Life as Rogues

***Ronin***

Dorian’s final words hang in the freezing air of the dungeon, echoing against the damp stone walls. The heavy iron chains holding my wrists finally release with a harsh clank. Gravity takes over. I collapse. My battered, bleeding body slams hard onto the unforgiving pavement. The impact sends white-hot pain shooting through my open wounds, reopening cuts that had just begun to scab.

The two guards do not give me a second to breathe. They haul me up by my armpits, their grips digging into my bruised flesh. They drag me down the dark, twisting corridors of the dungeon. When my legs stumble, refusing to carry my own weight, they shove me forward, laughing at my pathetic state. We breach the main doors, and the bright, blinding daylight stabs my swollen eyes. I wince, ducking my head, but they just push me harder until my boots scrape against the gravel of the main road at the edge of the territory.

They throw me to the dirt.

A deep, primal anger boils in my veins the second I look up.

Marta is waiting by a rusted, beat-up pickup truck. But it is her face that makes my chest tighten. Her delicate features are heavily bruised. Her cheeks are swollen, blooming with ugly shades of purple and black, and her bottom lip is split wide open from a brutal strike. Jaxon did this. My blood roars in my ears. I brace myself for her resentment. I just got us both exiled, banished from the only home we have ever known, condemned to the life of hunted rogues.

Instead of blaming me, the gentle woman drops to her knees. She ignores the gravel digging into her own skin and reaches out, her trembling hands carefully cradling my bloody head. She pulls me into her chest, burying her face in my matted hair. Her tears soak into my scalp.

She pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. Her hands move through the air, her fingers trembling as she signs through her heavy sobs.

*I thought they killed you. I thought you left me.*

Before I can lift my heavy arms to sign back, a throat clears. Gamma Declan approaches the truck. He shoots a stern glare at the two brutal guards who dragged me here. He dismisses them with a flick of his wrist. They do not hesitate, turning on their heels and marching back toward the packhouse, leaving us in the dust.

Declan gestures for us to get into the truck. I haul myself up, my muscles screaming in protest, and help Marta to her feet. I notice two packed duffel bags sitting in the bed of the truck. I point to them, shooting her a questioning look.

*They let me pack a few things before we left,* she shrugs, her hands moving in small, quick motions.

She reaches out, dabbing a piece of cloth against a deep gash on my shoulder. Large tears stream down her swollen cheeks as she examines the extent of my damage.

*It’s okay,* I sign back, wincing when the cloth catches on torn skin. *It is not as bad as it looks.*

She frowns, clearly not believing a single gesture, but she keeps cleaning the dirt from my cuts.

Declan stops the truck at the absolute edge of the woods, the final border marking Crimson Hollow territory. He orders us out. He tosses the duffel bags at my feet. Then, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a thick manila envelope, extending it toward me. I hesitate, taking it with bloodstained fingers. Opening the flap, I find a massive wad of essential cash.

"A gift," Declan says, his voice keeping a low, guarded volume. "Your mother was my best friend. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret finding her sooner."

I stare at the green bills. Gamma Declan never treated me poorly, but he never stuck his neck out for me either. To do this now, behind the Alpha's back, is treason.

I thumb through the cash and feel something stiff caught between the bills. I pull it out. The breath leaves my lungs. Tears immediately prick the corners of my eyes. It is a hidden photograph of my mother and me, taken just days before she was murdered. Her smile is bright, her eyes full of life, her arm wrapped tight around my younger shoulders.

"Your father kept this picture hidden in a drawer," Declan explains, his expression unreadable. "I figured you may have better use for it."

Before I can process the emotional weight of holding her face again, Declan unrolls a detailed map across the hood of the truck. Hundreds of red dots cluster across the state lines.

"This is a map of every known territory in Washington," he points to the clusters. "Stay clear of them, and you avoid getting yourselves killed." He drags his finger down the coastline, tapping on a spot with zero red dots. "These isolated pockets are your safest bet. Perfect for two rogues starting over. Try Poulsbo first. It is about a hundred miles south, small enough to stay off the radar of any major packs."

He rolls the map back up and shoves it against my chest.

"You better hurry before it gets dark. A deaf wolf and a mute one are two perfect targets for a desperate rogue looking for a meal," he warns grimly.

I nod once, a silent vow of gratitude, and stuff the map deep into my backpack.

"Moon Goddess be with you, Ronin," Declan murmurs. He turns on his heel, climbs back into his truck, and drives away into the gathering night.

Marta and I watch the taillights disappear. A heavy dread settles deep in my stomach. We are nothing now. Nameless. Packless. I feel a warm, soft hand slip into mine. I squeeze her fingers, grounding myself in her touch. Marta tugs at my arm. I look down. She forces a small, brave smile through her bruised face.

*We will be okay,* she signs, picking up her heavy duffel bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

*I will carry you,* I sign, ready to push through the agony and shift into my wolf.

*I can walk,* she huffs, rolling her eyes playfully and turning toward the dark tree line. I reach out to take her bag, but she steps away, refusing to let me bear her weight. She refuses to be a burden. But in my eyes, she is the only thing keeping me anchored to this earth.

The walk to the nearest town takes hours. Every step sends fresh pain shooting up my spine. My raw back burns under the coarse fabric of my shirt. By the time the sun fully sets and the neon signs of a dingy, roadside motel flicker into view, we are both dragging our feet. I hand Marta a few bills from Declan’s envelope, staying back in the shadows so the front desk clerk does not call the cops at the sight of my bloody clothes.

She returns with a rusty key. The room is tiny, smelling faintly of bleach and old smoke. There is only one sagging mattress. We share a tired look, silently agreeing we do not have the energy to argue over sleeping arrangements tonight.

Marta leaves again to find a nearby pharmacy. I head straight for the bathroom. I strip off my ruined clothes and step under the lukewarm shower. The water instantly turns pink, washing away the dirt, the sweat, and the dried blood. My cuts sting, but it is the deep, blistering burn on my hip that makes my knees buckle. The silver chain Jaxon sadistically pressed into my skin has left a permanent, ragged brand. The silver halts my rapid wolf healing. I will carry this ugly, jagged scar forever. A permanent reminder of my own weakness.

I shut off the water. I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror. A mute, broken rogue.

When I step out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my waist, the trauma I have been swallowing all day finally rises to my throat. The sheer injustice of it all. The rejection. The pain. The fact that I cannot even scream.

Marta is sitting on the edge of the bed, organizing bandages and antiseptic. She sees my chest heaving, sees the dark storm brewing in my eyes, and stands up.

*Sit down,* she pleads with her hands. *Let’s talk.*

I shake my head, my hands cutting through the air with harsh, sharp movements. *I’m so tired of this shit! Why can’t I just talk? Why am I so broken?*

She steps closer, forcing a soft, reassuring smile. *You are not broken.*

*Then why are we here!* I nearly growl aloud, my hands moving frantic and fast. I yank my injured body away from her gentle reach, pacing the worn carpet. *Face it! My own father disowned me because I’m worthless!*

The second the sign leaves my hands, the room goes dead silent. Marta freezes. Her hands drop to her sides. She bites her trembling bottom lip. Her green eyes glass over, filling with a profound, piercing hurt.

She raises her hands slowly, her movements small and tight. *Am I worthless then too?*

The blood drains from my face. I stop pacing. Horror crashes over me like ice water. I just took my own self-pity and weaponized it against the only person in the world who truly loves me. The only person who stayed by my side when she had every reason to run.

*No,* I sign quickly, dropping my head in deep, burning shame. *I am sorry. I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t mean that.*

She watches me for a long moment, reading the genuine regret tearing me apart. She lets out a soft breath, holding her hands up to stop my frantic apologies. She gestures to the edge of the mattress.

*Come,* she signs. *Let’s get those wounds dressed.*

I sink onto the squeaking bed, keeping perfectly still. She works with gentle precision, dabbing antiseptic over my torn back. She whimpers softly to herself with every wince I make, and when I glance over my shoulder, I see fresh tears tracking through the bruises on her cheeks.

*I am sorry. I did not mean what I said,* I sign again.

*No, it is not that,* she signs back, wiping her face with the back of her wrist. *Just look at what that monster did to you.*

*I am fine. It is just a few cuts.*

She points a trembling finger at the blistering silver brand on my hip. *He branded you.*

I look down at the raw, angry skin. It still burns with a faint, toxic heat. Jaxon marked me. But my father marked him right back.

*It is okay. Jaxon got a matching one too,* I offer a crooked, awkward smile.

She does not find the joke amusing. She finishes taping the gauze over my back and hip, her touch lingering just long enough to assure me I am forgiven. She pulls two cans of chicken soup from her plastic grocery bag and heats them in the small microwave. We sit cross-legged on the bed, eating our meager dinner out of paper bowls. The silence between us is no longer heavy. It is comfortable. Forgiving. I take a bite of the salty broth and look at her bruised face, silently thanking the Moon Goddess that I am not navigating this terrifying rogue existence alone.

***

The next morning, my body still throbs with a dull ache, but the bruises on my chest have started to fade. Marta redresses my raw hip, packing our bags tight. We check out and hit the road.

The journey to Poulsbo is grueling. We take a cramped, foul-smelling bus out of town, blending in with the drifters and the tired commuters. From there, we board a massive Greyhound bound for Edmonds, sitting in the very back row. Marta keeps her face glued to the smudged window, watching the dense evergreen forests blur past. I spend the hours gripping the armrest, scanning every passenger that boards, my instincts wound tight. A rogue without a pack is always prey.

After the bus, we catch the ferry. The massive boat cuts through the dark, choppy waters of the Puget Sound. The salty wind whips against my face as we stand on the outer deck, watching the island town of Poulsbo rise from the mist. It is a quiet, isolated place, framed by thick woods and deep water.

We step off the ferry in the late hours of the morning, our legs stiff and our eyes heavy with exhaustion. We find another cheap motel on the outskirts of the sleepy town. Marta crashes onto the bed instantly, eager to rest. I try to close my eyes, but my mind reels. We have enough cash from Declan for a deposit on a small apartment, but I need a job. I need income if I am going to keep her safe and provide a real, warm bed to call her own.

Deep in my chest, Sterling stirs. My massive silver wolf groans in my mind, pacing back and forth. The stress of the exile, the silver burns, and the long travel have him on edge. He needs to stretch his legs. He needs the earth under his paws.

I roll over. Marta is awake, staring blankly at the ceiling paint. I grab a flat pillow and toss it at her head. She sits up, baring her teeth in a silent, playful growl.

*Want to go for a run?* I sign, flashing a grin.

She nods eagerly, throwing the blankets off.

We walk the short distance from the motel into the sprawling, dense forest surrounding the town. Once we are deep enough into the trees, where the sounds of passing cars fade into nothing, I turn my back to give her privacy. A few moments later, a cold, wet snout nudges my hand. I turn around.

Sybil, Marta’s agile, light-brown wolf, drops into a low play-bow. Her tail wags in wide, sweeping arcs. Like Marta, Sybil is completely deaf and mute. But the Moon Goddess balances all things. What Sybil lacks in hearing, she makes up for with razor-sharp sight and an unmatched sense of smell. Her bright green eyes sparkle with wild joy, and she tugs gently on the hem of my shirt, begging me to join her.

I step behind a massive oak tree, stripping off my clothes and folding them neatly next to Marta’s. I inspect the tight scabs on my back one last time before letting the shift take over.

Bones snap and realign. Muscle shifts. The release of tension is euphoric. I hit the dirt on four paws, shaking out my coat. Like my parents, Sterling is a pure silver wolf. His metallic fur gleams under the forest canopy.

I let him take full control of our shared body, but I keep my grip iron-clad on the thick mental wall holding back our inherited abilities. When I first shifted years ago, the mind-reading nearly broke me. I could hear the never-ending thoughts of every single person around me. The overlapping voices, the flashing memories, the raw, unfiltered emotions. It was a chaotic nightmare. I locked Sterling in the dark recesses of my mind to stop the noise, building a massive mental barrier to shut out the world. Even now, Sterling rarely communicates with me beyond annoyed grunts or warning growls. Marta once tried to help me master the gift, but the moment I reached into her mind, the feedback loop sent her into a catatonic state for hours. Seeing her go so numb and empty terrified me. I swore never to drop the wall again.

Free from the mental weight, Sterling races after Sybil. They tear through the underbrush, dodging roots and vaulting over fallen logs. The damp earth kicks up beneath our paws. We sprint until our lungs burn, the cold wind flushing the remaining stress from our muscles. Sybil leads us to a small, babbling stream. She splashes into the icy water, swimming lazy circles to cool her core. Sterling flops onto the grassy bank, panting happily as the afternoon sun warms his silver fur.

The peace is absolute.

Until the rustling starts.

A sharp snap of a twig echoes directly behind us. Sybil freezes in the water, her nose tilting up to catch the scent on the wind. Sterling is on his feet in a fraction of a second. I take a fierce, highly aggressive stance on the shoreline, placing my massive silver body directly between the tree line and Sybil. I pull my lips back, exposing razor-sharp fangs, and let out a low, bone-rattling growl.

Two unknown wolves emerge from the dense trees.

Rogues.

The larger one has dark brown fur and deep blue eyes. The smaller one is a sleek grey wolf, shrinking back and hiding behind her companion's flank.

Sterling steps forward, his growl vibrating through my chest. The larger brown wolf immediately lowers his head, backing away submissively. He drops to the dirt and shifts back into a human.

He is a man, maybe thirty years old, with dark brown hair and a silver ring pierced through his eyebrow. Tattoos crawl up his toned arms and cover his chest. He raises both hands high in the air, his face pale with sudden nerves.

"Easy there, bud. We don't want any trouble," the man says quickly, his voice strained. "We were just out on a run. Heard you splashing around, that’s all."

Sterling snaps his jaws, demanding they keep their distance.

"You must be new here," the man continues, rubbing the back of his neck with a nervous laugh. "We haven't seen another wolf around this area in years. It's just been the two of us holding down the fort."

The smaller grey wolf shimmers, shifting into a petite woman with a sharp pixie cut and her own collection of colorful tattoos.

Sybil climbs out of the water, shaking her coat dry. She steps around Sterling, sniffing the air. She scans the tree line, checking for an ambush. Satisfied there are no other scents, she walks right up to the tattooed woman and sniffs her outstretched hand. Sensing no immediate danger, Sybil leans into the woman's touch, letting her scratch behind her ears.

"I've never seen a silver wolf before," the man says, his blue eyes wide with awe. "Much less one running rogue."

Sensing their submissive posture and lack of hostile intent, I push Sterling back and shift into my human form. I stand up, grabbing my jeans from the pile and pulling them on.

The pixie-cut woman’s cheeks flush a deep crimson red the second she sees me bare-chested. Sybil chuffs a laughing sound in her throat. I shoot my wolf a hard glare, telling her to knock it off.

I turn back to the man. I hold up my hand and trace my index finger over my palm, imitating a pen writing on paper. I hope he catches the universal sign for needing a pen. He just blinks at me, his face blank with confusion.

I sigh, dropping to a crouch. I find a thick stick and drag it deep through a patch of wet dirt. I write out the word **DEAF** in massive capital letters, pointing the stick at Sybil. Then, I quickly scratch the word **MUTE** into the mud and point to my own chest.

The man leans over, reading the dirt. His face lights up in profound realization.

"Oh!" he exclaims, slapping his forehead. "Okay! Got it. That's cool. I'm Tobin, by the way. And this is my best friend, Pippa." He gestures to the blushing woman. "We're... well, we're what's left of our pack."

I nod, understanding that shared pain. I smooth out the dirt and scratch my name, **RONIN**, and then point to Sybil, writing **MARTA**.

"Nice to meet you, Ronin," Tobin grins, his nervous energy shifting into excited relief. "Where are you guys staying? We’d love to hang out."

I scratch the word **MOTEL** into the dirt.

Tobin frowns, crossing his arms over his tattooed chest. "Oh, hell no. Unacceptable. We can't let the only two werewolves we've met in years stay in some dingy, roadside motel. You're staying with us."

He steps forward, gesturing back toward the town. "Come on. We'll get you set up at our place until you figure out your next move."

I stare at Tobin, my eyebrows raising in suspicion. Rogues do not just offer up their safe houses to strangers. I calculate the risk. Tobin is fit, but I have a foot of height on him and double the muscle mass. Pippa is small. If this turns out to be a sinister trap, I know my own strength. I can easily overpower them both and get Marta out safely.

I look at Sybil and give a short nod. She immediately shifts back to her human form, grabbing her clothes. She rushes up to Tobin and throws her arms around his waist in a tight hug.

"Oh, no worries, girl. We got you," Tobin laughs, patting her back. "Us rogues gotta stick together if we want to survive out here."

We hike back to the motel, check out of our miserable room, and pile into Pippa's beat-up sedan. They drive us straight to the town square, parking in front of a small, charming house with peeling blue paint. The inside is cozy and welcoming, smelling of cinnamon and old books. There is a living room, a cramped kitchen, and a small den tucked in the back hallway.

"You guys can make yourselves comfortable in here," Pippa says, leading us into the den. She hands me a stack of fresh, clean towels. Her fingers accidentally brush against my knuckles.

She gasps softly, jerking her hand back. Her face burns furiously red again, her eyes darting away as she stammers, "I—I can bring you some extra pillows. W-we can go to the camping store tomorrow and get an air mattress, if you want."

Before I can shake my head to decline the offer, she spins around and practically runs down the hallway.

Marta bursts into silent laughter, holding her stomach. She flashes a massive, teasing grin.

*They like you,* she signs quickly, wiggling her eyebrows. *I mean, they ‘like you’ like you.*

I roll my eyes, feeling a flush creep up my own neck. *Please stop talking.*

A door clicks open down the hall, and Tobin walks into the living room. He is dressed for work, wearing tight black jeans and a fitted black t-shirt that shows off his ink.

"My shift starts in an hour, Ronin, if you want to come," Tobin suggests, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. "I work at a highly prestigious local nightclub downtown. They’re looking to hire some new security guards right now."

I step out of the den, giving him my full attention.

"It's kind of a perfect gig for you, man," Tobin continues, turning to face me. "You don't need to talk. Your muteness won't matter at all. The boss just needs guys with massive size to intimidate people, violently throw out the drunks, and keep the staff safe from harassment. Think you could handle that?"

I nod frantically. This is exactly what I need. A cash job where my silence is not a liability. Desperation to provide a good, safe life for Marta fuels my next movement. I turn back to my duffel bag, digging through my folded clothes until I find my tightest black t-shirt. I pull it over my head, smoothing the fabric over my chest and shoulders, mentally preparing for the interview.

*Such a handsome little wolf man,* Marta teases again from the corner of the den, pointing at my chest.

I snarl playfully at her, making her laugh harder. I grab my wallet and fake ID from the side pocket of the bag.

I pause by the front door, closing my eyes. I tip my head back, looking up toward the ceiling.

*Please Moon Goddess,* I pray silently in the darkness of my own mind. *Please help me get this job.*