Chapter Six #2
The water hit my skin, and I moaned. I couldn't help it.
Heat soaked into me, into muscles that had been cold and tight for months.
The temperature was perfect, hot enough to sting slightly, hot enough to remind me what warmth felt like.
I stood under the spray and let it cascade over my head, down my back, washing away the layers of dirt, sweat, and the constant grime of street living.
There was soap, expensive soap that smelled like lavender and something else I couldn't identify. I used it everywhere, scrubbing at my skin until it turned pink, washing my hair twice just because I could. The water at my feet ran gray, then lighter, then finally clear.
I stayed in that shower until my fingers pruned, then turned off the shower and opened the door, stepping out, shivering as the cool air assaulted me.
The towels were thick and soft, and I snuggled in one, never wanting to leave it. Taking a breath, I dried off slowly, pulled on new underwear, and then wrapped myself in the towel and padded back to the bedroom.
The flowered dress was still there on the bed, waiting.
I picked it up, pulled it over my head, and felt the soft cotton settle against my clean skin.
It fit perfectly, falling just above my knees, with the waist sitting exactly where it should.
The flowers seemed to glow in the morning light, tiny cheerful things that reminded me of sunshine and gardens.
I touched one flower on the fabric, traced its outline with my finger.
“I miss you,” I whispered to the empty room, to the memory of my mother, who'd smelled like earth, and sung like an angel. “I miss you so much.”
But I was here. Still alive. Still fighting. Still singing, even when every note hurt.
I found myself standing in front of a long mirror, staring at the woman reflected there.
Clean hair that actually shone in the light, falling in damp waves around my shoulders.
Skin that was pale but no longer gray with cold and dirt.
The flowered dress making me look younger, softer, like someone who might have a life beyond survival.
I barely recognized myself.
The realization should have been comforting, but it opened something inside me, some carefully sealed place I'd learned not to touch.
The dress was so soft against my skin, so gentle, so much like what I would have worn before everything fell apart.
Before I'd learned that soft things were dangerous, that comfort was a trap, that letting your guard down meant inviting pain.
I touched my stomach, pressed my palm flat against the fabric over my abdomen.
The memory hit like a fist.
I'd been four months along when I started preparing the nursery.
It wasn't much, just a corner of the room they'd given me in the pack house, but I'd made it as nice as I could with what little I had.
I'd found a cradle at a second-hand store, the wood worn but sturdy, and I'd sanded it smooth myself, working for hours to make sure there were no splinters that could hurt delicate skin.
I'd painted it white, using careful, thin coats, letting each one dry completely before adding the next.
There had been blankets, too. Soft yellow ones because I hadn't known if I was carrying a boy or a girl, and yellow seemed safe, seemed happy. I'd folded them carefully, placed them in the cradle, imagined small hands grabbing at them, a tiny face peeking out from the folds.
I'd sung while I worked. All my mother's songs, all the melodies she'd taught me, poured into that space like I could build a sanctuary out of music and love.
I'd been so stupid.
Bane, the leader of the Alphas, had found me there one evening, standing over the cradle, one hand resting on my swollen belly. I'd been singing something soft and low, a lullaby my mother used to hum.
“You think that's yours?” he'd said, his voice cutting through my song like a blade.
I'd turned, confused. “It's my baby.”
“It's the pack's baby. Our future. You're just the vessel carrying it.”
The words had stung, but I'd tried to stay calm, tried to be diplomatic. “Of course. I just meant—”
“You don't get to make decisions about how we prepare for the pack's future,” he'd interrupted. “You don't get to set up nurseries and act like this child belongs to you. It belongs to all of us.”
I'd wanted to argue, wanted to say that the baby growing inside me was mine regardless of who had put it there, that I had the right to prepare for my child. But I'd learned by then that arguing with Alphas only made things worse.
So, I'd apologized. Kept my head down. Tried to be what they wanted.
It hadn't been enough.
They'd started finding fault with everything.
The way I walked was wrong, too slow; I wasn't getting enough exercise.
The way I ate was wrong, too much, I was being greedy.
The way I spoke was wrong, too quiet. They said I was being disrespectful.
Every day brought new criticisms, new rules, and new ways I was failing to serve the pack.
And when I'd tried to defend myself, when I'd finally snapped and said I was doing my best, that I was trying —
The first blow had caught me across the face, splitting my lip. I'd tasted blood, felt shock and terror flood through me in equal measure. I'd raised my hands to protect myself, to shield my stomach, and that had only made them angrier.
“You dare raise your hands to an Alpha?”
The beating had been methodical, precise, designed to hurt without leaving marks where anyone outside the pack might see. They'd focused on my back, my sides, my legs. And my stomach.
I'd begged them to stop, pleaded that they were hurting the baby, their baby, the pack's future. They hadn't cared. Or maybe they'd decided that a vessel that questioned their authority wasn't worth keeping, that it was better to start over with someone more compliant.
I'd lost the baby three days later. Cramping and bleeding that wouldn't stop, pain that felt like my body was tearing itself apart from the inside. No one had taken me to a hospital. They'd just left me in my room with towels and told me to deal with it quietly.
The cradle had still been there, white and waiting, when I'd finally been able to stand again. Mocking me with its emptiness.