Claimed by the King’s Gamma: Abbie & Gannon Story

A Few Hours Later

We have run out of time. The clock has ticked the end of lives away so cruelly. Today is the day; one I knew was coming but didn’t believe I would live long enough to see. However, Alpha Brock will finally put an end to my misery. I turned eighteen a few weeks ago, and I was surprised he didn’t jump to put me down that very day. Luckily, he was out of town because it gave Ivy enough time to ask to be tried alongside me. Death is the least of my fears. No, my biggest fear besides leaving Tyson in Mrs. Daley’s hands is being put up for auction and sold to the butcher. He’s a vile man, despicable. I shudder at the thought of his hands on me and suck in a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart. I will kill myself before I ever let myself be placed in his hands again.

No, Doyle will not have me, won’t be allowed to violate me further, and I know Ivy will understand she will have to. She knows the pain he caused me, though we never speak of it; she knows what he did. If only she hadn’t climbed on that chair next to me and pulled the noose around her neck, too. Perhaps then the rope would have held my weight, and my misery would have ended that fateful day.

Although, the very thought of leaving Ivy with our headmistress, Mrs. Daley, makes bile rise up my throat. She’s a wicked old woman. I can’t stand her, especially after what she just did to us. My back stings, but I know the markings that mar my skin are nothing compared to the whipping Ivy just got. All because she gave us too many chores—more than usual—because the king is visiting today, and she wants her yearly donations.

He is the reason we are in this mess; he makes the laws. As if we care if the stupid king is visiting the pack today; he would just be another to torment us if given the chance. I flinch as I place the rag doused in medicinal herbs on her skin. Ivy tries not to move or cringe, but I know it must be burning like crazy. I remind myself it will be over for both of us very soon. Eight horrendous years later, and we are finally going to be free of this place, this life.

Death.

Most would think it morbid to wish for death, but death will be more pleasant than the life we are living in this orphanage—forced by the very pack that killed our parents. The Alpha slaughtered them right in front of us mercilessly.

Grabbing a bandage, I start wrapping it around her torso. Ivy shudders and grips the comforter on the bottom bunk, fisting it, trying to hide the pain she is in. I sniffle, trying to stop myself from crying. Goddess knows Mrs. Daley would punish us worse if she saw a tear.

Once I finish dressing her wounds, I reach for her blouse and help her pull it on, untucking her raven hair as it bunches up inside it. I smile sadly at her, hoping the herbs will help remove some of the pain for her. Standing, Ivy swallows and nudges me, taking the leftover rags and tapping me in a silent message to turn around. Ivy dabs the wounds on my back with a wet cloth to clean them; though mine are just raised skin and sting a little—hers are deep gashes. When she finishes, she squeezes my arm gently and I pull my blouse back on hissing as my shoulders move.

Ivy watches me and silence falls between us. If I have to go out, I’m glad I have Ivy by my side. I would be lying if I said I’m not a little scared, though; however, I can’t help but wonder if I will be reunited with my parents. Gosh how I miss them! It has been so long; I’ve almost forgotten what they looked like or even the sounds of their voices—it feels like a lifetime ago.

Reaching my hand out, Ivy places her calloused one in mine and glances around our orphanage bedroom—the room lined with bunks for the children we cared for, for more than eight years.

I will miss them but not this place.

I give Ivy’s hand a squeeze and she tightens hers back.

I don’t let go as we walk out of our bedroom and up long corridors passing each room.

It saddens me knowing there will be no little faces tomorrow for us; no little hands dragging us from our bed to make them breakfast.

The children here are the only good thing about this place. As we pass each room, I slow, hesitating at Tyson’s door. I’m worried–who will look after him? He is non-verbal and has a severe learning disability, but Mrs. Daley refused to have him tested. Will he get fed or will Mrs. Daley lock him away again like some animal? He is such a sweet boy, just misunderstood. Emotions threaten to choke me as I stare at his little bed; the little bed I would sometimes climb into in the middle of the night to soothe his night terrors. The little bed filled with his scent.

If I wasn’t going to my own funeral, I would take him with me, but death is no place for him. He deserves the world, and I hope one day he will have it at his little fingertips. It takes all my willpower to keep walking. This will be the last time we walk these halls; the last time we see the little faces we helped clean and the little hands we held. The corridors are silent as we descend the spiral staircase to the floor below.

As we reach the bottom, the weight lifts off me. We are finally free–free of this life and free of Mrs. Daley. I will no longer have to hide whenever the butcher comes to drop off meat; I will no longer have to see his face again after today.

With that thought in mind, I glance at Ivy, knowing she’s feeling the exact same thing as me. We’ve endured enough and today our suffering ends along with our lives.

“Let’s go home,” I whisper to her.

Ivy pushes on the double doors leading to the small courtyard out front. The porch creaks under our feet and I see the kids playing out front on the run-down play equipment. I’ve lost count of the number of times I have had to patch the kids up after falling from it or pulling splinters from tiny feet and hands. We step out into the bitterly cold air, though the cold has never really bothered me. I spent most of my life on autopilot, anyway, barely feeling anything. It’s one thing I can say Mrs. Daley taught me: emotion gets us nothing; pain and tears won’t save us; she taught me just how easily someone could break when she locked me in that damn basement with the butcher. After that day, I learned it was better not to feel, just switch it off – it is what it is. So, I hold that thought as I step outside.

The day is overcast, clouds hiding the sun, making it gloomy. The gray clouds are low, and it looks like it will rain later in the day.

The kids stop what they’re doing and rush over, grabbing and reaching for us, wanting us to play. Tears threaten to bubble and spill but I fight them back looking for my boy and enjoying seeing them one last time when a car pulls up and parks on the curb. It is sleek and black, with windows tinted so darkly we can’t see who is inside. Yet I don’t care because I notice Tyson coming over to me. His plushie in his hand is missing an eye that I have sewed on one too many times before giving up. His eyes are glassy, and Kimmy stands not far, his ratty blanket tucked over her arm. Besides Kimmy, the kids have no idea where we are going. But looking at Tyson’s little face, I feel he knows now – like he can feel the sadness bleeding out of me at leaving him. He knows I’m not coming back, and seeing the distress on his little face breaks my heart as I scoop him up.

“Shh, don’t cry, don’t cry,” I whisper, kissing his temple. He is skinny and fits perfectly in my arms. “You be a good boy, try to stay away from Mrs. Daley okay, and stay with Kimmy or wait for Katrina. Katrina is good, remember,” I tell him, and he nods sadly, clutching my neck. Ivy brushes her fingers through his hair. Both of us have a soft spot for Tyson. He was only a few days old when his parents were killed, and he was a colicky baby. The first year of his life, I hardly slept, and when I did catch a few moments, it was because he was on my chest. Now I’m leaving him to this horrid woman.

I inhale deeply, soaking in his scent one last time, savoring it as I silently pray to the moon goddess to not let anything happen to him.

Ivy nudges me, telling me we should go, and I place him down before noticing the car is still parked by the curb.

The passenger door opens, and two men hop out. They are dressed well, in clean crisp clothes, not a hair out of place and look picture-ready. Neither looks like what I expect so-called royalty to look like. Mrs. Daley rushes out in a hurry.

She looks like a mutton dressed up as a lamb. The old hag has changed into a super tight pencil skirt and blouse, having popped the first two buttons open as if either of these men would be interested in her wrinkling, old floppy tits. They look like golf balls in socks; I’ve seen her naked once and can tell you she had old floppy tits and sported a 70s afro that would need a hedge trimmer. It scarred my eyeballs, and Ivy and I snickered about it for weeks afterward. I try not to laugh and let Ivy tug me along to meet Alpha Brock.

Mrs. Daley stares over at the two men as they approach the small brick fence surrounding the place. “You must be…” she stops trying to figure out who they are. “I thought the Lycan King was coming today?” Mrs. Daley asks, looking slightly upset. I nod toward them, and Ivy shrugs, looking them over with the same curiosity.

“He couldn’t make it, so he sent us instead,” says the man who hopped out of the driver’s seat. He is tall, dressed in a suit and has blond hair that shapes his face. Another man gets out of the car behind that one; he has darker features. His lips set in what looks like a permanent scowl, and his jaw is clenched tight, hands fisted at his sides. He moves to the back of his car and lights a smoke. I watch as he draws back on it and nearly stumble over my own feet as Ivy pulls me along.

For some reason, I find him intriguing but shake my head and push the thoughts away. There is something dark and sinister about that man. His dark eyes look me over before they meet mine. The endless pools of darkness stare back at me; he smirks making me tear my eyes away from him and pay attention to where I am walking.

Lycans are different from werewolves; they remain upright when they shift and are more powerful, faster, and can turn another werewolf into a Lycan; werewolves can’t change people and aren’t anywhere near their caliber. We are practically dogs compared to them; which is why Lycans rule over all of us.

Werewolves, like myself, are considered half-human; I shifted on my eighteenth birthday—what a horrific experience that was—especially when Mrs. Daley would come in to beat me when I was too loud; unfortunately she also beat Ivy for my pain.

Lycans are purebloods and lethal beasts; they are immortal though a dying species — go figure! Apparently they can die but their lifespan is endless unless mortally injured.

As we step out of the gate, a man I hadn’t noticed before steps into Ivy’s path.

Ivy freezes, and I hear her breathing pick up beside me. This man commands attention seemingly without trying. His suit does nothing to hide the bulk of muscle pressing tightly beneath it. His silver eyes glow as he stares at Ivy. I want to cower away from him, yet Ivy stares back seemingly mesmerized by him. He cocks his head to the side watching her. I grab Ivy’s arm, giving it a shake, knowing Mrs. Daley will whip her extra good before we leave if Ivy embarrasses her by stealing this man’s attention.

“We should go,” I whisper. I don’t want to leave Alpha Brock waiting; he will make our death particularly heinous, and Ivy nods to me. Another car pulls up, but as we pass, both men are gazing at her. We walk out of the small gate when the man with silver sparkling eyes grips Ivy’s arm tugging her to him, and I gasp as his eyes flicker. Movement out of the corner of my eye moves my gaze to the man who is smoking. He tosses his cigarette to the gutter with a curious expression on his face as he watches the man holding Ivy’s arm.”

“Rogue?” the man says, and my grip on her hand tightens; the way he looks at her is as if he wants to devour her. He turns his attention toward Mrs. Daley and lets her arm go before glancing at me, and I quickly drop my gaze. We both duck our heads in submission. The man growls, and Mrs. Daley bumps me, making my back arch as she moves closer. I don’t miss the way she sneers at Ivy.

“Yes, sir, they are just on their way. Run along, girls,” Mrs. Daley says, and we both nod, and I jerk on Ivy’s hand.

Without uttering a peep, we make our way into town. This side of town is run-down; the lawns are overgrown, litter fills and clogs the gutters, and leaves coat the ground as we walk. Most of the houses have been destroyed by a storm that blew through town a few months ago, leaving most abandoned.

There is only one way in and out of this town as it’s high up in the winding mountain ranges. The forest surrounding it is vast and dense, keeping us secluded from any human towns. Packs tend to stick to themselves and after years of hiding, humans eventually forget about werewolves, and we become folklore or myth. Yet all myths and legends start somewhere, usually with a version of the truth.

Both Ivy and I gaze at the forest longingly; if only we could escape. I sigh; the only freedom we will get is with death, foolish to run, though I can see that Ivy desperately wants to do so, too. However, a quick death is what I can live with—if we run, Alpha Brock will tear us apart piece by piece personally believing we have suffered enough.

“Come on,” I tell Ivy before she gets any ideas; we wouldn’t even make it to the forest edge before they caught us. We stride toward Town Square where we can hear people in town getting ready for the Alpha. He rarely comes to town having no need with servants at his beck and call; however today his presence is required.

The Alpha gets to decide our fates; those wishing to join the pack are herded once a month to Town Square and put on display by Alpha Brock who decides whether you can join. Other options are to cast you out or kill you. I shudder at the latter. The last option is being sold. But I don’t let my mind even go there, knowing the butcher would be the first one to raise his hand. My heart is set on either death or the unlikely miracle of being cast out.

The hustle and bustle echo loudly as we enter the square while pack members go about their day like we aren’t about to be slaughtered by their Alpha. When rogue children turn eighteen, the Alpha gets to choose their fate. It is cruel. You’d think killing parents is enough for him.

I know he will never let us go. Ivy isn’t eighteen yet but once Mrs. Daley declared I would be going before the Alpha, she begged and pleaded to have her case heard at the same time. Mrs. Daley said she would see what she could do but only if she did all her chores. For weeks she busted her ass despite me telling her not to. She wanted to die with me. We have a pact; it is probably silly but where one goes the other goes, even in death.

Mrs. Daley, though, is all too excited to get rid of us, and when Alpha Dean visited next, who is Alpha Brock’s father, he granted Ivy’s wish.

After today there will be no rogue orphans. All the orphans are pack members’ children who have been lost in various pack wars. Yet despite everything, I’m grateful that I am able to stand up on the podium with my best friend and have someone to die with. Though I can’t imagine a world without Ivy in it, and I suppose she feels the same. She is like my sister; we grew up together and I would lay down my life in a heartbeat for her if I could, but she would never allow that. She would lay beside me; that’s how it has always been and how it will be today.

People step away from us as we enter, giving us disgusted looks and a wide berth. Rogues have a particular scent to pack wolves, alerting them to intruders, and that’s how those here in the town square look at us—with judging, unwelcoming gazes. I squeeze Ivy’s fingers tighter as she slows, taking in those around us.

People watch as we make our way to the stage and take our seats next to it. The wind is cool and moves my hair in the breeze. Townspeople stare at us, spit at our feet—one even kicks my foot as he passes us. I can feel a set of unwanted eyes on me which has me nervously glancing around and I instantly find the culprit: The butcher.

Peeking at him, he waves and blows me a kiss, and I close my eyes sucking in a deep breath fighting the memories of what he did to me away—the way he violated me and destroyed me. It’s almost over Abbie; almost over and we will be free, I remind myself.

My wolf sense can pick up his pungent scent from here, and I try not to let it in—try to stop it from assaulting my nose.

Silence falls over the crowd of busy shoppers and those who came to watch our fates. Everyone rushes to take their seats. Usually, Town Square is an open space, but someone has lined rows of chairs for people, some still standing around when we hear car doors in the distance. Then Alpha Brock strolls down the aisle between chairs.

He looks to be in his thirties and only took over for his father a few years ago. He has been cruel since he took over. No rogue has lived, so we know we are doomed. We are outsiders, apparently, which is a good enough reason to hate rogues. It’s instantly assumed that without a pack, rogues are seen as unsafe or defiant against Pack hierarchy.

I swallow as he approaches. He sneers at us before climbing the steps and addressing the crowd. He isn’t bad-looking but his cruelty makes him deeply unappealing. He is arrogant and also friends with the butcher. Good friends. I have seen them together speaking vulgarly, which only eggs the butcher on—even more so when I was younger. However, nothing will ever ruin me like that day when Mrs. Daley sold me to him.