Misery stood on the edge of the werewolf pack’s camp, the cold night air biting at her skin. She had grown accustomed to the distant glares and whispers that followed her, but tonight, the animosity felt sharper, like claws raking across her already bruised pride.
The murmurs began as she approached the fire where a group of younger wolves lounged. “There she is,” one of them said, his voice low but loud enough to carry. “The parasite we’re supposed to tolerate.”
Another wolf, taller and broader, leaned forward, smirking. “I heard vampires can’t even feel loyalty. Isn’t that right, Misery? You don’t belong here, and you know it.”
Misery kept walking, her jaw tightening. “If you’re trying to provoke me, you’re wasting your time,” she said, not breaking stride.
“That’s because she’s too scared to fight,” someone muttered, eliciting a chorus of laughter.
Misery stopped. She turned slowly, her crimson eyes gleaming in the firelight. “You think I’m scared of a bunch of overgrown mutts?” Her voice was calm, but her fingers itched for her blade.
The leader of the group, a wiry wolf with a jagged scar across his cheek, stepped forward. “We could show you your place right now.” He flexed his claws, his grin baring sharp teeth. “It’s at the bottom.”
Misery took a step forward, her voice like steel. “You’re welcome to try. But don’t cry when I leave you limping.”
The group tensed, their posturing faltering slightly. But as Misery turned her back to walk away, they pounced. A sharp claw grazed her shoulder, tearing into her jacket. She spun on instinct, dodging the next blow and striking out with her dagger, grazing her attacker’s arm. Another wolf lunged, and Misery barely sidestepped, the weight of the attack sending her staggering.
“You want me gone so badly?” she spat, slamming her elbow into the nose of the wolf closest to her. “Then make it happen.”
Despite her ferocity, the wolves overwhelmed her. One slammed her against a tree, his breath hot and foul as he growled, “You’re outnumbered, leech.”
Before he could land another blow, a sharp whistle pierced the air. A senior pack member barked an order from the distance, and the group reluctantly backed off, growling their frustration.
Misery remained against the tree, blood trickling from her lip. The group dispersed with muttered curses, leaving her alone in the shadows. She touched her bruised ribs, wincing.
That night, as the camp settled into uneasy silence, Misery sat beneath a large oak on the outskirts. The flickering firelight from the center of the camp only highlighted how far she felt from belonging.
By dawn, she had made her decision. Packing her belongings into a small satchel, she muttered under her breath, “This isn’t my fight.” Her voice broke for a moment, but she set her jaw and hoisted the bag over her shoulder. “I’m going to find him.”