Rain

If Jordan doesn’t kick the bucket of water I use for cleaning the floors, he will find other ways to antagonize me. He will probably call me names or, if he is in a very bad mood, even push me or make me trip.

Safia whines. Being a lone wolf inside a pack is difficult. When it is a full moon, we usually run alone while the rest of the pack runs together. I prefer it, anyway, because I would probably look constantly over my shoulder if I had one of the pack members run next to me, wondering if I would get attacked. 

‘One day, we will find the one meant for us. Our soulmate. We will never be alone then. When the full moon rises above the forest, we will run next to our soulmate,’ I say, trying to console Safia. Of the two of us, she is the one who suffers the most from the lack of friendship and companions. I am more than happy not to talk to anyone from the pack, for days in a row.

Werewolves are not meant to be alone. That is why many rogues go mad after years of solitude. Some of them band together and form packs that, while not accepted by the Council of the Elders, will keep them sane. 

Safia tries to explain to me that Titan is not only a good wolf, but he would also love to run with us. Gag me! Not that I have something against Titan. But Jordan would probably kill me before running with me. 

I put the sketchbook in my backpack and climb down, wanting to go into my room and sleep. Jordan’s birthday is in two days, and that means more work for me. Unmated females from other packs are expected to come and parade themselves in front of Jordan, to see if any of them are his soulmate. While I feel bad for Titan, I hope Jordan never finds his soulmate.

To get to my room, which is in the Packhouse, I have to pass by the bonfires. I hope no one pays me any attention. Please, please, please….

“If it is not the mongrel,” someone says. 

I don’t even need to smell her scent to know it is Ruth talking since she is the only one who calls me mongrel. Or mutt. Or any other insulting word she can come up with.

I try to keep walking, to pretend I did not hear her, but her friends' group is blocking my path. They usually ignore me, just like I ignore them. Tonight, however, was one of those nights when they wanted to fuck with the Omega. Figuratively, not literally. 

Before I can say something back to Ruth, she adds, “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to make sure everything is ready for Jordy’s special day? Am I right, Honey-Bunny?”

I try not to roll my eyes, but they would probably spin at the back of my head, like slot machines. Who talks like that? Jordy… Honey-Bunny… who is, of course, Hannah, Ruth’s best friend.

“You are always right, Ruthy,” Hannah replies.

What are they, six?

What did Jordan, or any of the other males in the pack, see in Ruth? She is annoying as fuck. I'm guessing it's because she is beautiful, but since I can’t see faces, I find other things attractive. 

“I am going to my room since it is my free time,” I reply. Not that I have to give explanations to Ruth, but it is easier if I do. 

“If I am to become the Luna, I would have to make sure you never had a free moment,” Ruth says, and her friends approve. Shocker. 

“Well, good thing you are not the future Luna. Now, if you all will be kind enough to let me pass….” I say. 

“I don’t even know why we bother speaking to her,” Ariel says. She is not bad per say, but since she started spending more time with Ruth and her minions, she has started saying the same bullshit as Ruth. “What if the Moon Goddess, I don’t know, punishes us for being close to her?”

Is there an epidemic of reptile brains around the pack? This is why I hate living in this pack because they always blame me for whatever shit happens to them.

I try to push through the circle forming around me when someone jerks my backpack off my back. I spin around, hoping to catch the scent of whoever took my stuff away from me, when a strong scent of oranges hits me.

Jordan.

He is the one who took my backpack.  Of course, it had to be him.

“May I have my backpack back?” I ask, trying hard not to sound as pissed as I feel. 

After being on my knees all day long scrubbing the floors, all I want to do is retire to my room and sleep. Is that too much to ask?

Jordan smirks—according to Safia. A cigarette is in the left corner of his mouth. “Only if you ask me nicely.” 

What is his problem with me? Hadn’t he bullied me enough, now he has to make me beg for my stuff? “Please.” 

Ruth snorts. “For someone that lives off the charity of the pack, you should work more on your ‘please.'”

Since I have no family to provide for me, the pack throws me their leftovers—from their old clothes, which most of the time are either too small or too big, to whatever is left from their meals. But I am grateful for everything I get. The shirt I am wearing belonged to one of the warriors of the pack, and when it was too worn out and full of holes, he gave it to me last Christmas. I have a basic sewing kit, so fixing it hasn’t been a problem. And the old jeans, I am pretty sure, belonged to Ruth at some point. 

The Crescent Moon Pack isn’t too big—around a hundred members—nor wealthy, like other packs, so hand-me-downs are pretty common. Ruth loves clothes, but she has never been forced to wear stuff from other females. When she is bored of them, she either gives them to another female or to me… if she is generous enough and the clothes are always ruined. 

Jordan dangles the backpack in front of me, and I try to grab it. It might be as old as Tutankamon and missing a strap, but it is where I keep my sketches and pencils. I can’t not draw. It is the only thing that keeps me sane, except for Safia. 

Jordan takes a puff from his cigarette and blows the smoke in my direction. If I suddenly grab the cigarette and put it out on this tongue, will I at least be granted a quick death?

 “Tell you what,” Jordan says. “After I look inside the backpack, I will return it to you.” 

I would much prefer you did not do that, thank you very much, since I never let anyone see my drawings except Mr. Smith. But of course, I don’t say that out loud. 

“No,” I start saying, but Jordan ignores me and opens it. 

His eyebrows inch up—courtesy of Safia to let me know— as he pulls out my sketchbook. It is still open on the page I was drawing on—Safia and Titan running through the forest on a full moon night. It is my gift to her for when I turn nineteen.

“What is this?” he asks, his voice shocked and confused. 

I feel the others staring at me, but I ignore them. It’s not like I have drugs in there. 

“Nothing.” It is not like it is his business anyways. “Give it back!” I demand. 

Jordan looks at me, and when Safia lets me know he is angry, I swallow nervously. Jordan is a nuisance, but angry Jordan is a nightmare. The last time I made him angry, he had me starved for days. I do like food. 

“Did you just give me an order?” he snarls. His orange scent turns spicy, and I don’t need Safia to know how angry he is.

“No,” I say, my voice low. 

He shoves the sketchbook into the backpack before throwing it over his left shoulder. “Since you had the audacity to draw Titan, I am keeping this. I want to see what else you have drawn.” 

Ruth laughs. “This mutt knows how to draw?” 

“I would not call them drawings. They more resemble scribbles,” Jordan replied sarcastically before leaving—with my backpack.

I am crushed. Scribbles or not, they are mine. I put hours into making them, and I want them back. Though, I know that Jordan won’t return my stuff to me. Tears pool inside my eyes. Without pencils or paper, I can’t draw. Maybe Mr. Smith can give me more, but I feel bad about constantly asking things from him.

Ruth and the others start laughing, and I rush towards the Packhouse. Luckily, no one tries to stop me. 

Only three more weeks, and I am free of this pack, especially free of Jordan. 

When I get to my room, I slam the door behind me before I fall on my mattress and pull the old quilt that covers it on top of me.

The second I am away from here, I will forget everything about this pack. I won’t miss anyone or anything. Not the old floor that squeaks beneath my feet, nor my room—which used to be a laundry room—not even the walnut tree. I shift on the mattress, and I accidentally hit my leg on the coffee table that is at its foot. In an outburst of anger, Jordan or one of his friends kicked it and broke two of its legs. I saved it from being tossed into the garbage and fixed it. 

I huff before removing my sneakers and crawling back under the quilt. As I fell asleep, I realized that I would miss the walnut tree. And Mr. Smith.