The moon cast a somber silver glow over the dense forest, its light filtering through the towering pine trees surrounding the Nightfang pack house, a monstrosity nestled deep within the woods.
In the smallest room, tucked away in the servant quarters of the estate, Layla lay curled beneath a thin, faded blanket. Her face was twisted in pain. She wanted to scream until her throat went raw from defeat, claw her eyes out, and weep from the searing ache radiating through her body.
It was almost dawn, and she hadn't slept at all. Instead, she lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling, silently praying to the Moon Goddess to end her suffering.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed her, and she slipped into sleep.
The morning air was crisp and sharp, and the faint sounds of omegas bustling down the corridor stirred Layla awake. She opened her eyes, realizing it was morning, and tried to get up, only to tumble to the floor as a jolt of pain from yesterday's beating slammed through her body.
She lay there, gasping and trembling, staring up at the ceiling from the cold floor. Her breath came in shaky bursts.
Then came a knock at the door.
"Hey, runt! I hope you're not trying to slack off," a voice sneered from the other side. Laughter followed, echoing down the corridor like a cruel reminder.
"N-no, I'm c-coming now," Layla stammered, her voice hoarse.
The only reply was the fading sound of retreating footsteps.
She eventually summoned the strength to stand, her limbs shaking beneath her weight, and braced herself against the wall for balance. Every movement burned, but she pushed through it. She had to. There was no room for weakness in the Nightfang pack.
Slowly, she began preparing for the day.
She reached for the same worn-out clothes she had folded the night before: a threadbare shirt two sizes too big and a pair of frayed leggings that barely clung to her hips. They weren't clothes , not even close—just scraps, leftovers no one wanted. Her only pair of shoes, beaten-down sneakers with torn soles, sat by the door, still soaked from yesterday's rain.
Her fingers trembled as she dressed, each tug of fabric a reminder of the bruises blooming beneath her skin. She didn't look in the mirror; she didn't need to. She already knew what she would see—sunken eyes, cracked lips, and the hollowed-out face of someone no one cared to remember.
She splashed cold water from the tiny, rust-stained sink in the corner of her room, more to shock herself awake than to cleanse. The faucet groaned when turned, and the water was freezing, biting at her skin. She had time to shower as she is already late.
And in the Nightfang pack, being late meant pain.
And Layla had already had enough of that for one lifetime.
She stepped out of her room and into the hallway, making her way down to the kitchen to join the others. It was almost time for the warriors to receive their breakfast and refreshments.
"Oh, thank you for gracing us with your presence, Your Majesty."
The mocking tone met her the moment she stepped into the kitchen, followed—as always—by a burst of laughter.
Greta stood by the island, one hand on her hip and the other gripping a knife as she chopped onions. She didn't even look up when Layla entered.
"I'm sorry," Layla muttered, gripping the hem of her shirt as if it could shield her from the humiliation.
"You're always sorry. Aren't you ever tired of saying it?" Greta snapped, her eyes flashing with fury. "Just because you don't have a wolf doesn't mean you should slack off. You need to pull more weight around here to make up for being an embarrassment to the pack."
The words stung, but Layla forced herself to stay quiet. This wasn't the worst she'd heard.
"I'm sorry... it won't happen again," she muttered, her voice barely audible
Greta didn't even acknowledge the apology. She simply barked out orders, her voice sharp and commanding.
Her task was to help prepare the ingredients needed for cooking.
As usual, the work dragged on until noon.
After that, she made her way to the training field — that monstrosity of a place, to begin the exhausting cleanup.
Training equipment was carelessly left scattered in all the wrong places, and it was her job to put everything back where it belonged.
She spent hours rearranging the mess, her ribs aching with every movement, a brutal reminder of last night's beating.
After three hours of silent labor, she paused, a strange prickle running down her spine. Someone was watching her.
She turned around slowly, and froze.
A tall man stood a few feet away, watching her with a predatory gaze, like he wanted to devour her. His eyes never left her, unblinking and intense, as if the moment he looked away, his meal would vanish.
Terror washed over her.
There was no one else here. Just her… and the pervert.
And even if she screamed, no one would come. No one would come. In fact, she was certain some of them would throw a party just to celebrate her death.
The man started walking toward her, each step heavy with unsettling determination.
"Hey, little ghost," he snickered.
"How are you doing?" he leered, eyes trailing over her like she was prey and he'd already decided she wouldn't escape.
She didn't reply—couldn't. Her body locked up, frozen with fear.
As he came closer, step by deliberate step, she instinctively began to back away, her feet dragging against the dirt, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.
She wasn't watching where she was going—just stumbling backward, desperate to keep space between them.
Her foot caught awkwardly behind the other, and she tripped.
Before she could hit the ground, his hands clamped around her arms.
She froze.
She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound snagged in her throat—trapped, like the breath had been stolen from her lungs.
He pulled her closer. Too close.
Her chest pressed against his, and his hands roamed over her like she belonged to him.
"I've been waiting for this day," he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction like a child unwrapping a long-awaited gift.
His hand shoved beneath her shirt, rough and invasive.
When he squeezed her chest, pain flared—and the scream that had been trapped inside her finally tore out of her throat.
Raw. Sharp. Terrified.
The sound echoed across the empty field, sharp enough to cut through the stillness.
For a second, the man hesitated—his grip faltering, his smug expression flickering.
Layla's breath came in ragged gasps as a single, desperate thought slammed into her,
Run
But he caught her before she could move.
In one brutal motion, he shoved her against the wall, his body pinning hers as he clamped a hand over her mouth.
Her scream died instantly, smothered by his palm—her wide, terrified eyes the only thing left to speak for her.
"If you shout, I'll kill you," he hissed, his eyes wild, burning with something twisted and dangerous.
Layla's body trembled, her mind screaming even if her mouth couldn't.
She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She could only pray someone, anyone would come.
Just as he fumbled with his own trousers, the heavy creak of a door shattered the silence.
The door to the armoury swung open.
He froze.
Layla did too, her heart thundering, lungs burning, and eyes locked on the shadow that stepped inside.
Instead of waiting for a reaction, she bolted.
Fueled by fear and adrenaline, she dashed out of his grip and ran—sprinting past the stunned warrior standing at the doorway, too confused to move or ask questions.
She didn't stop.
She couldn't stop.
If anything, she ran faster—legs pumping, heart crashing against her ribs—because behind her, she heard footsteps.
He was coming after her.
She was just an omega.
How could she outrun a beta?
She didn't know where the strength came from—only that she had to keep going.
So she ran.
And ran.
And ran…
Until her legs gave out beneath her.
But running didn't save her.
A sharp, searing pain tore across her back—a burning slash delivered by claws.
He had shifted.
And now he was faster. Stronger. Deadlier.
She collapsed instantly, her body already worn thin from the sprint, her legs giving out just as she neared the pack border.
Then came the kick, brutal and merciless, right to her ribs.
She choked on the pain… and spat out blood.
"You. Stupid. Bitch."
Each word landed with a vicious kick, harder than the last—punctuated with fury.
"You think you can run from me?" he snarled, his voice spiraling into something manic, unhinged.
"P-please… please, ple—"
Her voice broke as she begged, barely audible beneath the sound of fists and fury.
"Shut your mouth, you wench," he snapped, cutting her off with another blow, each one landing heavier, more frenzied than the last.
Her back was slick with blood both from the gash his claws left and the merciless blows he continued to gift her, like cruelty was something he delighted in offering.
She was so, so tired.
But she kept whispering, over and over, broken, trembling,
"Please… please… please…"
Like the word might save her. Like mercy might still exist.
Then, finally, it stopped.
One last brutal kick—sharp enough to steal the breath from her lungs—and then… silence.
"Die, you fucking bitch," he snarled, spitting at her.
The warm, vile splash hit her face, one last mark of his hatred.
She didn't know if she should feel relieved… or mourn the fact that he'd left her alive.
He turned his back on her, shifted into his wolf, and vanished into the trees—
Leaving her broken, bleeding, and alone in the dark forest…
With wounds that felt too deep to survive.