Chew Toy
Iris PoV
My name is Iris Crescent, and I am 18 years old, my skin still soft with youth but my eyes hardened by cruelty. The mirror shows a girl with two years left before full maturity—that sacred time when most wolves come into their power. My parents belonged to the once-proud Blue Crescent pack, their midnight-blue insignia now just tattered flags buried beneath Silver Claw banners. The Silver Claws move like mercury through the forest, their fur gleaming like polished daggers in moonlight. I still remember the copper smell of blood that hung in the air the night they came, their howls echoing through our valley as they tore through our homes. I was only six when I watched them drag my mother’s limp body across our kitchen floor, her fingernails leaving desperate trails in the wood. Now I scrub those same floors on raw, bleeding knees. The worst part isn’t the servitude—it’s the hollow space inside me where my wolf should be. She never emerged, leaving me with human fragility in a world of monsters. When Beta Desmond snapped my arm last winter, the bone jutted through my skin like a broken branch, and I still feel the ache when rain comes. They all gathered around me, their yellow eyes gleaming with amusement as I struggled to serve dinner one-handed, calling my cast a “dramatic accessory” for a “little scratch.”
I stared at my fractured reflection in the mirror—seven jagged cracks splitting my face into uneven pieces. My dilapidated room in the old stone tower felt like a tomb, the winter air seeping through every crevice until my fingers turned blue-white. The window’s rotted frame had warped, leaving a triangular gap where one pane should be, and between the ancient stones, tiny holes whistled with each gust, creating a mournful symphony. I’d hung my mother’s tattered quilt—once vibrant blue with silver moons, now faded to ghostly shadows—across the window, but the fabric only trembled pathetically against the invading cold. As the first bloody streaks of dawn painted the eastern sky, I yanked a pair of jeans from my three-legged wardrobe, the door hanging by a single rusted hinge. The denim was paper-thin at the knees, with constellations of holes worn through from scrubbing floors. My black sweater—three sizes too large—had belonged to someone important once; the collar still bore the faint embroidered insignia of the Blue Crescent pack, though I’d picked at the threads until it was nearly invisible. I gathered my dark brown hair—the one feature I had that wasn’t completely pathetic—into a tight ponytail, wincing as it pulled at my scalp. The mirror revealed what I already knew: hazel eyes sunk into purple-shadowed hollows, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, collarbones protruding like branches beneath my sweater. A weakling. A human among wolves. The pack’s favorite chew toy. Every morning I fantasized about slipping away to the human territories beyond the mountains, becoming a rogue, living on my own terms. Let them hunt me if they wanted—death by wolf teeth would be quicker than this slow starvation of spirit.
I made my way downstairs to the kitchen down winding stairs. If I didn’t start breakfast for the pack now, I would have to be there when the rest of the wolves woke up and I tried my hardest to avoid them whenever possible. The cracked watch on my wrist read 6:00. I quickly fried up some eggs with sausages, and made some fresh cinnamon rolls. They were my favorite things to make, and one of the very few things I remember about my mom. We used to make them on the weekends, when there was no school and we would spend the whole day together. I remember laying on the grass staring at the clouds as they floated by. Those were happier times, when I was loved and protected. My father wasn’t around much, so for the majority of the time it was always me and mom. I don’t remember much about my father, aside from the few times I saw him across from a giant hall. For some reason my mother and I were never allowed to sit at the main table with him. My mother always gave me a sad smile whenever she laid eyes on him sitting next to another woman. She always tried to act like her position on the side didn’t bother her. I must have been lost in my thoughts because before I knew it the oven timer went off signaling that they were ready. I pulled the large tray out of the oven, and set them on the counter to cool. I set the coffee pot to brew, and I took a paper plate out for myself and placed a large cinnamon roll on it. I turned to leave out of the doorway before anyone caught me taking fresh food. Something that would earn me a few lashes if I were found out. As I was walking through the doorway I crashed into someone tall and hard. I fell back on my butt, my treat falling to the floor, as I stared at in horror.
A deep voice cut through the air like a blade. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Shit. The hairs on my arms stood up, and my stomach twisted into a cold knot. The aura radiating from the doorway felt like a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders. I dared not look up. “I-I was just about to go do some chores.”
“You’re stealing food again?” Rough fingers tangled in my hair, yanking my head back until my neck strained. My scalp burned as I was forced to look up into piercing sapphire blue eyes, cold as winter ice and twice as deadly. Aziel’s jaw was clenched tight, a muscle twitching beneath his tanned skin.
“N-No. I-”
His scowl deepened, carving harsh lines around his mouth as he dragged me across the polished floor to the counter, my knees scraping against the wood. “Ugh, you smell awful.”
Well what the hell did he expect? The bitter thought flashed through my mind as I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator—greasy hair, hollow cheeks, dark circles like bruises under my eyes. He snatched a wash cloth hanging from the sink and threw it at me. It hit my chest with a damp slap before falling to the floor.
“Go clean that up,” he ordered, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl.
“Yes, Aziel.” I scrambled to pick up the cloth, my fingers trembling. I kept my gaze fixed on his expensive leather boots, baring my neck in submission as I sank to my knees, the cold floor seeping through my thin jeans.
“Is that how you address your future Alpha?” The words thundered through the kitchen, making the glass cabinet doors rattle.
I whimpered, pressing myself smaller as I mopped up the sticky cinnamon and sugar mess of my fallen breakfast. The sweet scent now seemed to mock me. “No, Alpha Aziel.”
“Good. Now if you’re done, get out of here.” His shadow loomed over me like a storm cloud, blocking out the morning light streaming through the windows.
I was. Without another word, I scurried from the room, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Aziel loomed in my mind even after I’d escaped—terrifying just like his father, with that same cruel twist to his mouth when he smiled. Though only seventeen, he stood like a redwood among saplings, his broad shoulders casting shadows across entire rooms. At six-foot, he towered over my pitiful five-foot-one frame, forcing me to crane my neck whenever he cornered me. Those captivating blue eyes—cold as glacier water—peered through thick lashes beneath a mop of raven-black hair that fell across his forehead in perfect disarray. His birthday celebration loomed just two days away, when he’d discover the identity of his fated mate. I prayed to the moon goddess that whoever she was would drain his venom away from me—someone to uncoil that perpetual tension from his muscles and soften the granite edge of his jaw. My salvation lay elsewhere: freedom at eighteen when pack bonds would loosen enough for me to slip away unnoticed. For ten years, I’d collected every forgotten penny from between sofa cushions, every quarter abandoned in bathroom sinks. My treasure—mostly tarnished coins in a cloth pouch—lay beneath my lumpy mattress in my neglected tower room. No wolf ever ventured there, but still, I patted the floorboard whenever I passed, reassuring myself it remained undisturbed. With my stomach twisting into painful knots, I shuffled toward the supply closet, retrieved my arsenal of cleaning supplies, and carefully extracted my most precious possession—a battered cassette player with fraying headphones—from its hiding place beneath a loose floorboard. The single tape inside contained melodies in a language I couldn’t comprehend, but the foreign words felt like secret friends whispering comfort into my ears when no one else would.
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I was nearly finished swabbing the grimy tiles of the last bathroom when Stella swept in, her stiletto heels clicking against the floorto-ceiling mirror. The harsh fluorescent light bounced off the pale bleach scent that clung to my apron, making my eyes water. Ugh—if my day could sink any lower, this was it. Stella—Aziel’s golden‐haired obsession—floated toward me, every inch of her radiating entitlement. Her long, platinum hair fell in a perfect curtain over jade‐green eyes that gleamed like polished gems. She was tall, impossibly poised, her curves sculpted to make every nearby jaw drop. As Desmond’s spoiled sister and her father’s favorite, she wielded power like a scepter and expected instant worship.
I ducked my gaze, gripping the mop handle until my knuckles whitened, silently begging the moon goddess to turn me into the tile. But no divine mercy came. Instead I felt a violent tug at my braided headphones, ripping them free along with a tuft of my hair. A sharp starburst of pain shot through my scalp, and my grip slipped. The mop head swung wildly, spinning into the low bucket of murky water at my feet.
“YOU BITCH!” Stella shrieked as cold, dingy water splashed up her shins, soaking the designer leather of her brand-new heels. “DO YOU KNOW how much these cost?” I didn’t—my only “shoes” were ancient hand-me-down sneakers with soles flapping like wounded birds. Before I could answer, she seized a handful of my hair and yanked me off balance. I flew forward, my cheekbone smashing into the porcelain sink’s edge. Stars swam behind my eyelids as the little cassette player clipped to my jeans clattered onto the tile floor.
I pressed a hand to my throbbing temple, tasting copper in my mouth.
“I—I’m sorry,” I gasped, voice hoarse. “It was an accident.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” she hissed, tightening her grip until my neck strained. With her toe, she flicked the cassette player across the tiles. “Is this yours?”
“Y-yes,” I whispered, every breath stinging.
“Good.” In one swift motion she brought her stiletto down onto it. The plastic shell cracked and exploded in a shower of splinters. “Stupid bitch. That’s what you get for crawling out of your disgusting pack.” With another shove, she sent me sprawling into the cold water again, waves of muddy liquid soaking through my thin shirt. “Get the fuck out.”
I scrambled up and bolted, wet feet slipping as I dashed down the corridor. Without looking back, I slipped into my small room, shut the door, and peeled off my dripping clothes. My skin prickled as sweat mingled with the chill from my sodden garments. I sank onto the narrow bed, heart hammering and tears stinging behind my eyelids. Swiping at them with the sleeve of yesterday’s sweater—its cuff already crusted with dirt and mascara—I refused to let anyone see me break.
I curled around the one pillow I owned, its faded cover threadbare but still redolent of fresh rain, a scent I had discovered in a dumpster months ago. Even now, that petrichor made my chest unclench and my thoughts soften. Just two more years. Two more years and I’d be free to vanish from this hellscape forever.
Once my breathing evened out, I dragged myself to the sprawling kitchen with its gleaming granite countertops and industrial-sized appliances that always made me feel like an intruder. My stomach growled as I pulled out heavy cast-iron pans and ingredients for the pack’s feast, my fingers lingering over the raw steaks I’d never be allowed to taste. I silently counted the potatoes as I peeled them, hoping there might be one extra, one forgotten corner of something that could be mine when everyone else had gone to bed.
