The morning sun peeked through the dusty window of the laundry room, casting faint golden rays over Liora’s trembling frame. She was hunched over a pile of filthy clothes, scrubbing with torn fingers, each breath a struggle. Her hip was swollen now—angry, hot, and oozing. Her fever had worsened. Every movement sent waves of dizziness washing over her.
No breakfast. No water. Just the sound of fabric slapping against the washboard and her soft, hoarse breaths.
But the quiet didn’t last long.
The door slammed open with a loud bang, making her flinch violently.
A tall, broad warrior—Garven, known for his temper and cruel smirk—stormed in, fists clenched, eyes wild with rage.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
Liora instantly lowered her gaze, already crawling backward, but her body was too weak to move fast. She had seen him like this before—when he’d been embarrassed in training, rejected by a she-wolf, or insulted during a meeting.
And he always came to her.
The pack’s punching bag.
“You,” he growled, his voice sharp like cracked glass. “You useless, cursed little rat.”
Liora’s back hit the wall. Her lips trembled.
“I—I didn’t—”
SMACK.
The slap was hard. Sharp. Her head whipped to the side and her vision danced. The sting flooded her cheek as blood filled her mouth from her already-cut lip.
Garven grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and yanked her up like she weighed nothing. Her feet barely touched the ground.
“You think I’m in the mood to hear your squeaky excuses?! Huh?!”
He punched her. Hard. Right in the stomach.
She choked on a scream. The air rushed from her lungs as she collapsed again.
He didn’t stop.
A kick followed—straight to her ribs.
Another to her back.
She curled up on instinct, sobbing silently, trying not to scream too loud. Loud meant worse.
Garven crouched beside her and grabbed a handful of her beautiful lavender hair.
“Look at you. You think those pretty eyes mean anything?” he spat. “You’re a walking curse. You don’t belong in this pack. Hell, you probably don’t even belong on this earth.”
He slammed her head into the floor.
The room spun.
Everything spun.
And then, like it was nothing, he stood and dusted his hands. "Tch. Pathetic. Don't die yet. I like breaking you."
He walked away. The door slammed again.
Silence returned.
Only it wasn’t quiet inside Liora.
She lay there for what felt like hours, broken, bleeding, breath shallow. Her ribs ached. One of them felt cracked. Her ears rang.
She didn’t cry anymore.
She couldn’t.
Even her tears had given up.
She rolled onto her side, one eye swollen shut, her body covered in bruises so dark they looked like ink stains.
"I’m nothing," she whispered to the dark.
But even now… a flicker answered inside her.
Not words. Not strength. Just presence.
Valeria.
Her wolf wasn’t gone.
She was watching. Waiting. Hurting with her.
And something was building.
Something dangerous.
Liora didn’t know it yet, but she was like a cup being filled past its edge. All this pain, this suffering—it wasn’t going nowhere.
One day soon, it would spill.
And the world would bleed for what it did to her.
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