinking feeling in my gut as I watched my father and Diana exchange glances. Whatever news they had for us, it couldn't be good. The way my father's face fell, I knew it was something serious. It reminded me of the times when Zayden or I would get hurt as kids. But nothing could have prepared me for what Diana said next.

"One of you only has a year left to live."

Before Zayden and I could even react, she launched into an explanation, her words tumbling out like a waterfall.

"On the night you were born, your mother, Elizabeth, passed away. We thought that was the price we had to pay for the crescent blood moon, but it turned out there was more at stake. Theo, you were born without a soul of your own."

I blinked, unable to comprehend what she was saying. I looked to Zayden for support, but he seemed just as bewildered as I was.

"How is that possible?" I finally managed to ask. "How can I be alive if I don't have a soul?"

"Your mother died," my father murmured. "We had been trying for years to have a child, and when she finally got pregnant, it was the happiest day of my life. Diana told me we were going to have twins..." He trailed off, a wistful smile on his face.

"Dad, you don't have to-" Diana began, concern etched on her features.

Their relationship had always been a mystery to me. A witch and a werewolf, yet their bond was stronger than anything I had ever seen. My father trusted Diana implicitly, even though there were members of the pack who didn't approve of a witch holding such power and influence.

She was practically a second-in-command to him.

People respected my father, but they feared Diana. She was incredibly powerful, capable of hiding an entire town in a mirage. It was a feat that usually required fourteen elder witches and a celestial event, yet she did it alone. That was why no one challenged my father for the title of Alpha.

My father gave Diana a sad smile and continued, "After you were both born, we were so focused on your mother that we didn't realize one of you wasn't crying. By the time we noticed..."

His gaze met mine, and I felt a chill run down my spine. "You were practically dead."

I was speechless, the words "How is that possible?" hovering on the tip of my tongue but refusing to come out.

Zayden shook his head, confusion evident in his eyes. "I don't understand. What do you mean he's dead? He's right here in front of us."

"That's because I linked both of your souls together to bring Theo back to life," Diana explained. "But I could only buy you twenty-three years. That mark on both of your shoulders is a reminder from death itself. We have to perform a ritual on the eve of your twenty-third birthday to merge Zayden's soul back to him, or else you both risk dying."

Silence filled the room, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of those words. The lights dimmed, as if the silence had overpowered them. I couldn't bear to stay any longer, so I got up and left.

"Theo, come back!" my father called after me, but I ignored him and closed the door behind me. He had just told me I had a year left to live. A little disobedience seemed inconsequential compared to that.

After hours of aimless wandering, I found myself on a rolling hill at the eastern borders of Allen. Low-growing vegetation covered the ground, giving it a green and blue hue. I sat beneath a stunted Pecan tree, watching hunting birds soar through the sky. The day turned into night, and even the golden glaze of the setting sun couldn't lift my spirits.

"Fuck," I muttered.

I had always believed I was destined to take over my father's role as Alpha. I had plans to do it on my own, without relying on a witch. As much as I respected my father, I couldn't ignore the fact that his unchallenged leadership had something to do with Diana's power and influence within the pack.

The werewolves wanted someone who could lead them with their own power. That had been my purpose for as long as I could remember. I trained relentlessly to become someone feared by our enemies.

But it didn't matter anymore.

Out of nowhere, a girl around my age appeared behind me. Her clothes were dirty and stained, dried blood on her lips. I figured she was another one of Winslow's students.

"Thank goodness," she started to say, but I cut her off, waving her away. "I don't care. Go away."

"Excuse me?" she said, frowning and taking a step closer.

Surprised, I leaned back into the shadows, hiding the shock on my face. It was the first time anyone had seen my wolf's eyes without fear.The challenge of dominance was evident in the intense stare downs that took place, a swift and effective way to establish one's status before fights escalated. However, the young woman standing before me refused to back down. I couldn't help but wonder if she was incredibly foolish, exceptionally brave, or perhaps just naive.

As she drew nearer, it became clear that she was a stranger. Her appearance and enticing scent suggested that she was new to our territory.

"I'll say it one last time since you clearly don't understand how things work here," I growled, my voice laced with warning. "Keep moving."

"What if I decide not to?" Her eyes flickered, transforming into a warm shade of orange.

Now, she was being rude and stubborn.

I rose to my feet, facing her squarely. "Then I'll make you."

Undeterred, she took another step closer, extending her claws. "I've had enough of you and your condescending, hostile, uncivilized attitude."

My frown deepened. "Says the person who invades my personal space and threatens to fight with her baby claws."

Offended, she switched to the offensive. "Why don't you come closer and see how much damage my 'baby claws' can do to your face?"

"Is that a threat?" I challenged.

"Take it however you please," she snarled, her frustration echoing in her voice.

"For a pup, you certainly possess an abundance of arrogance," I sneered, assessing her stance. She left herself exposed and vulnerable to countless attacks, any one of which could be deadly. "But, of course, I'll indulge you."

With a growl, she pounced at me, her movements reminiscent of Winslow's but slower, unrefined, and predictable. I effortlessly dodged each attack, choosing not to retaliate. My goal was to break her spirit and demonstrate the vast difference in strength between us.

Left, right, swing, left jab, claw down. Too predictable, I thought.

"Surely this can't be all you've got," I taunted, hoping to irritate and frustrate her further.

Right, left... roundhouse kick.

Anticipating her move, I spun around her right side, countering her swing with a swift slash. In doing so, I caught her outstretched arm by the wrist, forcing it behind her back and stretching it up her spine. She struggled to break free, but her only escape would be if she possessed greater strength than I did. Otherwise, she risked dislocating her arm. Suppressing a laugh at the futility of her efforts, I tightened my grip.

"Let go!" she barked, repeatedly striking me with her other elbow.

Normally, I would employ more aggressive methods to force her into submission, but something about her intrigued me.

Maintaining my hold on her wrist, I wrapped my hands around her neck.

"Disappointing," I whispered into her ear.

Enraged by my remark, she threw her head backward, nearly breaking my nose. Fortunately, her hair cushioned the blow. The impact, however, resulted in a nosebleed. It had been quite some time since anyone had made me bleed. Taking a few steps back to assess the damage, I looked up at her face, only to be met with a smug expression. Somehow, she appeared incredibly proud of herself.

"Where did you learn that? Kindergarten?" I retorted.

"Hey, I'm not the one bleeding," she smirked.

My glare intensified. Surely she wasn't indirectly implying that she was stronger than me. "You do realize that since this petty squabble began, I haven't made an attempt to attack you?"

"And I didn't tell you not to," she flicked her hands at me, motioning for me to come at her. "Come on, give it your best shot."

I could sense that her mood had lightened.

"You have no idea who I am, do you?" I asked, a smile playing on my lips as I switched to my wolf's eyes. The moment I did, I could have sworn I heard a whimper escape her lips, though it didn't sound like fear or terror. It was an oddly captivating sound, almost like desire.

She released a tired sigh, holding my gaze. "They're green? Is this your attempt to avoid a fight?"

In a swift motion, I rushed towards her, grabbing her by the scruff of her sweatshirt and lifting her several inches off the ground, locking her hands in a gridlock.

"This was never intended to be a fight," I stated firmly.

Before she could respond with a kick, I threw her against a nearby tree. I made a conscious effort not to harm her, though I couldn't quite understand why.

"The fun is over," I declared, standing over her and pinning her against the tree bark. "You have ten seconds to tell me who you are before you lose your tongue."

"Theo!" Zayden's voice called out.

"I figured it wouldn't be long before you arrived," I remarked.

"Thank God I did. I leave you alone for five minutes and you're attempting to kill Father's guest," Zayden said, bending down to help the girl up. "Are you alright?"

"Father's..." I looked at her, realization dawning. "But he didn't mention receiving any emissaries today, did he?"

"No. She just showed up," Zayden shook his head. "Isn't that right, Samantha?"

"How do you know my name? Wait, your father is the Alpha?" She appeared surprised.

"Yes," Zayden smiled.

"That explains a lot," she frowned, directing her gaze at me and flashing her wolf's eyes.

I sighed. "You two have fun," I said, walking away.

"Where are you going?" Zayden called after me.

"Away from her," I replied.

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