The Hate From The Pack

The house was oppressively silent, the kind of quiet that felt intentional, as if the world itself wanted her to sit with her thoughts and stew. 

  Seraphina leaned against the windowsill, staring out at the scenery beyond. The weather was unexpectedly pleasant, a soft, balmy breeze carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. 

  She had imagined werewolves living in bustling packs, constantly surrounded by noise and activity. 

  But here? There was only the quiet hum of nature, a stillness she didn’t trust.

  Where is everyone? she thought, her brow furrowing. But she wouldn’t ask. She didn’t want to know.

  She had planned to do nothing today. 

  No exploring, no stepping outside the house—just sitting in solitude and waiting for this nightmare to end. 

  But as the minutes dragged on, she realized there was nothing in the house to hold her interest. 

  No books to read, no distractions to cling to. Or maybe she simply didn’t want to be interested in anything Adolphus or his world could offer.

  Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to her father. 

  She could almost hear his voice, stern and impatient, commanding her to get up, to stop being a disappointment, to remember that the world didn’t stop for her. 

  She imagined him barging into this strange house, waking her up with a sharp knock and a colder reprimand, reminding her that others were waiting, that she was late again.

  The memory made her sigh. She hated how deeply ingrained his presence was, even here, even now. 

  But it was enough to spur her into action. 

  She pushed away from the window and decided she needed fresh air—something to remind her she was alive, even if her circumstances made her wish otherwise.

  Opening the door, the sunlight immediately warmed her skin, and the earthy scent of the outdoors enveloped her. She stepped outside and froze.

  There he was. Adolphus.

  He was in the yard, an ax in his hands, cutting wood with the ease of someone born to physical labor. 

  Her breath caught before she could stop it. He was shirtless, his tanned skin gleaming under the sun, a sheen of light sweat accentuating the powerful lines of his chest and arms. 

  His muscles flexed with each effortless swing of the ax, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack that seemed to echo in the stillness.

  Her eyes widened as she watched him, her gaze lingering longer than it should have. 

  There was something primal about the way he moved—precise, controlled, and undeniably masculine. 

  The rhythmic motion of his body, the way his dark hair clung to his forehead, damp from the exertion, held her captive in a way that both infuriated and unsettled her.

  She told herself to look away, to stop staring at him like some lovesick fool. 

  But for a moment, she didn’t.

  What are you doing? her mind screamed. 

  You’re supposed to hate him. He’s your captor, your enemy.

  The realization hit her like a slap, and she abruptly turned, her cheeks flushing as if caught doing something forbidden.

  Adolphus had felt her presence long before she had stepped outside. 

  Her footsteps, her hesitant breathing, the way her gaze burned into his skin—it was impossible to miss. 

  He glanced over his shoulder, catching the way she spun away, clearly flustered.

  A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. He watched her retreat with a glint of amusement in his eyes, his grip on the ax loosening slightly. 

  She could try to avoid him all she wanted, but moments like this told him everything he needed to know.

  And for Seraphina, who didn’t dare look back, the image of him—shirtless, golden in the sunlight, and maddeningly self-assured—stayed with her far longer than she wanted to admit.

  Seraphina’s feet carried her further into the woods, her sandals crunching softly against the leaf-strewn path. 

  The air smelled fresh and damp, promising a small stream nearby. 

  She followed the sound of trickling water, hoping for a moment of peace, a reprieve from the tension that weighed heavy on her chest. 

  The soft gurgle of the stream grew louder, and when the trees parted, she spotted it—a narrow, sparkling ribbon of water winding through the forest.

  She approached cautiously, drawn by the serenity of the scene. 

  The sunlight filtered through the canopy above, dappling the ground with golden patches. 

  Birds chirped somewhere in the distance, their songs blending with the bubbling stream.

  But her fleeting sense of calm shattered when she saw them—women and girls gathered at the water’s edge. 

  Their laughter and chatter filled the air as they scrubbed clothes against smooth stones, splashing one another playfully.

  Seraphina hesitated, instinctively taking a step back. These weren’t the warm, welcoming kind of women you’d find at a village gathering. 

  Their movements were sharp, their gazes quick and observant. She could tell immediately—they were pack wolves.

  She considered retreating before they noticed her, but it was too late. 

  One of the older women glanced up, her keen eyes locking onto Seraphina like a predator spotting prey. 

  The laughter stopped abruptly, the joyous atmosphere replaced by an oppressive silence.

  “Well, look who decided to show up,” the woman said, standing to her full height. She was tall and broad-shouldered, her wet hands resting on her hips.

  Seraphina squared her shoulders, fighting the urge to shrink under their scrutiny.

  “I didn’t come to bother anyone,” she said evenly, though her pulse raced.

  “Bother us?” another woman sneered, stepping forward. She was younger, with sharp features and a biting glare. “You being here is enough of a bother.”

  The words hit like a slap, but Seraphina refused to flinch.

  “You’ve got some nerve,” the older woman continued, her voice dripping with disdain. “Walking around here like you belong. Do you think we’ve forgotten what your family did? What you did?”

  Seraphina’s fists clenched at her sides. She could feel their hatred, as heavy and suffocating as the forest around her.

  “My family isn’t here anymore,” she said, her voice low. “And I had nothing to do with—”