Forever in the Past and Forever in the Future

Cal's POV

I sit cross-legged on the edge of my lumpy cot. The damp stone walls of the Iron Moon packhouse dungeon surround me, trapping the cold. Most of the people living upstairs in the warm, luxurious packhouse probably forget this underground floor even exists. For me, it is the only reality I know. My room is a cramped, old solitary confinement cell tucked in the very back of the basement. The heavy air down here constantly smells of damp earth, stale piss, dried vomit, and old copper blood. You learn to ignore the stench after a few years.

I pull my tattered, gray blanket tighter around my shoulders. The basement chill seeps right through my thin cotton shirt, sinking deep into my bones. I lean closer to the small desk I managed to scrape together from discarded wooden shipping crates. A cracked lamp sits on the corner of the wood. I found it in the dumpster behind the main kitchen last month. The bulb flickers, casting long, jumping shadows across my open notebook.

I stare blankly at my English homework. I am trying to write an essay on Shakespeare, trying to focus on the structure of the paragraphs, trying to hold onto this one tiny piece of normal teenager life. It is hard. My hand cramps tightly around the pencil. My whole body aches from the sheer physical labor of the day. As an orphaned Omega, I am nothing more than a servant to the Iron Moon pack. I spent the entire morning cracking hundreds of eggs and cooking breakfast for over a hundred werewolves. Then I scrubbed the massive grease-stained pots, swept the giant dining hall, restocked the heavy food pantries on the third and fourth floors, and cooked a massive dinner. I rarely have time for homework. Tonight, I pushed through the heavy exhaustion. I just wanted to finish this essay.

A loud, metallic bang echoes down the stone hallway.

The heavy iron door at the top of the stairs groans against its rusted hinges. It slams open, hitting the concrete wall with a violent crash. Heavy, uneven footsteps stomp down the stairs.

My heart drops into my stomach. I drop my pencil.

The sharp, unmistakable stench of hard whiskey rolls into my cell seconds before he even appears. The fermented smell burns the inside of my nose. I know exactly what is coming. Alpha Kaelen Voss is drunk. Werewolves have incredibly fast metabolisms. It takes a massive amount of liquor to get an Alpha drunk. If he is this wasted, it means he fought with Luna Helena. It means she locked him out of their bedroom.

It means he needs something to punch.

I jump to my feet. I stand beside my cot, forcing my head down. I clasp my hands tightly in front of my stomach. I try to make myself look as small and insignificant as possible.

Alpha Kaelen fills the doorway of my cell. His massive, muscular frame blocks out the faint yellow light from the hallway. His face is flushed crimson with alcohol and pure rage. He breathes heavily, his chest heaving with every ragged breath.

"Alpha Kaelen," I say softly, keeping my eyes glued to his muddy combat boots. "What can I do for you?"

He does not say a single word.

His right arm snaps forward. A heavy, half-empty glass whiskey bottle flies through the air. It whizzes inches past my ear. The glass smashes violently against the stone wall right above my cot.

The loud crash makes me flinch hard. Thick shards of broken glass rain down, scattering across my thin mattress and the cold floor. I start to tremble. I wrap my arms around my chest, hugging myself. This is bad. This is much worse than his usual drunken visits.

Before I can even scramble backward, Kaelen lunges.

His werewolf speed is a terrifying blur. I do not even have time to blink. He clears the distance between us in a fraction of a second. His massive hands shoot out. Thick, calloused fingers wrap tightly around my throat. He squeezes, instantly crushing my windpipe.

He lifts me completely off the ground. My feet kick uselessly in the empty air.

I pry at his iron grip. I dig my fingernails into his wrists, desperately trying to peel his thick fingers back. It is like trying to pry apart solid steel. The edges of my vision start to darken. Black spots dance in my eyes from the sudden lack of oxygen.

I look down at his face. His eyes are pitch-black. No whites, no irises. Just endless, murderous voids. His inner wolf, Vargas, has taken the surface. The stench of stale alcohol on his breath makes me gag.

He snarls, a deep, guttural sound that rattles my bones. Then, he throws me.

He hurls my small body across the cramped cell like I am a broken ragdoll. I fly backward. My body violently crashes against the stone wall. I bounce off the hard surface and collapse onto my cot.

Agony explodes across my back.

The sharp, jagged shards of the broken whiskey bottle resting on the mattress slice right through my thin cotton shirt. They pierce deep into the flesh of my back, sliding between my shoulder blades. I try to scream, but the air is completely knocked out of my lungs. The spilled whiskey from the shattered bottle seeps directly into the deep, open gashes. The alcohol acts like liquid fire. It burns my torn flesh. I writhe on the mattress, gasping for air, hot tears streaming down my face.

Kaelen stalks across the room. He reaches down and grabs a fistful of my hair.

He yanks me upward. The sudden, violent movement drags my body against the mattress. The broken glass grinds deeper into my back, tearing muscle and tissue. I cry out, the sound muffled by my own blood pumping heavily in my ears.

He hauls me to my feet and slaps me across the face. The force of his hand feels like a brick. My head snaps to the side. He shoves me hard. I hit the floor, landing forcefully on my stomach.

He kicks me in the ribs. The heavy toe of his boot connects with my side. A sickening snap echoes in the cell. Fire shoots up my torso. He stomps his boot squarely on my back, grinding the embedded glass shards even deeper into my spine. I feel the warm, sticky blood soaking through my shredded shirt, pooling on the cold concrete floor.

I stay completely still. I know moving will only make Vargas angrier.

He kicks me again. This time, his heavy combat boot connects right with my jaw. A sharp crack rattles inside my skull. A blinding flash of white light bursts behind my eyes. The metallic, thick taste of warm blood instantly floods my mouth.

I spit out a mouthful of dark red blood. My jaw hangs slightly loose, radiating a blinding, throbbing agony. Kaelen has used me as his personal punching bag for years, but he has never gone this far. He is trying to kill me tonight.

"Alpha... Kaelen... please," I try to say.

The words come out garbled. I gag on the warm blood pooling in the back of my throat.

He stops. He stands over me, his chest heaving. He turns around and marches out of the cell without a second glance.

I lie on the floor, shivering, bleeding. I want to pass out. I need the pain to stop.

A moment later, heavy footsteps return. Kaelen steps back into the cell. My heart stops beating. He holds a heavy, braided leather whip in his right hand. A pungent, bitter smell instantly fills the cramped room. Wolfsbane. The leather is dark, stained with old blood and dripping with the toxic, purple-laced liquid.

He raises his arm and brings the whip down.

The heavy leather cracks across my bleeding back. The impact forces a raw scream from my throat. The wolfsbane instantly sears my raw flesh, burning its way into my open bloodstream. The venom mixes with the deep cuts and the grinding glass shards.

He brings the whip down again. And again. And again.

He lashes my back relentlessly. The toxic venom acts like acid, melting my pain receptors, setting my nervous system on fire. The agonizing cocktail of broken glass tearing my muscles, the sheer blunt trauma, and the burning wolfsbane overwhelms my brain. The world starts to spin rapidly. The pain becomes a dull roar, then a high-pitched ringing.

My vision goes completely blurry. The dark, cold walls of the dungeon fade away. The blackness pulls me under.

I float in the dark. It is numb. It is peaceful. There is no pain, no screaming, no smell of stale whiskey. I wonder if this is what death feels like. If it is, I will gladly take it. I do not have to cook breakfast for the pack. I do not have to scrub the kitchen floors. I do feel a little bad about not turning in my English essay, though. It was a solid piece of work.

A soft, rhythmic beeping sound pulls at my attention.

It chimes steadily. Beep. Beep. Beep.

I try to ignore it, but it grows louder and faster. I force my heavy eyelids open.

A blinding, white fluorescent light stabs my eyes. I blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the brightness. I am not in the damp, freezing dungeon anymore. I am lying on a soft, elevated mattress. Clean, white sheets cover my body. The air smells like sterile alcohol and clean bleach.

My mind shakes off the fog. I realize exactly where I am. The pack hospital.

Pure panic immediately crashes over me.

Kaelen. If the Alpha finds out I am out of the dungeon, he will be furious. He strictly forbade me from ever leaving the basement unless I am cooking or cleaning. Lying in a hospital bed is a direct violation of his rules. He will kill me. He will finish what he started.

I have to get back. I have to hide in my cell.

I push my trembling hands against the soft mattress to sit up. A wave of excruciating pain rips through my chest and back. I gasp, my vision flashing white. My broken ribs scream in protest. The skin on my back feels tight, burning with fresh, pulling stitches. I grit my teeth and force myself to shift toward the edge of the bed.

The heart monitor next to me starts beeping wildly, reacting to my rising panic.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I try to slide off the mattress. Something yanks my arms back. I look down. Thin, clear IV wires and plastic tubes are taped securely to the back of my hands, tethering me to a tall metal pole beside the bed. I pull against them, my hands trembling violently.

The heavy wooden door swings open.

An older man steps into the brightly lit room. He wears a pressed white lab coat over a blue button-down shirt. His black hair is heavily graying at the temples. The pack doctor. Right behind him walks a young nurse with bright blonde curly hair tied back in a high ponytail.

They see me teetering on the edge of the bed, yanking frantically at the IV lines.

"Ah, Cal. You're awake," the doctor says. His voice is calm, low. "Let's get you back in bed, shall we?"

He steps forward. The nurse, Brenda, moves around the other side of the bed. They both reach their hands out, trying to grab my bare arms to stabilize me.

My survival instincts take over. A deep, feral growl erupts from my chest.

I bare my teeth, violently shaking my arms to break their grip. "Don't touch me!" I snap.

My voice sounds horrible. It is scratchy, raw, and completely broken. Moving my jaw feels like a hundred sharp needles stabbing into my face.

The doctor immediately stops. He takes a step back and raises both his hands in the air, palms facing me in total surrender. "It is alright, Cal. No one is going to hurt you here. We are just trying to help you heal. Let's get you back onto the mattress and get you a drink of water."

I stare at him. I search his face for any sign of a trap. He just looks deeply concerned.

My wobbly legs give out. The pain is too much to fight. I let out a shaky breath and carefully lean back onto the mattress, sliding my legs back under the clean sheets.

Nurse Brenda steps forward again. She hands me a small plastic cup of cold water with a bendy straw. I wrap my trembling lips around the straw and take a small sip. Swallowing shoots pure agony through the lower half of my face, but the cool water feels like heaven on my shredded throat.

The doctor pulls up a rolling stool and sits beside my bed. Brenda checks the monitors and adjusts the clear bags hanging from the IV pole.

"Cal," the doctor starts, his voice gentle. "You had to undergo emergency surgery. We pulled hundreds of tiny glass shards out of the muscles in your back with tweezers. We had to reset several broken ribs and wire your jaw back into place. You also had a massive amount of wolfsbane coursing through your blood. We had to give you a full blood transfusion just to clear the deadly poison from your system so you could finally heal."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You are extremely lucky you didn't die."

I stare at my bruised hands resting on my lap. I do not feel lucky.

"When the pack realized breakfast had not been prepared, Beta Vance went down to the basement to check on you. He found your bleeding body on the floor of your... room." The doctor hesitates on the word 'room'. He knows it is a cell. He looks at me with deep sympathy. "Cal, who did this to you?"

I freeze. My breath catches in my throat.

"It is a severe crime," he continues, his tone hardening. "It could be grounds for immediate banishment from the pack. Based on the extensive scarring mapping your back and arms, this is clearly not the first time you have been attacked."

I keep my eyes glued to my lap. I bite the inside of my cheek. How can I possibly tell him the truth? How can I look this doctor in the eye and say the Alpha of the Iron Moon pack did this to me? No one in this packhouse would believe an Omega over an Alpha. And even if they did, what would happen? The council is not going to banish Kaelen. They would turn on me. They would accuse me of lying, of treason.

The punishment for falsely accusing an Alpha is immediate exile. They would drag me out of the pack lands and dump me into the hostile rogue territories. Without an awakened wolf, I would not last two days out there. I would be ripped apart by wild rogues.

I slowly shake my head in silence. I refuse to name him.

The doctor lets out a heavy sigh. He understands I am not going to talk. He reaches for a beige medical folder resting on the small side table. He opens it and clicks his pen.

"Okay. Let's move on to the next question. When do you turn seventeen?"

I look up, my brow furrowing. I swallow hard, feeling the hot embarrassment rise in my cheeks. My hands shake against the blanket. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes.

"I... I don't know exactly, Sir," I admit honestly.

The doctor pauses. He looks at me, thoroughly confused. He turns his head and gives Nurse Brenda a quick nod. Brenda finishes checking the IV lines and quietly walks out of the room, shutting the heavy door behind her to give us privacy.

"You don't know your own birthday, Cal?" he asks.

"My father brought me to the Iron Moon territory when I was just a baby," I say. My voice trembles. I always assumed everyone in the pack already knew my tragic history. "He was a rogue. Alpha Kaelen... well, he murdered him for crossing onto pack land without permission."

I stare down at the white blanket. "The patrol guards did not even realize my father was carrying a baby until they rolled his dead body over, unzipped his heavy jacket, and saw me tucked inside. It is a miracle I survived the cold."

The doctor remains perfectly silent, listening intently to my words.

"Since I was just an infant, the pack could not just get rid of me. But they knew absolutely nothing about me. I was wrapped in a small blanket that had the name 'Calliope' embroidered in the corner. So, that is what they called me. They gave me the last name Vane because they found a library card in my dead father's wallet with the name Toby Vane on it. I tried searching his name on the computer in the school library once. Nothing comes up. That is my entire identity."

I pick at a loose thread on the hospital sheet. "Luna Helena took me in until I reached school age. The very day I was old enough to hold a mop, she threw me into the dungeon. I have been entirely on my own since then. I never found out my actual birthday. To be honest, you are the first person who has ever bothered to ask."

I look up at him. "I guess I am around sixteen. My wolf has not awakened yet."

The doctor slowly nods. A look of profound pity washes over his face. Almost like he actually cares about my miserable existence. He asks me a few basic questions about my medical history, but I have nothing to tell him. I have never been treated by a doctor in my entire life. I heal in the dark, on my own.

He closes the medical folder. He tucks his silver pen into the front pocket of his white shirt.

"I see," he says quietly. He stands up from the rolling stool and pushes it against the wall. He turns back to look at me, his expression suddenly unreadable.

"Well," he says, his voice carrying a strange, heavy weight. "I know you have not had a chance to look in the mirror yet. But when you finally do... you might find you look a little different."

I blink, staring at him.

"Do not be alarmed," he adds quickly. "I believe it is a sign that your wolf is finally starting to wake up. I have run as many tests as I could think of while you were unconscious. Whatever is happening to you, it is not medically related."

I frown, my heart picking up its pace. I stare at him in deep confusion. "Yes, Sir."

I watch him stand near the door. Why did he phrase it like that? If my wolf is waking up, that just means I will heal faster and gain some strength. Why did he sound so mysterious? Why issue a cryptic warning about looking different instead of just speaking plainly? My stomach twists with a sudden, tense wariness. What exactly is going to stare back at me when I finally find a mirror?