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I ’ve never felt heavier as I open my eyes to a world of pain; every muscle throbs as if I have been trampled.

Memories flood back in a rush - fur sprouting from my skin, bones cracking and reforming, and howl's tearing from my throat.

Pain is all I remember, not that pain is something I'm not used to.

This was a different kind of pain, agonizing yet freeing, only to be trapped again with Mrs. Daley in this dreadful place.

Last night, I hoped the pain would end me, prayed the suffering would end in the darkness of oblivion; at least I would be free of Mrs. Daley.

However, the thought of leaving Ivy and Tyson with her has guilt tearing me apart.

A soft voice cuts through the fog of confusion and despair. I turn my head, finally noticing the gentle fingers tangled in my hair.

Ivy’s face comes into view, her raven hair falling in messy tangles around her shoulders.

She’s perched on the edge of my threadbare mattress, gently stroking my hair as she sings.

But something is wrong. Her blue eyes are dull and unfocused.

Angry red welts crisscross her arms, disappearing beneath the torn sleeves of her faded dress that are a size too small and older than her.

Peering around at the room, I take in the long, angry claw marks marking the wood, which has me staring at my fingertips.

Did I do that? Groaning, I stare up at her, noting the same claw marks scratching her chest. Did I do that to her?

I whimper at the thought of hurting her.

“Ivy?” I croak, my voice raw. “What…?”

She blinks slowly, seeming to come back to herself. “Oh, Abbie. Finally, you’re awake.” A sad smile flickers across her face. “How are you feeling?”

I try to sit up, wincing as she helps me. “Like death warmed over. What happened?”

Ivy’s expression changes to one of sadness, and I truly take in her form.

Now, sitting up, I can see the damage: her dress is barely clinging to her, my claws having shredded most of it.

Mrs. Daley will make her pay for that ruined dress, and I know it will be my fault.

Her legs are covered in grazes, and those welts—the true horror of the damage from Mrs. Daley’s cane, show on her skin.

“Oh my gosh, Ivy, your clothes.” My hands wave about frantically as I try to cover her bruised and broken skin as if I can somehow stitch my best friend back together, along with the torn fabric.

“It’s okay; I can barely feel them,” she murmurs as she moves.

At least they are no longer bleeding. I take in the huge welts, knowing I didn’t cause those, but she wasn’t covered this badly last night when we were locked inside our attic bedroom.

Sure, she has always had scars; we both are covered in them, but these are fresh. She winces at my touch.

“I’m fine, Abbie. It’s nothing, just a few scratches,” she tells me, and I stare at her as if she is absurd. It’s more than a few scratches; she looks like she has been put through a cheese grater.

“Did she do that to you because of me?” I ask. Ivy swallows thickly and fiddles with her fingers, which are covered in blood—hers or mine, I’m unsure.

“Mrs. Daley. She heard you last night. During your shift.” The mention of my shift triggers memories that flood back. Yet I recall Ivy’s voice, promising it would be okay, telling me to be quiet because she was right there with me.

The memories sharpen. Mrs. Daley’s shrill voice cuts through my pain-filled haze. The whistle of her cane through the air and the swishing sting, but it didn’t last long. Looking at Ivy now, I understand why—because she took the brunt of it.

“I tried to calm you, but you were…” Ivy trails off, that vacant look returning, and she abruptly changes the subject.

“You did well, Abbie. You finally shifted!” She forces some excitement into her voice before it dies off.

“Your wolf was magnificent; I wish you could have seen yourself.” I don’t feel an ounce of excitement at getting my wolf, knowing not only what it means but also knowing Ivy was punished for my inability to remain quiet.

“She did that because of me,” I whisper.

Ivy nods, her eyes welling with tears. “I tried to stop her, to shield you.”

I reach out, gently touching one of the angry marks on her arm.

“You shouldn’t have.”

She shakes her head fiercely. “Of course I should have. More than my life, remember?” Her vacant expression returns, and she resumes her soft singing, tugging me back down; I rest my head back in her lap, her fingers tangling in my hair.

“Ivy,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “You know what this means, right?”

Ivy’s singing stops abruptly. She meets my gaze, her blue eyes suddenly sharp with fear. “I know, Abbie, but we have time.”

I swallow hard; my mouth is as dry as a desert.

“I don’t want to leave you.” The words are bitter on my tongue; I hate to think about what will happen to her once I’m gone.

Or what would become of Tyson. The mere thought of his name has my eyes watering; he won’t survive Mrs. Daley—especially once Ivy is gone.

I know she’ll protect him as long as she can, but her eighteenth birthday isn’t far off, either. And then what?

Ivy nods grimly. “But we have time,” she says, a spark of hope in her voice. “Alpha Brock is away on pack business; he won’t be back for a few weeks. I overheard Katrina speaking with Mrs. Daley.”

“A few weeks?” I echo, hardly daring to believe it.

“Yes,” Ivy confirms. She takes my hand, squeezing it tightly. “And Abbie... When the time comes, I’m going to ask to be tried with you.”

I gasp; and shock jolts through me. “Ivy, no! You can’t?—”

“I can and I will,” she interrupts. “We came here together, and we’ll leave it the same way—if they want to execute you, they’ll have to kill me, too.”

Tears spill down my cheeks as I stare at my best friend, my other half. “But you haven’t shifted yet; you still have a chance?—”

Ivy shakes her head, her expression resolute. “A chance at what? A life without you? That’s no life at all.” She cups my face in her hands. “We die together or not at all; that’s the deal—more than my life, Abbie; more than my life—I have no purpose without you.”

I want to argue, to beg her to reconsider, but I know that look in her eyes.

There’s no changing her mind. Instead, I pull her close, burying my face in her shoulder as we cling to each other.

The moment is short-lived when I hear the sharp rap on the door and Mrs. Daley’s voice screeching at us from the other side of the door.

“Get up! You have chores!” The sharp edge of her voice slices through the tense quietude of our room. My fingers tighten around Ivy’s, my nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm. She doesn’t flinch; instead, she squeezes back just as hard.

“Coming, Mrs. Daley,” Ivy answers for both of us while I’m suddenly struggling against the fear that claws and gnashes in my stomach at having to put up with Mrs. Daley for another day.

Ivy eases herself up first, wincing as her legs take her weight. She turns back to me, trying to give me an encouraging smile. Ivy falters when she sees my worried expression.

“It’ll be okay,” she insists quietly, reaching for a clean dress hanging on a peg by the small window.

“It won’t,” I insist, but it’s a fight we’ve had a dozen times; there’s no point in it now. I push to my feet, my body aching violently. I feel like a shadow of myself like something vital has been ripped away.

“Now, Rogues, these kids need feeding!” Mrs. Daley bangs on the door while Ivy rushes to change, knowing walking out in her torn clothes will get her another whipping.

Ivy slips into the brown, worn-out dress in seconds, not caring for her modesty in front of me; we’ve been together since we were children, what haven’t we seen of each other?

Once dressed, she hurries over to me and helps me get ready.

I’m more than just weakened by my first shifting - the emotional turmoil of what it means is taking its toll.

“Stop worrying so much,” Ivy whispers, helping me pull on a similar ragged dress. Her voice is barely above a whisper, afraid Mrs. Daley might overhear our conversation. Ivy places a hand on my bare shoulder, giving me a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re stronger than you think, Abbie,” she says, her blue eyes meeting mine through the mirror in front of us. “We’ll make it through this together.”

The banging on the door continues. Each thud resounds in my head and sends my heart racing. There will be dire consequences if we don’t comply with Mrs. Daley’s demands quickly.

Ivy gives me one last reassuring glint in her eyes before she opens the door to let Mrs. Daley in. The elder woman’s hardened gaze sweeps over us; there’s no room for sympathy in those cold eyes of hers.

“Get your lazy bones moving,” she snaps before turning on her heel and leaving us to race against time once again.

We step into the bustling kitchen filled with young children who are each in a state of neglect. Mrs. Daley reserves her worst treatment for us, but all the kids here are malnourished and neglected.

“Quit your dawdling!” the sharp tone comes again, demanding and potent with impatience.

“All right, all right!” Ivy calls, slipping into her apron with hurried movements. I am quick to do the same when I see Mrs. Daley’s hand tighten around the tip of her cane. She looks like she is itching to use it. The first whack of the day is always the worst.