Sacrificed To The Beast: The Wolfless Mate

Elara Thorne POV:

As I stepped out of the packhouse, the cool morning air hit my face. Parked near the edge of the woods was a vehicle that made my stomach clench. It was a heavy, windowless cart, pulled by two massive black horses. The wood was stained dark, and the entire structure was reinforced with iron bands. It looked less like a carriage and more like a mobile cage. A coffin on wheels.

Standing beside it, huddled together for warmth and comfort, were two other girls. They couldn't have been much older than me. Their faces were tear-streaked and pale with terror. They were from common pack families, girls I’d seen in passing but never spoken to. Now, we were bound together by the same grim fate.

Their eyes, wide and frightened, found me. I saw a flicker of sympathy, quickly followed by a strange sort of morbid satisfaction. The Alpha's own daughter was being discarded just like them. My fall from grace was a small, bitter comfort in their own tragedy.

A warrior with a clipboard, his face bored and impatient, checked off our names. "Get in," he ordered, his voice flat.

One of the girls, a redhead with freckles scattered across her nose, let out a sob and her knees buckled. She would have collapsed onto the muddy ground if I hadn't moved. I reached out and grabbed her arm, my grip firm, steadying her.

She looked up at me, her blue eyes filled with a mixture of shock and gratitude. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling.

I just gave a slight nod. I released her arm and, without a word, pulled myself up into the dark interior of the cart.

The air inside was stale and smelled of old straw and fear. It was almost pitch black, with only thin slivers of light filtering through small ventilation slats near the ceiling. It was even more like a coffin from the inside.

The other two girls scrambled in after me, their movements clumsy with fear. They immediately pressed themselves into the far corner, as far away from me and the door as possible. The sound of their muffled sobs filled the small, oppressive space.

I chose a spot near the front, my back pressed against the rough wooden wall. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing, conserving my energy. There was no point in wasting it on tears.

With a lurch and the crack of a whip, the cart began to move. The iron-rimmed wheels groaned as they rolled over the gravel path, the rhythmic clatter a grim soundtrack to our journey. The jostling was constant, throwing us against the hard walls.

For what felt like an hour, the only sounds were the rumbling of the wheels and the girls' quiet weeping. Then, a small, hesitant voice cut through the darkness.

"You're... you're really the Alpha's daughter?" It was the other girl, the one with dark, braided hair.

I opened my eyes, letting them adjust to the gloom. "Not anymore," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

The girls fell silent, confused by my answer. I didn't elaborate. My story was my own, a heavy stone I would carry alone. Sharing it would feel like a weakness, and I couldn't afford any weakness now.

The journey stretched on. The relentless bumping and swaying eventually silenced the girls' sobs, replacing them with a weary, resigned despair. I watched the forest pass by in fragmented glimpses through the slats—the familiar silver birches and towering pines of my home territory.

I felt no pang of homesickness. No longing. It was like watching a cage I had just escaped recede into the distance.

My mind turned to what lay ahead. The Lycan King. Kaelen. The stories we were told as children were meant to frighten us into obedience. A monstrous, cursed king whose inner beast was so savage, it tore apart any female who came near it. A king who ruled from a black fortress built on a mountain of bone.

The redhead started praying, her whispers a desperate, frantic plea to the Moon Goddess.

I never prayed. The Goddess, if she existed, had been silent throughout my entire life of misery. She had watched my mother die. She had watched my father raise a hand to me. She had watched my pack turn on me. Her comfort was a lie I could no longer afford to believe in.

My hand drifted down to my calf, my fingers brushing against the hidden hilt of my knife. The cold, solid steel was more real, more trustworthy than any deity. This was my god now. This was my salvation.

The cart hit a particularly deep rut, and the dark-haired girl was thrown forward, her head cracking against the wall with a sharp thud. She cried out, a sharp gasp of pain.

Without thinking, I unslung my satchel, pulled out my waterskin, and held it out in the darkness.

"Here," I said.

The two girls stared at me, their shapes barely visible in the gloom. I could feel their astonishment. They had expected contempt, or at the very least, the same cold indifference everyone else had always shown me.

The girl took the waterskin with a trembling hand. "Why are you...?"

"Save your strength," I said, my voice low but firm. "Crying won't help. Praying won't help. All we have is what's left inside us. If we are going to die, we should at least meet our end on our feet, not on our knees."

My words hung in the suffocating darkness. The quiet weeping stopped. The frantic prayers ceased. The two girls just looked at me, their fear now mingled with a dawning sense of awe.

In the faint light from the slats, I could see my own reflection, a ghostly image superimposed over the passing trees. The girl in the reflection didn't look scared. She looked like a soldier on her way to the front lines. Her jaw was set, her eyes were clear.

I would not break. I would not cower.

Let the monster come. Let death come. It would have to fight me for every last breath.