Just A Rogue

BIANCA

I’ve grown up in the rogue lands.

That sentence alone tends to change the air in a room.

People don’t always say anything right away. Sometimes there’s just a pause—half a second too long—before their eyes flick over me like they’re checking for teeth marks or blood under my nails. Other times, they don’t bother hiding it at all. Their lips curl. Their shoulders stiffen. Like I’ve just admitted to being something contagious.

People always talk.

They say it’s dangerous. They say being a rogue is a stupid choice. A reckless one. They say wolves like us are feral—that we’re what happens when pack law fails, when order collapses and instinct rots unchecked.

They’re not entirely wrong.

It is dangerous. Anyone who says otherwise has never spent a night listening to the dark breathe around them, never felt eyes tracking them from beyond the firelight. I have the scars to prove it—thin white lines tracing my ribs like tally marks, a deep gash along my thigh that still aches when the weather turns, a half-moon bite scar near my shoulder that never quite healed right.

The land always takes its payment.

But what people never seem to understand—what they refuse to understand—is that some of us never had a choice in the matter.

Some of us weren’t chasing freedom or rebellion or some romantic idea of life beyond pack laws. Some of us weren’t brave or foolish or hungry for power.

Some of us were children.

Some of us were born into it.

Some of us were forced into it.

My family was kicked out of our pack when I was very young.

I don’t know the official reason. Packs always have one—violations, disputes, whispers dressed up as justice. But no one ever explains things to the children. They just expect us to survive the consequences.

What I remember isn’t the reason.

What I remember is the before and the after.

One day, I was five years old, sitting in the dirt with a stick in my hand, drawing shapes I didn’t understand yet while other kids ran past me laughing. I remember the sound of it—carefree, loud, unafraid. I remember thinking the sun felt warm and permanent, like it would always be there. I remember the way the adults nearby smelled calm, steady—pine and leather and safety.

I remember my mother calling my name and telling me not to wander too far.

I remember believing her when she said everything was fine.

The next day—maybe the same day; trauma does strange things to time—everything was noise and motion.

Hands grabbed me hard enough to hurt. My mother’s fingers locked around my wrist, tight and unyielding. My father’s voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent, stripped of every gentle note I recognized.

“Don’t stop,” he snapped.

“Pick her up,” my mother said breathlessly. “Now.”

Wolves crowded us from all sides—too many, too close. Their snarls weren’t wild; they were controlled, deliberate. Pack wolves. Our pack wolves. The ones who had once shared meals with us. Who had once watched me toddle around on unsteady legs.

They weren’t looking at us like family anymore.

They were driving us forward.

And my sister—

Stella was only one year old.

She was too young to understand what was happening. Too young to run. My mother had her bundled against her chest, wrapped in a blanket that kept slipping as we moved. Stella cried—not screaming, not panicked. Just confused. Thin, broken little sounds like she couldn’t understand why the world had suddenly turned so loud.

“Keep going,” someone shouted.

“Boundary’s ahead.”

“Don’t look back.”

I tripped.

My knee split open on the ground, and before I could even cry out, my father hauled me upright again, his grip bruising my arm.

“I’ve got you,” he said, but his voice shook. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

I didn’t believe him.

I looked back anyway.

I saw the land that had been my entire world pull away from us like it had never belonged to us at all. Trees I recognized. Paths I knew. Faces I had trusted—hard and unmoved.

We crossed the boundary line.

And just like that, it was over.

We were told never to return.

No ceremony. No explanation. No mercy.

Just exile.

Stella won’t remember any of it.

She won’t remember the fear or the running or the way my mother cried silently while still moving forward. She won’t remember the sound of wolves snapping at our heels or the way my father positioned himself between us and the dark like sheer will might be enough.

She was one year old.

But I remember everything.

That first night in the rogue lands taught me what silence really was.

Pack lands hum. Even when they’re quiet, there’s something there—structure, connection, the comfort of shared presence. You feel held by it, even if you don’t realize it at the time.

The rogue lands don’t do that.

They’re quiet in a way that presses down on you. The kind of quiet that makes every sound feel too loud. The kind that reminds you there are no rules out here. No hierarchy. No protection.

Just hunger.

Just survival.

That was when everything changed.

That was when survival stopped being an abstract idea and became something I carried in my bones.

That’s what made me shift early.

Most wolves don’t shift until their early teens, when their bodies and minds are strong enough to withstand it. Mine didn’t wait. It couldn’t afford to.

I was seven years old.

We were being attacked by other rogues—the kind people whisper about when they’re trying to scare their pups into obedience. True ferals. Wolves who had lost their sense of self entirely, their eyes hollow and burning all at once.

Stella started crying.

That was it.

Something inside me cracked open.

Not fear—focus.

A single, blinding need: protect her.

My wolf tore its way to the surface with brutal force. Bones snapping. Heat flooding my veins. Instinct roaring so loudly I couldn’t hear anything else.

I remember blood. I remember teeth. I remember the sound of my own growl echoing back at me, too deep, too powerful to belong to a child.

When it was over, I was shaking and half-shifted, blood smeared across my skin. My parents stared at me like they didn’t know whether to pull me close or kneel.

I was seven years old.

After that, there was no pretending I was normal.

Because some wolves do become feral out here.

I’ve seen it happen. Slowly, or all at once. I’ve watched purpose drain from their eyes, watched instinct hollow them out until violence was all that remained. When there’s no pack, no future, no one anchoring you, your wolf fills the void however it can.

The land doesn’t stop them.

The rogue lands don’t punish cruelty or reward kindness. They simply exist.

And you either adapt—or you don’t.

I’ve had more skirmishes than I can count. Some I won. Some I barely survived. Some still wake me up at night with my heart racing and my claws half-extended.

But the land didn’t just harden me.

It grounded me.

It shaped me.

It made me into the wolf I am now.

Dependable.

Scrappy, if you ask the right people.

Abel would snort and say, “You’re a pain in the ass—but you show up.”

Tiffany would smirk and add, “And you hit harder than you look.”

They’re my people.

Not blood. Not pack. Just rogues I’ve collected over the years—pieces that shouldn’t fit but somehow do. Abel with his steady presence and crooked grin, pretending he doesn’t care while always making sure everyone eats. Tiffany with her sharp tongue and sharper instincts, dangerous in a way people never expect.

We’re not a pack.

But we’re something close enough.

And tonight?

Tonight we’re doing my favorite thing.

We’re going to the human city.

The thought alone sends a thrill through me—bright lights, music that vibrates through your bones, crowds so thick no one looks twice at anyone else. In the city, no one knows what I am. No one smells my history. No one cares.

My parents managed to build something stable in the rogue lands. Stable enough to create a small community. Shelters. Trade routes. Quiet agreements. A place where Stella could grow up without running every night.

She doesn’t remember exile.

She doesn’t remember fear.

She just knows home.

We’re not monsters.

We have clothes. We have shelter. We work. We trade. We survive. Some favors are ugly. Survival usually is.

I may—or may not—have slept with a few wolves for money or protection. I don’t apologize for it. Hunger doesn’t care about pride, and neither does cold. Besides, I’m twenty-two years old.

I have needs.

And tonight?

Tonight is about fun.

The city sits on the edge between rogue and pack lands—supposedly neutral ground. Supposedly safe. It isn’t always. Neutrality is more suggestion than rule.

Pack pups still like to push us. Smug and protected, knowing someone else will handle the consequences.

The first time I ran into Crystal—a girl from our old pack—I tried to be nice. I smiled. Asked how she’d been.

She wrinkled her nose and said, “You smell like dirt.”

That look in her eyes—sharp, superior—said everything. Abel was already stepping in when Tiffany muttered, “Say the word.”

I didn’t. But I wanted to.

Pack pups don’t understand what it costs to stand alone.

But tonight isn’t about them.

Tonight is about music and lights and laughter that doesn’t ask questions.

Tonight is about forgetting.

And for a few precious hours—

that’s enough.