I never believed I could wish for someone's death.
Even now, the thought makes something inside me recoil—some instinctive, moral fragment my parents drilled into me as a child. Death was final. Death was sacred. It was not something to pray for lightly.
But as I sit frozen in a room that is not mine, naked beneath a sheet that feels thinner by the second, I wish—fervently, desperately—for my abusers to die.
Not because they violated me.
But because they tried.
And because the terror they left behind clings to my skin like something I will never fully wash away.
My body refuses to respond to my mind. I am curled inward, knees drawn tight to my chest, arms wrapped around myself as if I can stitch my shattered sense of safety back together through sheer force. Every sound outside the door makes my heart slam painfully against my ribs. Every creak of wood, every distant footstep sends panic racing through me.
I don't know how long I have been here.
Time has no shape when fear takes over.
The room is small—cruelly so. Bare stone walls. A narrow bed pressed against one side. A single wooden chair placed deliberately in the center, like it was meant for something other than sitting. There are no windows. No light except what leaks in beneath the door.
And that door is everything I fear.
Because it means they can come back.
I flinch when footsteps approach.
The knock that follows is controlled. Measured. Not the careless pounding of someone impatient—but the deliberate sound of someone who knows they have power.
The door opens.
A man steps inside—different from the one who assaulted me earlier. He is leaner, his movements precise. His eyes skim over me, not with hunger, but calculation. Somehow, that terrifies me more.
He closes the door behind him.
Before I can react, he crouches and grips my chin, forcing my face upward.
Pain blooms sharply along my jaw.
"Look at me," he says calmly.
I try to pull away, but his fingers tighten until my eyes water. My throat constricts as I stare at him.
"Good," he murmurs. "You listen well."
I nod faintly, too afraid to do anything else.
"We don't want you," he continues, voice almost conversational. "You're not the objective."
My stomach churns.
"You were simply careless enough to wander into our territory. That makes you... convenient."
Fear presses down on my lungs.
"Stand up."
I hesitate.
His grip snaps tighter, yanking me upright before I can move on my own. I stumble, nearly falling, before he shoves me toward the chair. The wood digs into my thighs as I land hard. I clutch the sheet tighter, as if it can shield me from what's coming.
"What's your name?" he asks.
"S-Sierra Boris," I whisper.
"Pack?"
"Samara."
"Rank?"
"Beta's daughter."
Something sharp flickers in his gaze.
YOU ARE READING
The Royal Alpha
Loup-garouThe Royal Family was wiped out two decades ago by a rogue, leaving behind chaos and a supposed curse in the werewolf world. Today after twenty years, the last of the young werewolves arrive at the Werewolf Camp for training and this is where the st...
