Chapter Two
Willow
Willow moved through the woods like a shadow, quiet and careful, her presence so subtle even the birds didn’t bother to scatter as she passed beneath them.
She kept her head low, her basket tucked close to her side, her footfalls soft in the underbrush.
She could have been a ghost on the breeze, there and then gone.
She had long since perfected the art of going unnoticed.
It wasn’t just a habit anymore; it was a necessity.
Her survival in the Bitterroot Pack demanded it.
Under Derek’s rule, even breathing too loudly in the wrong direction could draw the kind of attention that left bruises…
or worse. So, Willow had learned to move softly, speak rarely, and disappear when it mattered most. As an omega wolf, she had no rank, no voice, and no protection.
Only usefulness. That had been the trick to her survival.
Stay useful, stay quiet, and maybe they’d let you keep your hide intact.
Her hands worked quickly as she pulled up stalks of dandelion and tucked them into her basket.
The healer had run low again and the root of the flower that was mostly considered a weed had huge healing benefits for her kind.
With Derek and his band of ruthless enforcers, the healer was busier than ever tending to injuries.
Wolves did heal on their own, of course.
Eventually. But with the healer’s help, they recovered from their injuries faster.
Willow didn’t mind the task. The forest was the one place she could breathe without feeling like prey.
Out here, the trees didn’t sneer. The wind didn’t judge.
And even if the silence reminded her that she was always alone, it was still kinder than the noise back home.
Most of the wolves in the pack weren’t cruel by nature.
She knew that. But the ones who were, the ones who followed Derek with blind loyalty, ran things.
They ruled with fear. And fear was contagious.
Even the stronger wolves kept their heads down, looked away, and said nothing.
Because saying something could mean losing everything.
That was the way of Bitterroot. The silence kept everyone safe.
It might have been the status quo, but Willow hated it.
Still, how many people in the world were brave enough to stand up to a dictator?
In Bitterroot, some had tried. None had survived.
She crouched near a mossy outcrop at the base of an old pine, spotting a cluster of wild Yarrow.
Her fingers moved automatically, gentle but practiced as she snipped the stems. Her thoughts drifted, as they always did when she was alone, and though she tried not to let herself remember anymore, she felt a memory tugging at her.
The kind of memory that always left a mark.
She’d been sixteen. It had been a day like any other: warm, humid, and buzzing with insects.
She’d been running an errand, as usual, delivering a jar of balm to the beta’s mate for a badly twisted ankle.
Nothing urgent, nothing out of place. She’d taken the long way back, partly to avoid the main path, partly to enjoy a moment of peace. That had been her mistake.
There was a clearing near the north end of the enforcer’s training grounds next to a couple of old compounds that they used for pack meetings when they didn’t want to be watched too closely.
She hadn’t known they were using the training grounds that day.
By the time she stepped into the edge of the circle, it was too late.
Two male wolves, both older than her by a few years, both ranked and favored highly by Derek, were sparring.
Not in any structured way. It was the kind of practice that was more about showing off than actual skill.
She remembered the way they stopped and turned to look at her, their eyes narrowing like she’d trespassed on sacred ground.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she’d said quickly, head bowed, already backing up.
One of them, Garron, smirked as they walked toward her. “Maybe next time use your eyes, Omega.”
He spat out the word like it was a dirty word. Willow had opened her mouth to apologize again, but the words barely made it out before the other one moved.
A backhand. Fast, casual, like flicking away a fly.
The blow caught her hard across the face. Her head snapped sideways, and her body hit the dirt before she even processed the pain. The basket she’d been carrying tumbled from her grip, herbs scattering like feathers in the dust.
She remembered the way the air rushed from her lungs.
The sharp sting of gravel in her palms. The taste of blood in her mouth.
But most of all, she remembered the laughter.
The way the two of them chuckled as they walked away, one of them shaking his head like she’d been the one at fault for merely existing. She hated them.
No one had stepped in. No one had come to check on her. There had been others nearby. She’d heard them. But no one had helped.
She’d lain there for a moment, cheek pressed against the ground, waiting for the spinning in her skull to stop before she rose to her feet again.
She hadn’t cried. She’d learned by then that tears only made things worse.
Instead, she waited until she was sure they were gone, then slowly sat up, gathered what she could of the spilled herbs, and walked home in silence.
That was the moment she stopped believing anyone would protect her.
It hadn’t been some dramatic epiphany. No rage.
No screams. Just a quiet, sinking knowledge that she couldn’t protect herself, and no one else would protect her either.
The only option for survival was to stay low, stay silent, and never let yourself hope for anything more.
She’d thought about leaving, of course, but her parents still lived in Bitterroot and they refused to be driven out of their homes. Willow was terrified that if she left, Derek and his enforcers would take her desertion out on them. So, she stayed, and put up with things. Just like every else.
Willow blinked, the memory fading like smoke.
She shook her head, adjusted her basket, and pushed herself back to her feet. She had work to do. The healer needed more than just dandelion root and yarrow, and she still had a lot more to collect.
Willow brushed the soil from her palms, bits of moss and crushed leaves clinging to her skin. Her gaze lifted to the treetops, watching the branches sway gently in the breeze, sunlight flickering between the shifting leaves like a code she couldn't quite translate.
That moment captured in time had happened years ago, and it had done more than just bruise her cheek.
It had carved something permanent inside her.
Obedience. Quietness. Usefulness. Those weren’t just strategies anymore, they were instincts now.
Muscle memory. Sometimes she hated herself for yielding, but there was no room for pride in a pack like this.
Pride didn’t protect you. Pride got you killed.
And as much as she longed for more, for something better, survival was all she had.
The forest was quieter than usual today, and that alone unsettled her.
Willow had grown up among these trees, learned to read their moods like second nature.
The rustle of leaves, the chatter of birds, the steady hum of life, they were all part of the forest’s rhythm.
But today, that rhythm was off. The birds had gone silent.
The air, though fresh, carried an edge she couldn’t name…
something too sharp, too still. It wasn't just quiet. It was tense.
Her fingers tightened around the handle of her basket as she stepped toward the next patch of herbs, her feet moving on instinct.
Routine steadied her. Focusing on the small, simple tasks gave her the illusion of control.
But her wolf, buried just beneath her skin, was stirring.
Ears up. Nose twitching. Not afraid, not yet.
But alert. Waiting as if it knew something was coming, it just didn’t know what.
The strange silence in the trees dragged up another memory, one colder, more recent, and sharp enough to cut.
It had happened just last winter. Snow lay thick and heavy across the Bitterroot pack lands, muffling everything in a hush that only made cruelty ring louder.
The world had looked soft and serene on the surface, all white and clean.
But underneath, it had been just like always. Rotten at the core.
Willow had been heading back from the healer’s den that afternoon, her boots crunching through the crust of snow on the main path.
She remembered the sting in her cheeks from the wind and how her breath had misted in front of her in sharp little bursts.
The day had seemed uneventful until she’d turned a corner and seen him.
The cub. Maybe nine or ten years old. Small. Thin. He was an omega, like her.
He hadn’t seen her yet. He was crouched at the entrance of one of the storage sheds, the one Derek used to store his personal rations.
The door had been open, and the boy’s arm was already inside, hand curling around a strip of dried venison.
He grabbed it and pulled it out with triumph on his face.
Willow’s breath had caught in her throat because she’d known the price he would have paid if he’d got caught stealing by Derek or one of his enforcers.
They wouldn’t care about hunger or desperation.
They’d call it disrespect, treason, a threat to pack order.
And punishment for disrespect in Derek’s pack was… theatrical. Public.
Then, before she could say anything to the youngster, she’d seen an enforcer walking their way so she did the only thing she could.