Leaving the Shithole

POV: Rafe.

“Tenth bride’s the charm,” Wyatt mocked, a lazy smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as our elongated black limo crunched to a halt on the gravel driveway.

The sprawling, dilapidated structure of the Moonscar packhouse loomed outside the tinted windows, looking more like a forgotten relic than the seat of a governing Alpha.

“Shut up!” Garek snapped from the opposite seat, glaring at my brother.

“Both of you shut your mouths,” I warned, my voice a low rumble that instantly sucked the remaining air out of the cabin. I shot Wyatt a lethal side-glance. “Before you say something you regret. And you, Wyatt, keep your hands to yourself today, or you might just lose them this time.”

Wyatt raised his hands in mock surrender, running his fingers over his lips as though zipping them shut, but the arrogant glint never left his eyes.

*He will never learn,* my wolf, Rokar, mused, pacing restlessly in the back of my mind.

The driver stepped out and pulled open my door, the cool winter air rushing in to replace the tense atmosphere. “Just give me a second,” I told him. “I need to speak to my men.”

The heavy door clicked shut again. Silence fell over the back of the limo.

“She isn’t like the others,” I told them, making sure my tone conveyed the absolute severity of the situation. “Don’t speak to her. Don’t look at her unless spoken to.”

I was far more rattled and on edge than usual. My blood hummed with an erratic, restless energy I could not shake. Malia was a stark departure from the previously selected mates I had dealt with. I did not know what it was about her. Maybe it was because I was used to dealing with loud, confident, politically driven women who sought power, but there was a quiet, magnetic pull drawing me toward her.

Rokar felt it too. My inner wolf was fiercely, primally drawn to her, clawing at my chest with a singular demand: I had to have her.

“I mean it,” I growled, zeroing in on Wyatt’s lingering smirk. “Being my brother won’t change my mind. Cross a line, and I will put you through a wall.”

They offered sharp nods, the amusement finally draining from Wyatt’s face. Satisfied, I shoved the door open and stepped out onto the damp earth. They flanked me as we stared up at the decaying wooden facade of the packhouse. Until a month ago, I knew nothing about these people. Even after my initial visit, the only solid intelligence I had gathered was that Alpha Brant was a shortsighted tyrant and a severe disappointment to our kind.

I did not wait for an invitation. I marched up the rotting wooden steps and hammered my knuckles against the heavy front door.

It creaked open barely an inch before I shoved my shoulder against the heavy wood, forcing my way inside. Beta Vance, who had been attempting to peek through the crack, stumbled backward, his boots skidding across the dusty floorboards.

I ignored the bumbling, nervous Beta and scanned the dim, drafty hallway. I spotted her almost immediately. She was shrinking back into the dark shadows of the corridor, trying to make herself as small as possible.

“Are you ready?” I called out, letting the rough edges of my voice smooth out.

“If you just want to—” Beta Vance started, scrambling to regain his footing and block my path.

I cut him off with a frigid glare. “I was not talking to you. I was speaking to Malia.”

The expression on Beta Vance’s face was pathetic. His jaw hung open, and his eyes widened in offended shock. It was obvious the man had never been put in his place, probably not even by his own Alpha.

Malia stepped slowly from her hiding spot. She moved with painful hesitation, clutching a pitifully light and empty canvas carrier bag to her chest. She dragged her teeth across her bottom lip, her gaze fixed firmly on my boots, and gave a tiny, fragile nod.

My brow furrowed. “Where are the rest of your things? I told you everything needs to be packed.”

“That’s all she has,” Alpha Brant snorted, making his grand appearance from the adjacent parlor. He leaned against the doorframe, a smug grin plastered across his face.

“That’s it?” I stared at him, my patience thinning into a dangerous wire. I gestured toward the frayed bag. “That is the extent of her belongings? She is in her early twenties, and that meager bag is truly all she owns in this world?”

“What more does she need?” his sneering Beta chimed in, treating her obvious poverty like a punchline to a private joke.

*Kill him,* Rokar snarled furiously in my mind, his massive claws tearing at my restraint. *Let me rip out his throat. He will regret the day he crossed us.*

“What are you waiting for?” a horrible, shrill voice suddenly echoed from above, vibrating down the staircase and grating against my eardrums.

I looked away from the Beta to see a woman descending the grand stairs. Her blonde hair hung in elaborate, artificial waves around her face, and her calculating green eyes studied me as she swayed her hips with exaggerated purpose. She walked straight to Brant, curling her arm around his bicep. Luna Valeria.

I remembered Malia’s reaction from the previous day. When I had asked Brant where his mate was, Malia’s whole body had tensed up in sheer terror. She was deeply afraid of this woman, and looking at the arrogant sneer on Valeria’s painted lips, I was beginning to understand why.

“Take her, Alpha Rafe,” Valeria sneered, her shrill voice cutting through the tension. “I am sure she will be as useful a slave to you as she is to us.” She let out a cruel, barking laugh, pointing a manicured finger at my mate. “Look at the stupid girl, she is going to pass out.”

My jaw locked. A low, vibrating growl ripped its way out of my chest, echoing off the wooden walls. The temperature in the hallway seemed to plummet.

“You do not get to talk about her like that anymore,” I glared at the blonde, my voice dropping to a dangerous register that made the floorboards rattle. I stepped forward, putting myself between Malia and the Luna. “She is not your toy. She is not your slave.” I shifted my lethal gaze to Brant. “And I suggest you, Alpha Brant, keep your wife in check. There is only so much disobedience I will tolerate before I take matters into my own hands.”

“Disobedience!” Valeria screeched, her face flushing an ugly shade of red. “How dare you! If anyone is disobedient, it’s that rat in the corner!”

*Who the fuck is she calling a rat?* Rokar roared, demanding blood.

“You should make yourself familiar with our agreement,” I snapped, unleashing a heavy wave of my Alpha aura. It slammed into the room, forcing Brant and Vance to take a staggering step back. “It seems your mate has not told you everything.”

I waved a hand over my shoulder. Garek stepped forward instantly, pulling a thick, heavy wad of legal paper from the leather folder tucked under his arm.

Valeria’s green eyes bulged at the sheer size of the document. “All that for your help?”

“I do not do half-witted contracts,” I replied coldly. I snatched the thick treaty from Garek and shoved it hard against Brant’s chest, forcing the Alpha to catch it or let it drop. “Shall we go to the office?”

Brant scowled, clutching the papers as he turned on his heel. He led the way down the hall, with his furious mate clinging to his arm and his Beta hurrying a few steps behind. Garek and Wyatt followed them in silence.

I stayed behind in the foyer, turning my attention back to the fragile woman shrinking against the wall.

“You are more than welcome to join us in the office,” I offered, softening my tone so as not to spook her further. “After all, you are directly involved in this deal. Or, if you prefer, my car is out front. You can take your bag and wait there for me.”

She kept her bright blue eyes glued to the floorboards, her knuckles white around the handles of her bag. This close to her, I could see the devastating reality of her condition. Her skin was pale, stretched tight over fragile cheekbones. I tuned into her heartbeat; it was sluggish, unsteady, fighting a constant battle just to keep her on her feet.

“Are those my only options?” she whispered, her voice barely a breath.

“For now,” I admitted gently. “Personally, I think you should sit in with us. It will give me great pleasure in pissing off your brother’s mate.”

She blinked, her head rotating slowly between the open front door leading to the limo, and the dark hallway leading to the office.

“I…” she started, her throat working as she swallowed hard. “I guess… the office.”

“Good choice.” I held out a large hand for her, but she did not take it. Instead, she pushed herself away from the wall. She wobbled slightly on her worn shoes but quickly steadied herself, keeping her distance from my outstretched palm.

I let my arm drop and walked a few steps behind her, serving as a shield between her and the hallway. As she entered the dimly lit office, I saw the evil, piercing glares she received from Brant and his two lackeys.

“Take a seat,” I murmured as I walked past her. The back of my hand grazed her lower back, a fleeting touch, but her entire body locked up, her muscles seizing in instant panic.

She stood frozen to the spot, her breathing shallow. Her eyes darted wildly around the small, oppressive room, and she gave a microscopic shake of her head.

“Sit,” I said, projecting my voice a fraction louder, meant to reassure rather than command.

“She doesn’t have that privilege here!” Valeria snapped from her position perched on the edge of Brant’s desk, her lips curving up in a twisted display of amusement.

“Sitting is not a privilege,” I growled, shutting her down with a glare that promised violence. My mind spun with dark scenarios, wondering what other basic human necessities they had classified as a 'privilege.' I scanned Malia’s exposed arms and legs. There were no fresh bruises visible, a small mercy, but the emotional scars were loud and clear.

*It better be the only thing they denied her,* Rokar paced furiously in my mind. *Get her out of this place.*

Valeria physically recoiled at my tone, her mouth falling wide open, deeply offended that an outsider was dictating the rules in her domain.

“And I suggest,” I turned my focus to Brant, leaning my hands heavily on his desk, “you tell your mate to keep her mouth shut while I conduct my business. Or I will shut it for her.”

“Alpha Rafe, you are in my home—” Brant puffed out his chest, attempting a weak display of dominance.

“And you want my military help to save your borders, correct?” I countered, arching an eyebrow.

The three of them fumed in silence. The heavy stench of their bruised egos filled the room. No one liked being ordered around in their own territory, yet they had built a lifestyle around doing exactly that to Malia.

I pointed to the empty leather chair situated between Wyatt and Garek. Taking the cue, Malia shuffled forward and finally sat down, perching on the very edge of the cushion as if expecting the chair to be yanked away.

“Let’s just get this done,” Brant snapped, snatching a pen from his desk holder. “The sooner she is gone, the happier I can be.”

“You should read the contract first,” I mused, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I already agreed that you could take her as part of our military deal,” Brant muttered dismissively, flipping straight to the signature page.

*Idiot,* Garek murmured under his breath. He knew as well as I did that my contracts were flawless steel traps.

Brant scribbled his name across the dotted lines without glancing at a single clause. He practically shoved the thick stack of paper back across the desk toward me. “Done.”

He was a colossal fool. By signing that document blindly, he had just legally bound himself into giving up all rights to Malia forever. There were clauses layered upon clauses ensuring he could never reclaim her, never demand her back, and never step foot near her without facing the full, lethal wrath of my pack’s army.

“Good. Now get her out of my house,” Valeria screeched, waving her hand dismissively.

If I had it my way, I would have dragged Malia out of this hellhole the moment I laid eyes on her, saving myself the trouble of breathing the same air as these parasites. But doing it by the book meant they had zero leverage. A signed treaty was an unbreakable law.

I picked up the papers and handed them to Garek. Getting to my feet, I held a hand out to Malia. “Come. We are leaving this shithole before I lose my temper.”

She hesitated for a split second before her warm, calloused fingers slipped into my palm. She rose to her feet, using her free hand to clutch her pathetic bag tight against her chest. I guided her out of the office and down the hallway toward the open front door.

She did not look back. Not once. She offered no goodbyes, no lingering glances at the place she had called home. That confirmed everything I needed to know. She hated them with the same fierce intensity that they hated her.

But as we reached the threshold of the open front door, she paused. Her fingers slipped from my grasp, falling limply to her side. Her blue eyes blew wide open, staring fixedly at the massive black limo waiting in the driveway.

“Come,” I instructed softly, stepping outside.

Garek and Wyatt stopped behind her in the hallway, watching her curious hesitation.

*Is she okay?* Garek linked me through the mind-link, his tone laced with genuine concern.

I stepped back into the doorway, moving into her line of sight. “Malia?”

She did not move. She seemed to be staring right through me, overwhelmed by the sudden reality of the outside world, the enormous vehicle, the terrifying unknown of her new life.

“It’s time to go,” I prompted.

“Okay,” she whispered, her pale lips barely moving.

She took a slow, agonizing step forward, moving as if trapped in thick mud. She reached out, her hands gripping the wooden doorframe for support. Her knuckles turned stark white against the rotting wood. Her chest began to heave, her heartbeat skyrocketing into a frantic, erratic rhythm. Her lips parted, drawing in a sharp, desperate breath.

Then, her grip failed. Her hands slid off the doorframe, and her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

“I’ve got you,” I muttered, surging forward. My arms wrapped securely around her waist, catching her mere inches before she hit the hard floorboards.

As I lifted her, her entire body went limp against my chest. The shock of her weight hit me like a physical blow. She was terrifyingly light. She felt like an empty shell, weighing no more than a young child. The sickening angle of her sharp bones pressed through the thin fabric of her dress, digging into my muscular arms.

I carried her swiftly down the steps and toward the waiting car. Wyatt and Garek hurried past me, sliding into the back seats first. Wyatt cocked an eyebrow at me, a predictable smirk plastering his face as I ducked into the cabin, settling onto the leather bench with Malia cradled firmly in my lap.

“Keep your thoughts to yourself, Wyatt,” I warned, shifting my grip to make her comfortable.

I held her close against my chest. I sat in silence as the engine roared to life, listening to the shallow rasp of her breathing and the frantic rhythm of her heart as it slowly began to stabilize. I let my fingers comb gently through the tangles of her dark hair, grounding her with my warmth.

A few minutes into the drive, she stirred. With a sudden, panicked gasp, she sat bolt upright. Realizing where she was, she immediately scrambled off my lap, pressing her back against the far corner of the plush leather seat, trying to make herself as invisible as possible.

Deciding not to pressure her, I leaned back and gave her the space she desperately needed. I shifted my attention to Garek and Wyatt, engaging in a low conversation about border patrols and pack logistics, casting a subtle glance her way every few minutes to ensure she was not spiraling into another panic attack.

The drive passed in a blur of passing trees until the massive iron gates of the Iron Eclipse estate finally rolled open.

“Come,” I muttered as the limo glided to a smooth stop in front of the grand entrance. I did not wait for the driver to open the door. I pushed it open myself and stepped out onto the pristine paving stones, holding a hand out to her.

“I’m fine,” she spoke at last, her voice raspy. She ignored my hand once again, shuffling herself forward and climbing out of the door under her own power.

She stood on the driveway and stared up at my home. A soft, breathless gasp escaped her lips. The packhouse was a sprawling mansion of stone and glass, easily three times the size of the rotting structure she had just escaped. I hoped, looking at the sheer scale of the place, that she would find peace here. My goal was simple: to provide her with a life drastically better than the nightmare she had endured.

“Let me give you a tour,” I suggested, noting how she continued to clutch that empty carrier bag to her chest like a shield.

She followed me through the grand double doors without speaking a word. We walked through the vast corridors, sunlight pouring in through the massive windows. I had no idea if she was actually listening to my explanations or just trapped in her own head.

“The omegas swap out on a rotational basis,” I told her as we passed the sprawling dining hall, gesturing to the massive polished oak table long enough to fit twenty people. “It is good for the youngsters to learn some responsibilities before they get assigned their proper pack duties.”

We moved through the swinging doors into the expansive, state-of-the-art kitchen. Stainless steel gleamed under the warm lights. I walked over to a large corkboard mounted on the wall near the pantry.

“If there is anything you need,” I pointed to the attached notepad, “you just add it to this board, and the staff will order it in for you.”

Her brow furrowed deeply, staring at the blank paper, but still, she said nothing.

I sighed, picking up a pen from the counter. I threw her a small, encouraging smile, figuring she was just intimidated by my massive frame and the unfamiliar surroundings. “So tell me, what do you need? Because there is no way you are living under my roof with just the meager things stuffed in that bag.”

Her dazzling blue eyes darted nervously around the immaculate kitchen, overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of it all.

“Well?” I asked, leaning against the counter.

“I don’t need anything,” she whispered, shrinking into herself.

I let out a heavy sigh. She literally had nothing, yet the concept of asking for necessities was completely foreign to her. I clicked the pen and started scribbling things down on the paper myself. Jeans, dresses, workout clothes, shoes, underwear—every basic essential I could think of that would cover her needs for the first few days until she felt comfortable enough to choose for herself.

Realizing I needed to estimate her sizes, I clamped the pen between my teeth. I stepped forward, reaching out, and firmly grabbed her around her tiny waist to measure her frame.

My hands spanned the width of her body. My thumbs met easily just above her belly button, and my fingers wrapped around her sides, touching her spine. She was so incredibly thin, the distinct ridge of her bones pressing sharply against my palms, that I was left standing there in silent horror, wondering how she was even alive.