Wolfpack

The Rejection

Emme sat on the bench of the pack kitchen, humming to herself and brushing out her long, thick hair that was the same red-sable as her wolf's coat. She tried to ignore the fiery burn of the stranger's mark on her neck. It begged her to touch it, to itch it. She ignored the pull of the mark and focused instead on pulling the brush through her hair.

She, daughter of the alpha, sister to the beta, had been reduced to less than an omega.

No one said it out loud, but their hushed tones when she came around and the aversion of their eyes when she entered a room made it clear. She was an undesirable female. Unless her stranger came for her, she would be alone forever, neither a member of her pack nor of any other.

And her stranger wasn't coming for her.

It had been two months since the incident in the forest. Her brother was a brooding man now, quick to rage at the slightest infractions. An unsteady tension had fallen over the pack at the circumstance. They could not cast Emme out because of her rank, but to them she was an intruder. Her brother bore no fault in the pack's eyes. But Emme knew that he blamed himself for her condition. At first, she had blamed him too. She had warned him. Begged him not to engage. But after the days of torment had beat at her soul and body, she accepted her part. She had not been forced to jump before the stranger's attack. Her condition was her own fault.

The first seven weeks were the hardest. After returning to the camp, her mother had stared at her daughter's neck in horror before informing her husband. Emme's father had been forgiving, but the deep disappointment in his eyes was unmistakable. The first night, Emme had waited until the deepest of night to allow the first salty tears to slip from her eyelids. She railed against the moon, begging it to remove the mark, to see the injustice of her situation. The mark, however, didn't fade as it would if given by someone not destined for her. Instead, it grew darker, more prominent. Her skin seemed to boast proudly that she had been paired by the moon's light.

She had been unprepared for the repercussions of being marked. Her body wanted  - no, demanded - her mate. She had been on fire, night after night, her skin extremely sensitive to the touch. She was unable to eat or drink out of her wolf's sorrow. Her bones ached to change, to race towards him and find him wherever he might be. It was agony. Sorrow and loneliness bloomed deep inside her and beat against her, tormenting her. She felt her wolf reach out to the mark, seeking his mind, only to find nothingness - a spurn too deep for her wolf to endure. She was being rejected by her moonmate, and everything in her cried out and rose up in angst before desperation cracked sharply inside of her. She screamed and cried and railed against everyone who sought to help her.

No other hand would suffice. The smell of the men in her pack repulsed her. The sight of her brother incited her. She was in a hell, created solely for her. Her wolf didn't understand why she was being kept from her mate. She snapped and bit at Emma and demanded control, but Emma refused to yield it. She was being driven slowly mad until one day, the storm suddenly relented.

She had woken up on the dawn of the seventh day of the seventh week to find that everything within her was still. It wasn't the stillness of peace, but the still, cold, quiet of death. Her wolf had retreated so far within her, that Emma couldn't reach her. She spent hours trying to coax her wolf back to her side, but to no avail. Her soul refused to stir within her. In the seventh hour, she began to lose her colorsight. She couldn't cry, though she desperately wished to. Her blood felt cold, her bones were hard and achy. A wave of panic had ridden over her as she struggled to understand what was happening.

She had looked out of her window to see that the greens and browns of her beloved wood had faded into matte shades of grey. The once brilliant blue of the sky was a dull flint. The sun was a bright white. She had blinked several times, but the color refused to return. Her mother had entered the room then, wringing her hands, sorrow etched evidently onto her face.