On the trip I took with Harry a week before, he’d told me Tomas had an open door policy with food so long as you didn’t get in the way of him or his staff while they were preparing meals for the pack.

It’s already long after dinner service and the kitchen is empty. I could have eaten dinner with Myra and Cassidy, as they’ve been inviting me to do, but since arriving I’ve been sneaking into the kitchen late at night to eat. It’s good to know now that it’s actually not sneaking though.

I’m taking a big bite of bread with soft cheese when the door on the second-floor swings open, hitting the wall hard enough to crack the molding. I jump out my skin, my sandwich slipping from my hands, as Anil and Kane rush down the stairs, carrying a person between them. The man in their arms is grunting, his leg twisted at an odd angle and his chest covered in blood. Behind them are two others I don’t know, also bleeding from various wounds. All of them are naked, having just shifted back into their human forms.

They leave a trail of blood behind them, making the steps shine a brilliant crimson in the overhead light. I back up until I hit the wall, and watch as Anil and Kane lay the man down on the table I was just sitting at. My eyes travel down to my sandwich on the floor, now covered in blood and I fight the urge to throw up.

I gag and cover my mouth, fumbling blindly behind me for the door. The noise must catch their attention because Anil looks over at me and barks, “don’t just stand there like an idiot. Get us towels! And get Haden in here!”

I didn’t know who Haden is but luckily Myra’s come, probably woken up from all the noise they’re making. When she hears him, she replies “I’ll get him now. Ama, you get the towels from the closet over there.”

I follow her finger and scurry over to the linen closet, grabbing all the dish towels I can carry in one arm and dumping them on the table next to the injured man. I try not to think about how my feet slide on the floor; I know that it is blood but I want to pretend it’s freshly mopped tile.

“Here,” Kane moves to my side of the table and gestures for me to grab a towel. When I do, he takes my hand in his and presses it over a gushing wound in the man’s side.

“Shove more towels against it and press as hard as you can.”

I do as he says, my hand tingling from where he touches it. The pleasant sensation is short-lived, however. I shiver as nausea returns once more, this time from the sight and sensation of blood seeping between my fingers. I’ve never seen someone so injured before. I don’t remember my own accident well enough to have been made sick by it and I can barely comprehend what I saw the night I met the shifters, so this is definitely the worst.

I drag my eyes away, looking for anything else to focus on when I see one of the men I didn’t recognize shove his fingers into an open wound in his torso and root around inside. I feel myself dissociate as his actions remind me of how a woman might search for chapstick in her purse. Blood gushes around his fingers as he slowly extracts them, a long white object in his grasp.

It’s a fucking tooth!

I swallow the bile rising in my throat and look away, still maintaining the pressure as best I can. I can’t put my full weight into it because that will make me too off-balance with my crutch. It’s ridiculous that I am even being asked to when all of them are clearly far stronger and much more comfortable with gore, clearly.

“You’ll be okay,” Kane murmurs softly, his hand resting over mine again. He leaves it there for a moment longer before moving on to help Anil keep the wounded shifter from thrashing.

I focus on the feeling of his hand even after it’s gone, willing myself to ignore the screaming and the feeling of squishy fabric between my fingers.

It isn’t until a tall, slender man walks in that my attention snaps back to the present. He’s slimmer than most of the people I’ve seen so far but even taller, with sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes almost hidden under shaggy brows. He has a thick blonde and red beard and gives off distinct Viking vibes.

“Why hasn’t he shifted?” the man asks, clearly annoyed.

Myra comes in just behind the Viking, so I assume this man is Haden. Alpha asked me if it had been Anil or Haden who’d hurt me when he’d seen the bruises on my face. If he’s anything like Anil, I should give this man a wide berth; he clearly isn’t someone I want to get to know better.

“Who the fuck knows,” Anil growls. “We didn’t even see them coming. They are getting a lot more organized.”

Kane shoots him a look that clearly says ‘Shut up’ and Anil grumbles something under his breath before returning his attention to Haden. “He said he can't shift before this started,” he gestures to the prone man, who Kane and another one of the men are trying to keep still.

“Nonsense.” Haden scoffs and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a syringe with a blue metallic liquid. “Myra, get the other human and get out,” he orders without looking at either one of us.

Myra signals me over and then pushes me out of the kitchen, closing the door behind her. As it swings shut, I see Haden insert the needle into the man’s thigh. His screams echo through the corridor. As he screams, the sound began to morph into something far less human, like a wolf howling.

The past few weeks had gone by without any noticeable signs that I’m surrounded by monsters. I had almost deluded myself into thinking the whole shifter thing was made up.

“He’ll be fine,” Myra comforts me, mistaking my concern for myself with concern for the injured man. “Shifting heals almost all wounds.”

“Are they immortal?” I think about the sparring I saw with Harry. They had been tough for sure, but this seems like another level.

She taps her chin, “No. But I'd put my money on any one of them in a fight.”

That gives me little comfort as I go back to my room, my late-night snack forgotten.

I try to sleep but I can’t rid myself of the sensation of blood. I wash my hands until the skin turns red but the stickiness stays. I know it’s in my head but that doesn’t change the crawling sensation on my skin or the rolling waves of nausea.

The room feels stuffy and airless. Finally, I give up and peer into the hallway. It’s quiet and dark; presumably, the injured men have gone somewhere else. I go back through the kitchen, the table a bloody mess, and feel ill all over again.

I sidestep the worst of it and breathe in deeply as I push open the door onto the porch. The cool night air hits my burning cheeks and I almost fall down the steps in my haste to get away.

I can’t go fast with my crutch but I walk until I am at the edge of the yard, right before the forest begins. I stare into the darkness, wondering how far I could make it before one of the ones on patrol finds me. But then again, maybe they aren’t my biggest concern. it seems there are even more dangerous things lurking out there, things that can hurt the predators I live in constant fear of.

Overwhelming hopelessness swamps me. I let myself slide down my crutch until I am on my knees. My chest feels so tight, I am gasping for air. My lungs feel like they can’t fill up even though I am clearly breathing. My chest feels like an elephant’s sitting on it. I wheeze as tears prick my eyes.

How could I do any of this?

I was deluding myself into thinking I wouldn’t die here, whether by one of their hands or old age, like Harry was probably going to someday.

How could this be it?

I’ll never see my mom again. I’ll never see my friends. I’ll never find love, get married, maybe have a dog or a kid someday. This is it. This is all I get.

I hug myself as the cool night air finally starts to chill me, and I think about my new coat back in my room. It’s a gift from a monster and it’s pathetic that I’d even asked for it.

I rub against my sternum, wondering if it’s possible to die from the aching in my chest when something falls over my shoulders. I reach up and feel soft, thick fabric; it’s the sweatshirt of someone twice my size.

I look up into the darkness at the silhouetted figure behind me. Shielding my eyes from the light, I recognize Kane. He’s showered and gotten dressed since I last saw him and is wearing a pair of sweatpants. Presumably, he’s just taken off his sweatshirt to drape over me.

I hug it around me tighter, appreciating the warmth, even as I say, “You didn't have to do that.”

“I did.” It doesn't sound like he’s arguing, just stating a fact.

“I wasn’t going to run,” I add, sniffling and wiping my eyes on the back of my hand. “I’m not stupid.”

“I never thought you were.”

He moves over to my side so he isn’t backlit and stands close enough that I can feel his warmth. “I preferred to be the one to approach you. The others can be less tactful.”

I look around but don't see anyone else.

“They are around.” he presses, knowing what I’m searching for.

We stay like that a while longer, both looking out at nothing, in silence. Finally, he shifts and turns towards me, offering me a hand. I take it and as he pulls me up, he softly says, “Don't lose faith.”

I pull my hand back and wipe it on my pants, knowing my palms are sweaty from my nerves, “I don't believe in God.”

“There are many things you can have faith in. Yourself for one.” I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t know what to say so I keep my head down as we walk back to the house. I don’t want his pity and being around him and the others is like playing a game of good cop, bad cop. I’m just as sick of it as I am of everything else.

When we’re in front of the kitchen door I offer him his sweater, but he gently pushes my hand back, saying “Keep it” before turning around and heading out back into the darkness.

I somehow make it back to my room and fall into bed, still holding his sweater. It smells like rain, clean laundry, and the woods. I hate that it’s even mildly comforting.

I wake up before dawn, the sky’s still grey with pre-dawn light. I decide to wear my prosthetic today, not wanting to have to rely on my crutch to get around.

Once I’m dressed and ready, I steel myself and head back to the kitchen, finally hungry again. There’s no trace of the previous night’s events. I want to believe it never happened, but the smell of bleach is too strong.

I sit down at one of the other tables and eat an apple. I wonder if the man survived. Myra made it sound like it was impossible to kill a shifter so it seemed likely.

I hear the door creak open and turn to see Myra walk in. She’s also dressed for the day. She regards me for a long moment, and I feel like I am being appraised.

She finally looks away and walks over to a fridge. With her back to me, she says, “When you’re finished, go to Alpha’s office. He’s looking for you.

It’s not even six in the morning but I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already up. It’s clear that none of them keep to normal working hours.

I throw my half-eaten apple into the trash and go up into the main house. I’ve lost my appetite at the thought of having to go to his office again.

When I walk in, Alpha is sitting behind his desk, his laptop open.

"Clean that up, would you?"

He doesn't look up from his computer so I look around the room trying to figure out what he means. The floor in front of the fireplace is covered in wet, shattered glass. The puddle of alcohol-smelling amber liquid makes me think at least part of this mess was a decanter.

Within my first few days here, even though I was already working with Harry, Myra explained that all the suites had a supply closet for cleaning. She said I needed to know the basics in case I was asked to do something.

I go over to it and get out a bucket and broom. Alpha still hasn’t looked up so I do my best to pretend he’s not there as I get down on my knees and get to work. I pick up the larger pieces first by hand and then sweep awkwardly while still on my knees, pressing my back to the wall so I don't tip over.

"Must everything be so difficult for you?" His voice is a rough growl.

I look up to see Alpha glaring at me, his head resting on an upturned palm as he leans on the desk.

Flustered, I drop the broom. It clatters to the ground and I wince at the sound. I reach down to pick it up again and see a large shard of glass under the chair facing the fire. He hasn’t moved so I ignore him and I slide forward and pick it up. It’s thick and jagged. I push myself back up onto my knees with my other hand, holding it loosely so I won’t cut myself.

He sighs and gets up, coming around his desk. “Utterly useless,” he mutters.

The closer he gets the angrier I get. "What’s your problem?" I snap, my cheeks hot with embarrassment. I keep my hands at my sides, not wanting the glass shard in my hand to seem like I am brandishing a weapon, though it’s an idea...

"You, at the moment," he replies haughtily. He sits in the chair in front of me, forcing me to either move back or end up in between his legs.

I don't want to back down so I find myself in a more compromising position than I would prefer. From my position, I stare directly ahead at his stomach, his knees by my shoulders. I flinch as he runs a hand through my hair, still short enough that it sticks straight up at awkward angles.

"Don't cut your hair anymore."

"Myra and Cassidy," I begin.

He cups the back of my neck and pulls me forward until I am firmly wedged between his thighs, my arms trapped against my sides. He leans down, his nose grazing the top of my head.

"I said don’t," he murmurs against my hair and I fight the sudden urge to lean into him. My body and mind are in complete conflict with each other. I know I don't want to touch him. I know I’m terrified of him and yet I can’t seem to resist. I don't understand what’s happening but my body is betraying me as I tilt my head up, my cheek pressing into his.

He straightens up and pulls me with him, dragging me onto his lap. The movement causes me to grip the glass too tightly and blood wells up in my hand.

I yelp and drop the shard. The pain seems to have broken whatever spell I was under and I immediately try to stand but he holds me down with one hand on my hip. The other grabs my bleeding hand and examines it.

"See? Everything is a trial with you. Nothing is easy."

"I need to clean it. Let me go," I try again to get up and add "please," as an afterthought.

He still doesn't release me. Instead, he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. He wraps it around and ties it tight with a knot on the back of my hand.

"You cause me nothing but grief," he chides, still looking at my hand.

"Then let me go," I plead, I am desperate to get away from him and willing to beg at this point. My head is swimming and I feel myself losing control again. Of its own accord, my head is inching closer to his own.

"I can't do that either. You'll need to pay eventually."

He uses his grip on my wrist to pull me in closer until our faces are inches apart.

“Are you going to do it?” he goads.

I lick my lips, suddenly feeling parched. He growls, a low rumbling sound in his chest, that reverberates through my body. Every part of me is screaming to get closer, crawl further into his lap, and press myself against him, even as the voice of reason in the back of my mind is screaming to run.

I know I need to get away and break whatever hold he has over me. I try to rise for the third time he finally lets me go.

I scramble away, heading for the door, leaving the mess I was sent to clean up behind. "I'll get someone to finish cleaning this up. Sorry for the inconvenience, Alpha."

He doesn't try to stop me but as I leave I hear him say to himself "There's no way to get around it." Whatever that means, I know it can't be good.