The baby, once nestled in the comforting arms of an omega who whispered promises of safety, now existed in a world devoid of warmth. The Crescent Howl pack didn’t see her as a person but as property—a child stripped of her identity before she could even speak her first word. Her cries were ignored, her needs barely met, and any signs of vulnerability were met with cold indifference.
She was given no name, only a number: 42. It wasn’t a title or even a moniker—it was a mark of her servitude, a constant reminder of her place at the very bottom of the pack hierarchy.
As Bella grew into a young girl, her tasks became more grueling. At first, it was small errands—fetching water from the icy river or gathering firewood from the treacherous forest. But as she aged, the demands increased. She scrubbed floors until her knees bled, prepared meals she wasn’t allowed to eat, and endured the jeers and punishments of the pack members who relished her suffering.
“Faster, 42!” a sneering voice barked as Bella dragged a heavy bucket of water up the steep hill leading to the packhouse. The weight strained her arms, her small body trembling under the burden. “If you spill a drop, you’ll get no food tonight.”
She nodded mutely, her lips pressed into a thin line as she focused on the task. The threat of hunger was no idle one—she had learned that lesson too many times to count.
By the time she reached the packhouse, her legs burned, and her hands were raw from gripping the rough handle. She set the bucket down carefully, not daring to let even a ripple spill over the edge. A teenage boy leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed as he watched her with a smirk.
“About time,” he said, kicking the bucket over just as she caught her breath. Water spilled onto the ground, pooling around her feet. Bella froze, her stomach twisting with dread.
“You’ll clean that up,” he added, his grin widening. “And you’ll go back for another bucket. Maybe two. We wouldn’t want you getting lazy, now would we?”
The years of mistreatment had taught Bella to bite back her protests. “Yes, sir,” she muttered, lowering her head to avoid his piercing gaze.
When night fell, Bella huddled in the small corner of the packhouse designated for the “slaves.” The room was little more than a storage space, damp and cold, with straw on the floor serving as her bed. She wrapped her arms around herself, her stomach growling as she thought of the scraps she’d managed to sneak during the day.
She didn’t know who her parents were or where she had come from. All she knew was the Crescent Howl pack and the endless cycle of labor and cruelty. But deep within her, a small ember burned—a feeling she couldn’t name. It whispered to her in moments of quiet, urging her to hold on, to endure.
It wasn’t hope. Not yet. But it was enough to keep her alive.