Any time I forgot that, anytime I slipped, I was reminded. Over and over. Disciplined until the lesson was stuck again.
The marks on my body were more than a testament to how well I behaved at first. I fought, because that’s what Mama would have expected.
But in time, as my dignity was stripped away, I learned.
I learned to not speak unless I was spoken to. I learned to not comfort others or make them feel seen. I learned not to stand out. I learned to kneel for any Alpha, no matter who they were.
Anything that hinted at individually, softness or connection, was a mistake. And the mistakes were corrected. Repeatedly. Until the lesson sank deep enough that I didn’t forget it again
Those memories are pressing around me now. Not sharp, but heavy enough that they sat on my chest, reminding me of my place.
I rubbed my palms against my thighs, grounding myself in the texture of the blanket, the warmth of the room, and the quiet hum of the house. None of those old rules are applied here now.
Evander hadn’t once looked at me like I was replaceable, at least not yet. He looked at me like I was about to break, even though I was already broken beyond repair.
His rules, ones he made sure to tell me again before I went to bed, would be easy. Well, easy enough once I got them through my head. They went against what I’d spent years learning.
I closed my eyes, breathing slowly, trying to separate the past from the present. I tried to remind myself that I wasn’t back there. That I was now under the control of an Alpha who told me he was going to keep me; told me I had a place here in his home.
But I didn’t know what that meant. Surely this Alpha needed my service for something, and I was going to figure out what that would be.
***
I gave up sleeping hours ago. By the time the first thin light began to creep across the sky, soft and gray against the curtains, I’d already accepted that rest wasn’t coming back for me. So, I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could and started the morning the only way I knew how. Which followed the routine that had been drilled into me for years.
Schedules meant stability. Stability meant safety. Or at least the closest thing to it.
I smoothed the sheet, tugged the corners tight, and straightened the pillows until they sat just right. Then, I picked up the worn fox from where it had fallen during the night and set it carefully in the middle of the bed, tucked against the pillows like it belonged there.
It was soft from years of being held, one ear a little bent, the fur thinning around the seams. Someone loved it once. Someone had carried it enough that it still held the shape of small hands.
I paused, fingers lingering on its head.
There had to be a story behind it. Something gentle. Something is real. Something that didn’t fit with the rest of the world I’d knew. Maybe one day I’d find the words to ask Evander about it. Maybe one day I’d be brave enough.
For now, I just made sure it was sitting exactly where it should be, like honoring it was part of the routine, too.
I moved through the room on instinct, letting the rhythm of routine settle over me like a thin, familiar blanket. It wasn’t comfortable, not exactly. But it was something I understood. Something predictable. Something that didn’t ask anything of me expect to keep going.
The house was silent on that soft morning. There were no footsteps, no voices, no doors opening or closing. Just the faint hum of the water heater.
I folded the clothes I’d worn yesterday, placing them in a neat stack on the dresser. I didn’t know what this Alpha wanted me to wear, but I figured going with what I knew was expected of me at Lockswell was the saftest way to go here, too.
The slight chill of the air hit my skin, but it was easy enough to ignore.
I checked the bathroom next, turning on the light and making sure everything was where it was last night. Towels were looped over the bar near the shower. Soap in the dish. Toothbrush lined up straight.
I didn’t know why it mattered, but it did. It always did.
Routine meant I didn’t have to think. Thinking meant remembering. And remembering meant slipping back into thewoods, into hands, and into the silence that often times became something close to like a best friend.
So, I kept moving.
I opened the curtains just enough to let a sliver of morning light in. The sky was pale but slowly growing colorful. And with it, the backyard came into view.
The flower garden Evander talked about was basked in shadows of the trees and hills, but I could just make out the planter. And a bit farther up that small hill was an oversized house, a lone light shining through a room downstairs.
Maybe I wasn’t the only one that was up before the sun rose in this part of the world.
