Pain
Elira
Ow.
Everything hurt.
I was lying in my room—if that rotting wooden cell even deserved the word—blood trickling from a fresh gash above my right temple. The cool, warped floor pressed into my cheek. It was the only relief I had. My vision blurred, streaked red as blood slid into my eye. I didn’t bother to wipe it.
The cracked pane of my only window gave me a view of the old clock tower down the street. 2:37 a.m.
The world outside was still, quiet. Mocking.
There was no sound in the house now. No more shouting. No more fists. Just silence. A silence that always came after the storm. It wasn’t peace—it was the cruel quiet of survival.
My father had been furious tonight.
I hadn’t brought back enough money.
When that happened, he made up the difference with pain. A “debt,” he called it. Always owed. Always punished.
And my mother? She was the auctioneer of my soul. Every night since I turned thirteen, she’d sold me to the highest bidder.
That was the age we got our wolves. The age we became “adults” in werewolf society. It should’ve been a rite of pride. Of transformation.
But instead, my shift was marked with the first time I was sold. The first time someone touched me like I was nothing more than a purchase.
There were laws. Of course, there were laws. What they did to me—what those men and sometimes women did—was illegal, even among werewolves.
But who would believe the girl from the attic? I tried once. Told the truth.
A classmate had seen a bruise on my wrist, asked gently. I told them. Whispered the truth, like it might shatter me. They told the school counselor, who called the police, who brought in CPS.
They came. Walked through our home. But they never saw the truth.
Because my parents had a stage.
Our house was beautiful.
Victorian, ivy-wrapped on the outside. Inside, it looked like a magazine spread—sleek furniture, granite counters, fresh flowers.
They had a room prepared for inspection. A pristine “bedroom” with stuffed animals, a pink bedspread, and a bookshelf filled with classics I’d never read.
CPS believed them. They always did. They saw a perfect family. They never saw the attic. Where I really lived.
My “room” was nothing more than a crawlspace. Cold in winter, sweltering in summer. The air reeked of mold and old wood. I had a shredded shop blanket to sleep on, stained with oil and blood. A piece of foam pulled from a dumpster—some of the stains mine, some… I didn’t want to know.
My clothes? Rags. Threadbare, torn, soaked in the stench of neglect.
But for school, they dressed me in high-end brands. Gucci. Versace. Ralph Lauren. Pinks and purples, soft and clean. All for show.
I stained a shirt once when I was six. A teacher gave me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I cried. Not from the stain—but from the panic. I knew what was coming. I scrubbed in the sink, desperate, but the mark wouldn’t come out.
I left school that day, trying to beat my parents home. I failed. That night, they beat me so badly I could barely move.
The next day, they went to the school and convinced the administration to fire the teacher—for giving me a sandwich. Claimed I had a peanut allergy.
Mrs. V. She was kind. Always gentle. She never pushed too hard, but she knew. She’d look at me with quiet sorrow, like she wanted to save me, but didn’t know how. She knew about the numerous CPS cases that had all been debunked. The system was failing.
I wish she had tried harder, but I never blamed her.
Wolves heal fast. By morning, bruises vanish. Usually. But if they beat me late at night—when I was too exhausted—sometimes the healing lagged. That’s what happened with the bruise on my wrist.
I wasn’t allowed to bathe in the house. They said I’d dirty the shower. I used a garden hose in the backyard. It was enclosed by a high wooden wall, no gaps, no way to be seen.
Couldn’t have me smelling like filth at school. Or in front of the “clients.” Can’t sell a broken girl who smells like what she is.
Tonight’s client was worse than usual. I did everything he asked. Went down on him, even though he stank of sweat and rot. Rode him hard, like he wanted. Let him slap me, bite me, pull my hair. Pretended to moan when he told me to. And still—it wasn’t enough.
He complained. Said I wasn’t “grateful.” As if I should thank him. The physical marks will fade by morning. They always do, but the emotional ones, those always take longer. Even though I normally zone out, during. Try and imagine myself somewhere else.
I was always sold to humans. Sick, twisted, disgusting creatures. They never realized how fast we heal.
I’m twenty-three. Ten years of this.
I tried to run once.
They locked me up for two weeks. A single bowl of water. A bucket. One piece of bread a day. They came in daily—not to feed me, but to remind me who I belonged to. I will never escape. Not unless they die.
A fate I pray for every night, to the Moon Goddess. She never listens. Never answers.
Or so I thought.
One night, I caught a scent in the air. Cedarwood and pine. Warm. Comforting. Powerful.
It wrapped around me like safety, like arms I wanted to sink into. Not forced—never forced. I almost followed it.
But my father’s voice thundered in my mind. “Get home with my money!” He would always say.
I walked home. But the scent lingered. Constant. Like it followed me. Like it remembered me.
I walked into the house. They took the cash. Stripped me. Sent me upstairs. Nothing unusual from any other night. I curled up on the filthy foam and held onto that gorgeous scent like a lifeline.
For once, I let myself fall asleep with a smile.
***
The next day, while washing dishes, my mother barked at me to go buy wine for a dinner party. Some important work thing my dad had going on. I changed into designer clothes—tight black jeans, a Gucci blouse, boots that pinched my feet—and walked to the corner store with her card.
I picked a bottle of Riesling, and Pinot Grigio. Something dry. Something sharp.
Then I smelled it again. Strong. Clean. Masculine. I whipped around, heart hammering, eyes scanning the aisles. No one looked familiar. But the scent was everywhere.
My body reacted. My wolf stirred. I hadn’t felt her in years. I thought she’d died.
But now…
She was fluttering. Whispering.
I paid, grabbed the wine, and stepped out the door. My phone buzzed. “Where are you, Elira?! Get home this minute!”
I sighed and typed, “On my way. There was a line.”
Then I walked home. Ignoring the pull. Again.
***
The party began. My parents locked me in the attic. Standard procedure. Guests filtered in.
I could hear their laughter, the clink of wine glasses, the hum of low music.
Then the scent hit again.
Strong. Closer.
I pressed against the cracks in the roof, straining to see. There he was, by the pool.
Tall. Chiseled. Hazel eyes like melted gold. Dark brown hair slicked back. Broad shoulders under a tailored suit. Powerful energy radiated from him. My father was shaking his hand.
“Thank you so much, Mister Vexmoor. I won’t let you down!”
“Not a problem, Damon. And please—just Silas.”
Silas.
That name echoed in me. He sipped wine I had bought, and my heart thudded painfully. This man—this man who smelled like freedom—knew my father. Worked with him.
He looked around suddenly. I barely whispered “wow,” but he reacted. Eyes searching. Then… our eyes met. Through the cracks in the roof.
I gasped and pulled back into the shadows, heart racing, breath shaky.
Silas
I hated these kinds of parties. Corporate schmoozing. Fake smiles. Useless chatter. But Damon insisted. Said he wanted to thank me personally.
He was a good man. Hardworking. Quiet. Focused. The kind of man you could trust. He had a wife—Mireya—and a daughter I’d never met. Elira. They spoke of her like she was away. School, friends, always busy.
I admired a man like that. A man who built a good life. I wanted one too. But not just anyone. I was waiting for my mate. And last night—I thought I found her.
I followed her scent to a stunning Victorian home.
She looked like she’d had a rough night. Maybe a bar crawl. We’ve all been there. I didn’t approach—just made note of home. I should’ve looked at the address. To say my mind was elsewhere would be an understatement. I wanted to find her today.
But today, work swallowed my schedule. Meetings. Calls. And now, this party. Maybe tomorrow I’d return.
Damon handed me his address before leaving. I had thanked him and returned to my computer. I wanted to focus but couldn’t get this girl out of my head. I might even go to the bars after the party. I might get lucky.
I looked at the clock not realizing that two hours had passed. I was late. I grabbed my things, logged off my computer and grabbed my laptop bag, heading down to the musty smelling car garage that hinted at gasoline.
I typed the address into my GPS and took off to the party. It wasn’t long before familiar roads greeted me.
Eventually, I pulled up to the same house. Damon’s house. Damn I was lucky. When I got out, I smelled her again.
Water lily and cucumber. Light. Clean. Innocent. It wrapped around me like silk. Like fate. Tonight I would finally meet my mate. I was thrilled. My life was going to truly start today.
I might’ve been about an hour late, but when I slipped in, no one seemed to notice. I grabbed a glass of wine off the counter. Riesling. Good choice.
A semi dry wine, leaving a crisp bite in your mouth. An after taste of grapes leaving your mouth wanting more.
While I was there for Damon, I didn’t care. I wanted my mate. I was looking at every woman who crossed my path. The huge number of people here tonight made all the scents combine.
I still smelled her, but I couldn’t place exactly where she was. Then Damon finally found me.
“Mister Vexmoor! Glad to see you could make it!” He always had a big smile on his face.
“Hey Damon! I wouldn’t miss it. I mean I am the reason we’re having this party.” I laughed a little to lighten the mood. “Just kidding. You deserved the promotion.”
He laughed back.
“Where’s your beautiful wife this evening?” He looked around until he spotted her.
“Ah, there she is. She’s talking with Linda. Carlisle’s wife.” He pointed her out.
“Man she really is beautiful.” I leaned in close so only we could hear. “How did you get so lucky with a mate like her?” Damon and I were the only two wolves that we knew at the party or in the company. That made us closer than most.
We have a pack, but we mostly kept to ourselves out here. We reported to the Alpha about once a month.
“Well, I just got lucky. She’s a perfect woman.” We chuckled and clinked glasses.
“Speaking of perfect women, where’s your daughter tonight? Elira, right?” I saw his mouth twitch slightly. I hoped I hadn’t hit a sore spot.
“She’s actually out with friends tonight. We wanted her to stay, but her friend Melissa came in from out of town. I didn’t want her to miss a chance to see her.”
That was extremely kind of him. I know many men would want their whole family present. Especially wolves. We like to show a united front. Especially at big moments.
“Well my friend, you earned this moment. Congratulations.”
“Thank you so much, Mister Vexmoor. I won’t let you down!”
“Not a problem, Damon. And please—just Silas.”
I then felt a shudder down my spine. My mate was looking at me. I just had to tune to this feeling. My head was whipping around, trying to place it.
Finally, I landed on the house. Specifically, the roof. What the hell?
