Skin and Bone

POV: Rafe.

She looked like a deer caught in headlights as I pulled my hands back and scribbled her measurements on the notepad. The physical memory of her tiny waist burned into my palms. She was nothing but skin and bone. If I slid my hands just an inch higher, I knew I would trace every single rib protruding under that terrible fabric. It churned my stomach. She carried powerful Alpha blood in her veins. She was supposed to be strong. Vibrant. Instead, she stood before me looking like a stiff breeze could snap her in half.

I noticed something else, too. When my fingers gripped her sides, her face scrunched up. It was a fleeting expression, fast enough to miss if I was not staring intently at her. But I saw it. That was not just fear. That was hidden, physical pain. She hid something terrible beneath that oversized maid's dress.

I put the pen down on the marble counter and crossed my arms. "I know you have things you want to say, Malia. So just say them."

She stared blankly at the polished floor.

"I have no interest in the submissive conditioning Brant drummed into your head," I told her, keeping my tone steady but firm to break through her walls. "You do not have to wait until someone asks you a direct question to speak. In this house, you are free to say whatever you want, whenever you want. Are you injured?"

"No," she whispered.

I felt the lie right away. It rolled off her tongue, flat and practiced. A loose lock of black hair fell across her face from the worn band holding it back. She shook her head, as if the motion would make her false answer true. Starvation and endless abuse had turned her into a fortress, fiercely protective of her own survival. Cracking her defensive shell would take time. I swallowed the rising growl in my throat and vowed right then and there to make Brant pay in blood for what he had done to her.

"You have to say something, Malia," I urged, leaning forward. "I cannot read your mind. When I mark you, at least I will know what you are feeling."

"Mark me?"

Her head snapped up. Her brilliant blue eyes widened in utter shock. Her pink lips parted, drawing a shaky breath as she stared at me.

"Yes. I will mark you."

The concept seemed to short-circuit her brain. I honestly thought she knew. I thought that was why she came with me so willingly. My Beta questioned me relentless about making her my bride, and I never wavered. Her scent was strange, masked by dirt and decay, but something primal lured me to her from the moment our eyes met. My Wolf, Rokar, practically tore at the confines of my mind to get to her. He only went quiet out of sheer annoyance that I did not drag her out of that rotting packhouse yesterday.

"You... you brought me here so you could mark me?" She took a frantic step back. Her hip collided hard with the edge of the kitchen island. She winced, a sharp intake of breath escaping her teeth, before she quickly masked the pain and forced her face to relax.

"If Brant had bothered reading the actual contract, he would have discovered that you are to be my bride. Not a slave," I explained, watching her process the heavy words. "He would have also read that if he or his pathetic mate ever laid another hand on you, I would slaughter them and take their pack. I never bought you, Malia. You were always destined to be mine."

"I am a murderer," she gasped, shrinking away from me, her chest heaving. "Why would someone like you want me for a bride?"

*Blood,* Rokar growled low and dark in my mind, interrupting my thoughts. He sensed something wrong.

My gaze dropped. A fresh red stain bloomed through the cheap fabric of her baggy dress. It spread fast at her side, exactly where my hands had wrapped around her waist just moments ago.

"What is that?" I demanded, stepping toward her. I had barely touched her. "Are you injured?"

She clamped her hand over the growing red patch, trying to hide it. "It is nothing. Just a cut. I keep knocking it on things, and it opens up again. I forget it is there."

Forget? Who forgets an open wound?

*Why is she not healing?* Rokar's panic flared in my head, raw and restless. *She has been with us less than two hours and already she is bleeding.* His protective instincts raged against my skull.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. Her bound Wolf. I knew her abilities were suppressed, but it had not registered that her body literally lost its natural healing factor. She could not repair her own tissue. A simple cut could fester and kill her. I had to find a way to break that binding, and soon.

"Show me!" I ordered.

"It is fine," she mumbled, dropping her gaze to the floor again.

I was already sick of hearing that phrase.

"It is not optional," I muttered, my voice dropping an octave. "If you will not show me, I will have to find a way to look myself."

Her heart kicked erratically against her ribs. I heard the frantic thudding echoing in the quiet room. She glanced nervously around the massive, open kitchen. "Can... can we go somewhere more private?"

Private? I ruled the largest pack in the region. I did not do privacy. What Wolf did? But looking at her trembling frame, her eyes avoiding mine out of ingrained fear, I knew pushing her in the open would only terrify her more.

*Office,* Rokar suggested gruffly.

*I was just going to suggest that,* I snapped back at my Wolf. I felt him roll his eyes as he retreated to a dark corner of my mind.

"This way." I gestured toward the hall.

I led her out of the kitchen, keeping my pace slow so she could follow closely behind. The metallic scent of blood grew steadily stronger with every step. It carried a sickeningly sweet undertone. Infection. I already knew it was much worse than a simple cut.

I pushed open the heavy oak door to my private office and ushered her inside. I grabbed the remote from my desk and hit the button. The heavy window blinds dropped in unison, shutting out the bright sunlight and sealing us in dim, quiet privacy.

Malia stood frozen near the door. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the collar of her dress. Hesitantly, she unfastened three buttons. Just enough to pull the fabric aside and expose the source of the bleeding. She kept the rest of her body firmly covered.

I stepped closer, my jaw clenching tight. A nasty, four-inch wound sliced across her side. The edges were angry, swollen, and oozing thick yellow pus alongside the fresh, bright blood.

"See, it is fine," she whispered, her voice barely carrying across the room.

"You need to stop saying that."

She shut her mouth instantly and fumbled to refasten the buttons, trying to hide the festering gash.

"No." I caught her wrists. My eyes locked onto a dark, purple bruise peeking out from the opened neckline of her dress. "Let me see the rest of them."

It was not optional.

She gasped in shock as my fingers caught the fabric and tore the remaining buttons apart. The dress fell open.

Her faded, frayed sports bra had seen better days, matching the worn state of her panties. But I barely registered her clothing. My eyes tracked the horrific canvas of her bare skin. Her frail torso was a twisted landscape of pure agony. Bruise overlapped bruise in sick shades of black, yellow, and deep purple. Deep, jagged scars crisscrossed her pale flesh, the unmistakable raised lines of vicious whip strikes. Her ribcage jutted out harshly against the battered skin. Her hip bones pressed out, sharp enough to cut.

I grabbed her shoulders and gently turned her around. I pushed the dress off her shoulders, letting it pool around her waist.

Her back was just as ravaged. Fresh scabs mingled with old, thick scars. Heavy welts carved valleys into her spine. But as my eyes traced the damage, a chilling, calculated pattern emerged. The horrific abuse stopped abruptly at her chest. It vanished right above her thighs. Her arms, from the shoulder down, were flawless and bare of any wounds.

Strategic torture.

They brutalized her in the specific areas covered by her baggy clothes. They did it to keep up appearances. They hid their cruelty from the eyes of visiting guests. More importantly, they hid it from me. They knew this meeting was arranged over a month ago, and they ensured their victim was neatly packaged and concealed beneath a maid's uniform.

She scrambled to pull the dress back up, wrapping the ruined fabric tightly around her shivering frame.

"You need to see a doctor," I forced the words out past the rage strangling my throat.

"It is..." She trailed off. She glanced up, caught the murderous fury burning on my face, and swallowed the lie. "It always heals. Eventually."

"Did Brant do this?" I muttered through gritted teeth, pointing a stiff finger at her broken body.

She lowered her brilliant blue eyes to the floor.

"Valeria?" I pressed.

Silence. She still refused to answer me.

"That prick that follows Brant around? All three of them?"

She clutched her dress tighter around her neck. A single, heavy tear broke free and rolled down her pale cheek. She reached up and quickly wiped it away, nodding her head in a silent, tragic confession.

"Anyone else?" I asked, my blood roaring in my ears.

"The pack," she whispered.

*I am going to kill them all,* Rokar roared, thrashing wildly against my mental barriers, demanding blood.

He would have to get in line behind me.

"Because of what you allegedly did to your parents," I stated.

She nodded again.

"I do not believe you were responsible."

The heavy words hung in the quiet office. Malia froze. Slowly, she tilted her head up. Her brow knit together in deep confusion, and her blue eyes finally met mine head-on.

"Because of Blood of Wolfsbane?"