Prologue

The rhythm of his feet hitting the ground, the irregular beating of his heart and his erratic breathing are the only sounds Millan's ears can pick up.

He knows he is panting and probably wheezing and he knows they’re closing in, but he can only focus on putting one foot in front of the other and so on, as fast as his wolf will allow without shifting.

In between two beats of his heart, he hears a threatening growl from one of his closest pursuers.

Closer than Millan was expecting.

He almost falls, trying to propel his body further than his feet will permit.

The border is visible now.

He can see the ancient oak tree. His sanctuary.

He knows the pack won’t go further than the border and he knows the tree will be his shelter if he can only get to it in time.

And if he read the map right.

Just as one of the wolves is closing in, he makes a hard turn, jumping over a fallen tree as he does so.

His attackers are faster and stronger, being alphas and betas, but he is agile and experienced in the art of fleeing.

He knows how to dodge, take sharp turns and hop over obstacles faster than any omega he’s ever known and certainly faster than the bulky, uncoordinated alphas chasing him.

When the noisier and thus, scarier wolf almost takes a bite off his left leg, he thinks of getting rid of his backpack which is slowing him down considerably, catching in branches and killing his back from its weight.

But it holds his only possessions, the only necessities he has. This worn-down pathetic shoulder bag contains the entirety of his short life.

He has dragged it through mud and sweat, through countless pursuits, through cons that almost got him killed, through tears and heart breaks.

There is no way, no way in hell, he will let a stupid, weak and pathetic little pack of ridiculously idiotic werewolves make him lose his precious belonging.

“Argh! Fuck!”

A sharp pain takes over his right leg.

His step falters for a second while he looks down at his calf. Blood is pouring out of a deep gash created by lacerated nails.

The burn makes Millan's eyes water. Through the watery vision, Millan can see the oak tree is only a few meters away.

He can sense the wolves closing in on him, no intention of slowing down and Millan is panicking. He’s running on adrenaline alone, ignoring his injured leg.

He barely makes it.

He almost runs into the gigantic trunk standing proudly and solid, right in front of him. He turns around and stops dead in his tracks.

If the wolves are willing to cross the border to get to him, Millan is done for. There is no way he can power through the pain in his leg and the fire in his lungs any longer.

He almost cries from a weird mix of joy, relief and exhaustion when he sees the menacing wolves stop abruptly, so much so that they pile onto each other in a mess of limbs and confused barks.

Millan has to retain his laughter; they really are one of the most idiotic packs he’s ever encountered.

He falls to the ground and clutches his painfully pulsating leg with both his hands and leans on the sheltering tree, desperately trying to catch his breath.

The pile of alphas and betas slowly disentangle themselves before their leader comes as close to Millan as the border would allow it.

“If I catch your scum rogue ass on our territory again, I’ll rip your head off. Is that clear?”

The Alpha whose order tainting his words are so deep and intense it makes the ground underneath Millan vibrate.

As usual though, it doesn’t lock the latter into place like it would any omega.

It doesn’t make him cower in fear like his biology dictates it should.

It doesn’t do a damn thing other than resonate through the forest and make the birds around fly out, alarmed.

Millan rolls his eyes. He grew used to pack wolves hating rogues like himself.

It’s rude, is what it is. But it is predictable.

He nods his head and gives a little salute with his hand over his forehead, “Yep. Clear as day, got it.”

The Alpha of the pack growls, annoyed at the disobedience of the omega before leading his pack away from the border, away from a very relieved Millan.

The lone rogue in question sighs and allows himself a moment to breathe, closing his eyes and basking in the morning sun.

And trying to ignore the sharp pain in his leg.  

Another great day in the life of Millan

Caelan, he tells himself ironically.

He loses track of time for a while, enjoying the peace and quiet of the forest surrounding him, after such a hectic start of the day. His adrenaline from earlier now dissolved and letting exhaustion take over.

The sun is already high up in the sky when he forces himself to get up and test out his wounded leg.

Brook Pack had found him earlier than he intended to and he hadn’t had the time to steal enough money and supplies to last him very long.

He has to find a shelter before dark and try and get some food in the city if he doesn’t want to sleep on an empty stomach.

Again.

However, a groan and a swear escape his lips the instant he tries to put weight on his right leg.

It’ll be harder to steal food if he can’t run or even move properly.

He decides to get to the nearest city and steal people’s wallets instead. He knows his limp isn’t going to get in the way. He might actually be able to play that to his advantage.

Matter of factly, his limp does give him a good excuse to bang into people and distract them from his furtive hands emptying their pockets and even taking some of the pricier watches off their wrists.

He’s been at it for an hour or so, just walking through the busy streets when he thinks he’s got enough to take him through the week at least.

Proud, he buys himself as much non perishable foods as he can get in his backpack and takes off in the direction of the woods making sure he’s closest to the East Border instead of the North where Brook Pack is still probably lurking.

Every step he makes towards his lonely rogue survival life has become routine to him.

He steals, he feeds himself, he finds shelter and repeats until he’s kicked out from whatever that territory’s pack is.

Sometimes, he foolishly asks them to join their pack, but it rarely goes well.

He’s lucky if he can stay more than a month undetected and he’s developed fleeing methods that most wolves, whatever their second gender is, can’t keep up with.

He’s gotten pretty good at stealing too. At first, he would try to get a job for his short stay wherever he was, but he’s given that up seeing as finding the job sometimes took him as much time as getting kicked out.

He finds an abandoned looking cabin while walking in the woods and decides to stay there for the night. It’s dirty and visibly falling apart. He has doubts it’s even safe to sleep in there, but his leg is killing him and he’s exhausted.

He’ll try to find something better in the morning.

*****

Millan wakes up from a sharp pain in his injured leg and an intense wave of nausea.

He sits up on the makeshift bed he has made himself out of leaves and an old, used up blanket he’s had for years.

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing his urge to vomit to go away. His breathing is erratic, he’s sweating and shivering. He knows the scratch on his leg probably got infected.

His wolf is whimpering and he can’t help but let the shameful sounds escape him, telling himself that nobody is around to hear them anyway.

He fumbles for his bag, not bothering to open his eyes. Millan manages to find the pills he’s stolen from some pack a couple of weeks ago and swallows two of them.

He knows it won’t be enough. He’ll have to find a way to tend to the infection better than that… tomorrow.

This will have to get him through the night.

*****

Andy, in his wolf form, hears the whimpers from his hiding spot, just a couple meters away from the cabin.

If you could call that a cabin, he thinks.

It takes all of his will power not to help the omega in need.

His Alpha commanded him to observe and report without interfering for now. He intends to obey the command.

Although he has to plant his claws in the dirt to avoid making a move towards the rogue when he hears another small plea for help.

Eventually, the omega seems to go back to sleep and Andy’s wolf manages to relax too.

Until an hour or so later when the pained noises start again.

Andy stifles a growl.

He can imagine how much pain the small wolf must be in right now. He’s seen how deep the cuts were when he saw the omega run through the Northern Border.

He knows Weston will probably make him escort the rogue out of their territory to keep the pack safe, but he can’t help but feel different about this particular rogue.

For one, omegas without a pack are rare. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen or heard of one.

And two, he’s never seen an omega so strong willed, so independent.

Observing him for a day, he can’t help but admire the small creature. When the whimpers quiet down again, Andy resolves to take him back to the pack come by daylight and try and convince Weston to take him in.

He simply can’t bring himself to chase this rogue away.