Page 48

F reya

The cold doesn’t bite—it devours.

Every jagged breath carves into my throat like glass, and the wind is merciless, needling through the trees as if it knows just how exposed I am.

My legs barely hold me. My feet bleed—slashed open and raw. But it’s the wounds across my stomach that threaten to drag me under, deep and ugly and wet. I don’t look down. I don’t need to. I can feel every pulse of pain with each step.

Blood trickles down my thighs. My skin’s scraped and torn, my arms-streaked red. The night air gnaws at me, but I keep going—because I don’t know how to stop.

I’ve never seen trees like this before.

Branches stretch above me like broken fingers, clawing at the thin moon. The forest smells like dirt and old rain, but under it is something fouler—my blood, sweat, the tang of rusting metal. The memory of chains.

I remember.

Not just pain.

Faces.

Leering. Cold. Some laughing, others watching without blinking. They never hid their eyes. I see them when I close mine—their hands, their voices, their breath against my skin. I hear the heavy scrape of the metal door, the sound of boots on concrete, the thick hush before a scream.

And now I’m free.

But I don’t feel free. I feel hunted.

And I feel something else.

There’s a pressure building inside me. The thing they wanted to awaken is stirring again. Not asleep anymore—waiting.

I crash through a thicket and stumble forward. My knees buckle and I fall hard. My hands dig into cold moss and dirt. I try to rise, but my limbs shake. Everything hurts. My stomach, my legs—my very soul.

A light glimmers ahead, flickering like a dying star.

Voices follow. Male. Low. Unfamiliar. One throws something into the trees—glass shatters. The scent hits me.

Sharp. Bitter. Rotting.

I choke on it.

It’s familiar.

Not from this place. From before.

My stepfather used to smell like that—just before his fists found my face.

I stagger closer, limbs trembling. My vision is hazy. The firelight licks at the trees now, casting long shadows. There are four of them. Laughing. Drinking. Not afraid of the dark.

The forest spits me out into a clearing.

My legs tremble beneath me, slick with blood and mud. My stomach burns with every shallow breath. I'm barely upright, barely conscious.

But I don’t stop moving.

There’s a fire ahead—orange and dancing, unnatural in the thick of the woods. Four men sit around it, bottles clutched in dirty hands, the stench of them drifting out like rot.

Laughter breaks through the night like shattered glass.

And then one of them sees me.

“The hell is that?”

They all look.

I freeze, caught between trees and flame. Between beasts and men. My body pulses, skin stretched thin over wounds that haven’t stopped bleeding. My arms hang at my sides.

They rise.

One lets out a low whistle. “Well, shit.”

“Looks like the forest just coughed up a treat,” another chuckles.

“She’s bleeding,” one says, sounding almost impressed. “Everywhere.”

“I think she’s naked,” the fourth slurs. “Covered in filth and blood. Kinda like a horror movie, right?”

They laugh. All of them.

My heart pounds.

I don’t know what I expected—maybe shock, maybe someone turning away, maybe even fear. But not this.

Their gazes crawl over me. Not curious. Not concerned. Just greedy. Possessive.

“She can’t be from around here,” one mutters, stepping closer. “You think she’s high? Maybe some freaky cult girl?”

“She’s got holes,” another says with a grin, eyes dark. “That’s all that matters.”

They chuckle again, louder now, like predators who’ve decided the kill isn’t going anywhere.

“She looks like someone already tore into her,” one murmurs, licking his lips. “But hey, a little mess doesn’t mean it’s broken.”

“She’s not saying a word,” another notes. “You think she’s mute? Or maybe she just knows better.”

That laughter again. Rancid and thick with suggestion.

I take one step back.

They step forward.

“You ain’t going anywhere, sweetheart.”

My throat tightens. My hands tremble. I feel my nails pressing into my palms, sharp and burning.

I don’t know these men. I don’t even know this world.

But I know this moment.

I’ve lived it.

Not here.

Not outside.

But in the room with the metal table. The chains. The hands that always came with laughter like this—hot, cruel, entitled.

I remember their faces.

Not just what they did.

Who they were.

And I know these men are no different.

The pressure in my chest rises like steam beneath skin. The pain becomes something else—something deeper.

The one in front grins. “Come on, little wild thing. No need to run. We’ll keep you warm.”

He reaches out.

I flinch—hard.

And the heat explodes.

It’s sudden. A surge, violent and pure. I gasp, my back arching. My vision doubles. The clearing tilts.

My scream rips through the air like thunder.

They all jolt.

The air shifts.

Leaves rattle.

The fire trembles.

“What the hell—?”

My body hits the ground, convulsing.

The heat splits my spine in half.

I scream again, but it’s no longer a girl’s scream. It’s too deep. Too cracked open. It echoes through the trees like something not meant to live.

My hands seize. My knees give out. I drop to the earth, my palms slamming into the dirt, and I feel it—bones moving.

Snapping. Rebuilding.

My fingers stretch too far. Joints pop, dislocate, then twist into place again. My spine arches until it feels like it might tear through my skin, and then it does. My ribs shift, torso reshaping, legs shortening and thickening.

Pain roars through every nerve.

I don’t fight it.

I let it take me.

This isn’t something they put inside me. It was always there—waiting.

The world blurs, darkens, then sharpens into terrifying clarity. My skin tears like paper. Fur erupts from muscle. My jaw cracks sideways, stretches forward, becomes a muzzle. My teeth grow—not human, not even animal. Something ancient. Something that never forgot how to kill.

My heartbeat slows. Focuses.

I rise, no longer standing on two feet.

I’m taller than any wolf should be.

Heavier.

More monstrous.

My paws crush leaves beneath me.

And I look up.

They’re still here.

Frozen.

Mouths open.

One drops his bottle. It shatters at his feet.

I don’t give them time to run.

The first man is closest. The one who reached for me like I was a toy.

I launch.

He turns to flee but barely moves before my weight collides with him. My jaws clamp around his throat. I feel the cartilage give. His scream is short, gurgled.

I shake once.

His spine snaps.

I let his body fall like garbage.

The second man tries to grab a burning stick from the fire. He’s smarter—no, more desperate. I see the fear in his eyes. I want him to feel it longer.

I circle him. Slow. Deliberate.

He swings the stick at me, flame trailing.

It brushes my fur.

I don’t flinch.

I leap.

Claws first.

They sink into his chest and we crash to the ground. He yells. He tries to crawl. I rip his shoulder open, exposing bone. His sobs become high-pitched whines.

I put my teeth through his ribs.

The firelight turns red.

The third runs.

Good.

I chase.

He makes it to the tree line before I barrel into him from behind, sending him sprawling. He screams for help, begs me not to, calls me a monster.

I pin him with one paw.

And look into his eyes.

He’s crying. Wetting himself.

He’s not sorry.

He’s afraid.

I press my weight down and hear his ribs cave.

One breath.

Then none.

The last one was the first to laugh. The one who said I had “holes.”

He’s the only one still standing.

Staring.

Frozen.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

He takes one step back.

Then another.

He turns to run.

But I’m faster.

I tackle him into the dirt.

He fights. Harder than the others. Punches land on my neck, my side, but they don’t matter.

He’s loud. Screaming louder than the others. It pleases me.

I rake my claws across his face.

He shrieks.

I bite down on his side. He bucks. I tear away flesh.

“I’m sorry! Please! Don’t—don’t kill me!”

He’s sobbing now.

I could let him live.

Let him limp back to his friends, broken and bloodied and less of a man.

But I remember what he said. What they all said.

I remember the hands. The metal walls. The faces.

The last man is crawling.

I stalk toward him, blood matting my fur, breath steaming in thick huffs. His legs are useless—twisted beneath him from the fall or maybe when I slammed him into the ground. He’s sobbing now, face slick with tears, blood, and spit.

He reeks of fear.

I savor it.

He tries to scramble backward, but all he does is smear redder across the forest floor. “Please,” he gasps, voice hitching. “Please—I didn’t—”

I snarl. Not just from rage, but from something deeper. Something old. Something hollowed out by too many nights in the dark with nothing but pain for company.

He said I had “holes that could be used.”

He said I was a gift the forest dropped at his feet.

He was wrong.

I bare my teeth, feel the taste of his terror like iron on my tongue. My muscles coil. One more lunge and I’ll rip his throat from his neck. He doesn’t deserve a quick death.

I step forward.

And the growl cuts through the night.

It’s not mine.

It’s deeper—rougher—like gravel dragged through silence.

I turn sharply, my snarl dying in my throat as something moves at the edge of the firelight. The man gasps again, but he’s not the one I’m focused on anymore.

A massive figure steps out of the trees.

Not a man.

A wolf.

Grey. Towering. Its coat is thick and sleek, silver laced through darker fur like threads of moonlight. Golden eyes pierce through the smoke and flickering embers and land directly on me.

He’s not afraid.

He’s assessing.

The earth seems to still beneath his steps. He walks closer, slow and certain, the way predators move when they know they’re at the top of the chain. And yet, there’s no hostility in his posture—just warning. Command.

I stiffen, shoulders hunched, head low.

I don’t understand why I’m hesitating.

But I do.