Bleed to Survive

POV: Astrid

My sock is wet. The icy water seeps through a worn, jagged hole in the sole of my leather boot with every single agonizing step. It is just another layer of misery added to the daily existence in the decaying village of Miretown. I stare out at the muddy earth beneath my feet, the rotting wooden buildings leaning against one another for structural support, the heavy, swollen clouds hanging low overhead. Everything in my line of sight is a sickly, suffocating gray. The sky. The mud. The sunken faces of the people standing around me. None of us have the money to paint our homes. None of us have the energy to care about aesthetics anymore. We are surviving. Barely.

"Astrid?"

Silas's voice breaks through my bleak thoughts. I turn to look at my longtime best friend. We are standing in the endless, slushy line outside the bakery, shifting our weight in the freezing mud to keep the blood flowing in our toes. We end up donating our blood at the village clinic at the same time every morning, which means we inevitably find ourselves standing in this miserable bread line together every afternoon. I do not mind it. He is one of the few people in this wretched town whose company I actually tolerate.

"Did you hear what I asked you?" he asks, flashing a goofy grin. He already knows the answer. I was trapped in my own head again.

"Sorry," I mutter, shrugging. A bone-deep exhaustion radiates from my marrow, traveling up my spine and clouding my brain. My arms ache with a dull, persistent throb. The crook of my elbow is bruised purple from the thick needle. My veins feel hollow, scraped clean. I have given so much blood this week just to earn a handful of meager "vlads" that my vision blurs at the edges if I turn my head too fast. I am running on fumes.

"I asked how your mother is feeling this morning," Silas repeats. He runs a hand through his dark hair, peering down at me. He is a head taller than me, forcing me to tilt my chin up to meet his brown eyes. "Is she feeling any better?"

Every single day, Silas asks me how my mother is doing. Every single day, I tell him she is about the same, or maybe a little worse. Today is no different.

"Lots of coughing this morning," I reply, pulling my threadbare dark blue cloak tighter around my shoulders. It used to belong to my mother, back when she was healthy enough to wear it out of the house. The fabric is so worn that parts of it are nearly translucent, offering zero protection against the biting autumn wind. "But she kept her water down. No puking. So that is something."

"Good. Maybe she will be able to hold the bread down today then." Silas remains optimistic, a trait I usually appreciate about him.

We have known each other our entire lives. We went to the village school together. Now that we are nineteen, the ruling council requires us to either perform gruelling community labor or find a steady job to contribute to Miretown. Steady work is a myth these days. Because I have two younger siblings—Taran and Fiona—and a bedridden mother to care for, I help with the village garbage collection every morning before dragging myself to the clinic to donate blood. My stepfather works in the mines, but his wages barely cover the taxes, leaving the burden of food entirely on my shoulders.

As wolf shifters, our biology allows us to regenerate and give blood far more frequently than the humans or other species. But the process is still a massive drain on the body. We are supposed to be apex predators. We are supposed to run hot, our inner body temperatures naturally burning off the autumn chill. But that requires fuel. It requires meat, fat, nourishment. Under the vampires' rule, we are livestock. They force us to bleed for our daily bread. The constant starvation keeps us shivering in the damp wind.

Worse, it keeps our wolves caged. We are too weak to shift. Most of the pack has not seen their fur in years. I am nineteen, nearing my twentieth birthday, the age when my wolf should fully awaken, when I should be able to catch the scent of a fated mate. But right now, my only thought is survival. Romance is a joke in a world where you sell your plasma for a crust of bread.

A sudden gust of wind sweeps down the street. With it comes a scent that cuts right through the smell of wet mud and unwashed bodies.

A faint metallic tang hits the back of my throat. It tastes like old pennies and raw iron.

My stomach twists into a hard knot. A primal dread spikes in my chest.

"Do you smell that?" I whisper, leaning closer to Silas, my eyes scanning the gray street.

He arches an eyebrow. "Smell what? All I smell is you, Astrid."

I roll my eyes, irritated by his lack of awareness. "So you smell sweat and clothes that have not been laundered for months because we cannot afford soap?" I shake my head at him, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Pay attention. They have to be close by."

Silas shrugs, dismissing the threat. "I don't think so."

"Why not? They are always poking around, patrolling the borders, trying to see what else they can take from us." I spin around to face the front of the line a bit too fast. The world tilts. Black spots dance in my vision, a direct result of my drained veins. Silas grabs my arm to steady me. He is a good guy, but his touch sparks nothing in me. No electricity. No mate bond tingles. Just the cold reality of our miserable lives.

"If they were here, the mayor would have sent a warning down to the village," Silas reasons, letting go of my arm once the dizziness passes. "He likes us on our best behavior when the leeches visit."

Maybe Silas is right. But the scent lingers, heavy and oppressive in the damp air. Vampires. The very monsters who ruthlessly ruined our world, subjugated our people, and stripped away our dignity. I hate them. I hate the pristine uniforms they wear while running the blood clinics. I hate the way they strut through our streets, treating us like cattle to be milked. I shake my head and force myself to focus on the bakery door. We are finally inching closer.

We step up again. Silas and I have been standing in this line for nearly two hours. My feet are soaking wet and numb. I just want to get my bread and go home.

"Sorry, Agatha, but that is only forty-four vlads."

The booming, cruel voice of Goran Grimm rings out from inside the shop. Goran is the baker and the brother to our tyrannical mayor, Jarek Grimm. Together, the Grimm family holds a corrupt monopoly over the village's food supply. They control who eats and who starves.

I peer through the open doorway. Ms. Agatha stands at the counter, her frail eighty-year-old shoulders trembling beneath a moth-eaten shawl. She lives next door to my family. Before the vampires took over, she used to bake the most incredible berry pies from the fruit she foraged in the woods. Now, foraging is strictly outlawed by the vampire king's governors. At her age, the clinics only allow her to give blood once a week. If she does not get this bread, she will starve.

"But... I counted it this morning before I left home," Agatha whispers, her voice cracking. Tears well in her cloudy eyes, her wrinkled hands shaking over the wooden counter.

"I do not care how many vlads you had when you left home," Goran snaps viciously. He leans over the counter, jabbing a thick, meaty finger toward the exit. "You only have forty-four now. So give me another coin, or get your old ass out of here. I have other customers."

Behind Goran stands his portly wife, Helga. She chews on a sweet roll, casually licking sugar crystals off her plump thumb while a starving woman begs for her life. The contrast makes me nauseous.

The line goes dead silent. The humiliation on Agatha's face makes my chest ache with a physical pain.

I turn to Silas, grabbing his sleeve. "Silas, you have it," I whisper desperately. "Give her one coin."

Silas shakes his head, his expression hardening into apathy. "I have to buy four loaves for my family."

"You have no sick people at home. No elderly," I press, my voice rising. "Your parents and your sister are healthy. They all give blood. My mom is bedridden. Taran and Fiona are just little kids. I only have exactly forty-five vlads in my pocket. One coin for one loaf. I cannot do it. But you can."

Silas pulls his arm away, refusing to meet my eyes. "I cannot be sure I have enough. Drop it, Astrid."

I swallow a fierce, helpless fury. The burn starts deep within my soul and travels up my throat. I watch Agatha gather her rejected coins, her tears spilling over her wrinkled cheeks as she shuffles out into the rain, passing right by us. My hands curl into tight fists. My nails dig into my palms. I want to scream at Goran. I want to jump over the counter and strangle him and his smug wife. But I am forced to hold my tongue. Goran controls the rations. He already despises me because of a petty childhood grudge between me and his snobby daughter, Vanya. Vanya told her father I called her a heifer once. I did, but only because she intentionally stomped on my foot.

It is finally my turn.

I step up to the counter. The smell of warm, fresh yeast fills my lungs, battling against that faint metallic stench from outside. Pastries sit behind the glass—muffins, sweet rolls, delicacies reserved only for the mayor's inner circle, the sheriff, and the rich farmers. For the rest of us, there is only the dense, tasteless ration bread.

Goran squints his cruel, beady eyes at me.

"What will you have, Asstrid?" he asks. He leans on the word, stretching the first syllable, deliberately baiting me with the mispronunciation.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. I force a stiff, unnatural smile, refusing to let him see how much I want to rip his throat out. "One loaf of bread, please, sir."

I place my coins on the wooden counter. My meticulously counted blood money. The price of my drained veins. Goran drags the coins toward him. He counts them agonizingly slowly, inspecting the edges as if I am trying to pass off fake metal. When he finds no excuse to deny me, he gestures to Helga. She grabs the smallest, saddest-looking loaf from the back rack and tosses it onto the counter.

I snatch it up, wrapping my fingers around the warm paper sleeve. "Thank you."

"Watch yourself, Miss Thorne," Goran sneers. The dim light of the shop catches the thick grease on his balding head. "I do not like it when people have attitudes in my shop. You would be well served to remember that."

My exhaustion-addled brain short-circuits. The rage I swallowed for Agatha bubbles up, hot and reckless. I hate the name Thorne. It belongs to my stepfather, a man who has brought nothing but grief and empty promises to our household. Before my common sense can lock my jaw, the rebellious words tumble past my lips.

"It is Miss Vane, thank you very much," I snap, claiming my true birth name. "Have a great day, asshole."

Goran's jaw drops. His beady eyes bug out in sheer shock. He struggles to form a retort, his mouth hanging open like a dying fish.

I do not wait for his response. I turn on my heel and hurry out the door, plunging back into the cold drizzle.

"Astrid, what the hell?" Silas groans in frustration behind me.

I know. I know deep down that I have royally messed up. Tomorrow, I will have to crawl back here and beg for mercy. I will have to grovel to Goran, invent some feverish illness to excuse my disrespect, just to keep my family alive. But in this singular, fleeting moment, I do not care.

I have food.

I stare at the paper sleeve in my hand. Inside is beautiful, life-saving, freshly baked bread. My mother will eat today. Taran and Fiona will not cry themselves to sleep with hollow bellies. For the first time since the sun rose over this miserable gray town, a genuine smile stretches across my face.

I hold my glorious prize high against my chest. The rain falls around me, but I feel a sudden burst of warmth. I approach the muddy street corner, stepping lightly, playfully leaping over a deep, slushy puddle. A pack of desperate stray dogs loiters near the alleyway, their ribs showing through their matted fur. They lick their chops, eyeing my package with hungry intensity.

"Nope, this is mine," I warn them, my voice light and teasing.

Then, a massive, unyielding wall of solid muscle slams into my extended shoulder.

A brutal, hard bump jars my bones. Pain shoots down my arm.

Everything shifts into agonizing, heart-stopping slow motion. My fingers go numb from the impact. The paper sleeve slips from my grasp.

A scream catches in my throat. I watch the bread arc gracefully against the miserable gray sky. It flips end over end, a perfect, tragic trajectory. I reach out, my fingers clawing at the empty air, praying to catch it before gravity wins.

Thunk.

It hits the filthy, muddy water of the puddle right in front of me. Brown sludge splashes up, soaking the paper, ruining the crust.

My knees hit the wet earth. I lunge forward, my hands plunging into the icy mud, desperate to salvage it. Maybe I can tear off the dirty parts. Maybe the inside is still dry.

But I am not fast enough.

The stray dogs surge forward. They move faster than a starving wolf. Snarling and snapping, they swarm the puddle. Mud flies into my face. Teeth flash in a frenzy of survival. In mere seconds, my family's dinner is torn apart and swallowed whole. They strip the puddle clean, leaving nothing but shredded wet paper behind.

I kneel in the slush, my hands empty and dripping with freezing mud. My breath hitches. The triumph in my chest shatters into sheer, devastating horror. My siblings are going to starve tonight. My mother might not make it through the week. All because of this.

The horror curdles. It ferments into a burning, white-hot anger that consumes every logical thought in my brain. My fangs press against my bottom lip.

I slowly rise to my feet. Horrified and empty-handed, I look around, frantically searching for the bastard who just robbed my family of our food.