One of the men pulls a helpless woman out of the hut, throwing her meek frame to the ground. The bony, frail girl's blonde hair covers her face as she shies away from the ridicule ofthe group, as they taunt her, pointing fingers at her as if she isn't powerless.
Something inside me snaps, an innate sense of protectiveness that would never allow me to stand idly by and watch a woman being abused. As the sub-alpha of my own pack, I have sworn to protect every member of Snehvolk, and I'm highly protective of my people.
What's happening now in Seward is something I could never stand for—spitting venomously at a woman who's helpless and overpowered goes against everything I've learned.
Leaving the chestnut wolf behind, I race toward the woman's hut, my heart hammering in my chest as adrenaline pulses through my veins. I have no plan of action, except that I have to intervene before the woman is hurt.
My approaching footsteps are met with the furious glares of the group of men who turn, their eyes glinting with ill intent.
“Hey, fellas!” I call out casually as I slow down, bearing in mind that this isn't my turf, and I need to proceed with caution. The least I was able to accomplish was taking the men's attention away from the woman cowering on the ground, and I maintain my cool composure as I shove my hands into my pockets and lift a charming smile to the group.
“Yo, pretty boy!” One of the guys steps forward, sizing me up with narrowed black eyes. “Who are ya?”
“I'm an alpha from the pack down in Girdwood. I'm here to see your—” My voice tapers off when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot something that stuns me.
Turning my head slowly, it's as if time slows down before our eyes meet, the clash of my earthy green confusion reflected in the crystalline blue pools of her eyes.
Blue eyes.
The color blue I've been tracking for two months.
Except, the feeling described by the others isn't there, save for the recognition of the she-wolf on the ground.
Willow Barker….
The moment freezes over only because of the recollection of a particular she-wolf who used to be in Snehvolk. But she was no ordinary wolf.
What made her stand out was the fact that she was the only werewolf who hadn't received a wolf or the ability to shape shift on her eighteenth birthday.
A knock to my shoulder snaps me out of my bewildered trance, and I notice the group has circled me viciously, neglecting any personal space as a warning to me.
“What is it, pretty boy? What are you doing on our turf?” the first man asks, shooting daggers at me with his dark, narrowed eyes.
I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders, not wanting to let on that I know the wolf they'd been targeting.
“I'm Alpha Thane Savage from the Snehvolk Pack,” I say with the type of confidence that demands respect. The men glance at each other, some appearing shocked, while the main one—the man who questioned me—arches a skeptical brow.
“You here to see our alpha, then?” he asks with a sniff followed by a swipe to his nose. Only now, with the slanting moonlight illuminating his face, can I see the real color of his eyes, the darkness of earlier menace subsiding slightly. It's a typical green shade that fits the rest of his ginger features, but they're almost lifeless.
“Yeah, I am,” I respond measuredly. “I have a meeting with Alpha Grant.” Coolly glancing over my shoulder, I nod at Willow without giving away that I know her. There's so much I don't know yet—like why she's here, in Blood Claw territory, and why she'd been pulled out of her hut. “What's the deal with this one?” I ask, turning my face back to the men.
The ginger man snickers. “She's gonna be my pupmill,” he proudly declares as he tilts his chin haughtily. The sudden urge to punch the smugness out of his gut has me curling my fists, but as he continues to speak, the tighter I have to wind my fists and stifle the urge.
Is that all Willow has been reduced to? A pupmill? A werewolf's sex and breeding slave who won't have choices in her life, won't have a voice.
I'd come across a few other packs in my time serving as a sub-alpha who kept “pupmills” to preserve lineages and ensure the packs were sustained by having more kids. If this is Willow's fate in the Blood Claw Pack, then I can't imagine what the rest of her life here could have been like. What could have driven Willow to leave Snehvolk and land in the worst type of pack, accepting things like this?
There is one thing…
One reason…
But that seems impossible.
Shrugging off the suspicion and pulling myself from the unwarranted thought of the past, I discreetly angle my face in a way that allows me to watch Willow struggle to her feet. Shoulder bones peek out from underneath her tattered T-shirt, her blonde hair dirty and greasy as messy strands cling to her face. Though she has her face lowered bashfully, I notice achampagne-colored scar scoring her left cheek, running across her creamy white flesh like a lightning bolt.
What happened to her?
My jaw clenches as I watch her—at least, what’s left of her. The girl who once walked Snehvolk’s woods with quiet eyes and an even quieter mouth is now reduced to this trembling shadow. A scar on her cheek, bones jutting from beneath pale skin, shoulders slouched as if she’s been carrying this pack’s cruelty for years.
