Under the Skin

Chapter 1

12 years later...

The cold concrete walls of the cellar against which the boy was resting made him shiver, and he tightened the thin, dirty blanket that was draped over his frail shoulders. He could hear the men upstairs laughing and talking. They had probably consumed a couple of beers by now, which explained why they were so loud. 

Jonah absentmindedly scratch the skin under the shackle locked around his ankle. It was linked by a heavy chain to the wall and prevented him from escaping. Not that he would attempt to. 

After so many years of living with the hunters, Jonah had long ago lost the will to escape his fate.  

He couldn't remember exactly when or why he had been captured by them, but he did remember the crushing grief he felt, weighing heavy on his chest and preventing him from putting a fight. Besides, he was only a kid back then, and could only do so much against three grown men who were armed. 

When he was a young teenager though, the overwhelming sadness he felt was replaced by a burning anger towards the men who treated him no better than the dirt under their boots. When he finally gained the ability to turn into a wolf, Jonah tried several times to attack them and escape. 

He could never recall what happened during those fights, but every time he would wake up chained to the walls and sporting several bruises and cuts that would leave him unable to move for days. 

As his failed attempts began to pile up, the fire that fuelled his will to leave his captors behind and start a new life faded to a light shimmer, until it had been completely crushed. 

At least, the hunters didn't hurt him when he complied to their demands. Jonah didn't resist anymore when they asked him to change to his wolf form, even though he was aware of what they made him do. 

Although for some reason he wasn't able to be conscious when he was in wolf form, the strong stench of blood and the unmistakable scent associated with werewolves coming from him when he turned back made him realize quickly that the hunters were using him to hunt his own kind. 

When he slept, he would get glimpses of frightened gazes directed at him or mutilated bodies covered in blood. 

The overwhelming guilt he felt for killing innocent people never left him, and he slowly accepted this constant weight on his chest as his punishment for all the blood he had spilled, all the lives he had taken. 

The years of mistreatment and sorrow slowly took a toll on him, until all that was left today was the empty shell of a young man, waiting for death to take him. 

Because of the bad weather that came with the arrival of winter, the hunters had a harder time finding werewolves who had lingered away from their homes. This forced them to hunt closer to pack territories, which could be a risk if they were attacked by members of the pack. While they were cautious at first, the hunters grew more confident when they remained undetected. 

On one such hunt, the group had been walking for the better part of the day before they finally spotted a young she-wolf who appeared to be digging under the snow, perhaps searching for roots which were used by werewolves for medicinal purposes.

The wolf was quick to pick up several scents of other werewolves nearby, which made it slightly agitated. The hand grabbing the scruff of his neck brought the wolf's attention back to the man next to him. 

"You know the drill, wolf. You attack first, and we'll finish her." 

Unlike before, the wolf hesitated. It knew that the she-wolf would probably alert her pack members as soon as she would see it, urging them to help her. But despite knowing in its gut that it was a bad idea, the fear of the hunters ingrained in his brain was stronger. The endless beatings it had suffered at their hands made it understand quickly that if it displeased them, it would face the consequences. Knowing that, the wolf stalked forward. 

The white snow did nothing to help its dark pelt blend in, but it did muffle the sound of its paws sinking into it. Soon enough, the wolf was crouching behind a tree, only a few meters away from its target. It took a last glance behind its shoulder at the scarred hunter, and the jerky nod he gave was all it took for the dark wolf to spring forward. 

The wolf went for the throat, but the startled she-wolf managed to avoid his attack at the last minute. It went skidding into the snow before it regained its footing, and by now the female had already howled for her packmates. 

The wolf charged again and sank its teeth into her shoulder, determined to inflict as much damage as possible. The other wolf gave as good as she got, and after a while of them fighting both of them were dripping blood from several wounds. The dark wolf was so preoccupied by its opponent that it didn't register the snarls and howls growing closer. 

The wolf was grabbed and thrown away from the female. It whimpered in pain when its wounded body smacked against a tree and fell down in the snow. With much effort, it scrambled back onto its legs to face the newcomers. 

About ten wolves were facing him, with their teeth bared and saliva dripping from their mouths. The wolf knew it was well out-numbered. Its gaze went away from the group of wolves and search for the hunters. It knew its faith was sealed when he caught them discreetly slipping  away from the scene without looking back. 

Without anything to lose, the wolf laid back on floor and showed his stomach in a display of submission. The gesture did nothing to appease the wolves in front of him, who demanded blood for the packmate who had been attacked. 

One of the bigger wolves stepped forward. He was the beta of the pack, and it was his duty to kill any trespassers that threaten the safety of the pack. It was only when he made eye contact with the rogue that he froze in his steps. 

The feeling he felt when they locked gazes couldn't be mistaken for anything else. He knew it deep in his core, even if he wanted to deny it. 

The rogue was his fated mate.