Awakening Sable

Marcy's POV

The gloomy chill of the morning mirrors the heavy dread settling deep within my chest. I stare up at the splintered wooden ceiling, counting the familiar water stains as I force my body out of the creaking bed. The rusty springs groan in protest under my meager weight, a harsh sound in the dead silence of the attic. The frayed, threadbare blanket slips from my shoulders. It offers zero comfort against the freezing reality of my daily existence. Winter bites through the thin walls, raising painful goosebumps across my skin.

Stepping barefoot onto the cold floorboards, I wince as a sharp ache shoots up my spine. I drag my feet and move toward the cracked mirror resting on a discarded dresser. My reflection stares back, revealing a canvas of dark, purple-and-black bruises painting my fragile arms and back. Some of the older marks fade into sickly yellow edges, but the fresh red lines overlap them in a chaotic grid. It is a brutal physical punishment inflicted simply for making a salty soup the night before. I had missed a step without the head chef’s guidance, and my stepmother made sure I paid for it in blood.

My fingers tremble as I unscrew the cap of a battered first-aid tube. I squeeze out a dab of cold ointment and apply the soothing cream to the swollen welts. It is a numb, mechanical routine, something I do almost every morning. I trace the raised skin, biting my lip to keep from crying out in the empty room. The physical stinging is dulled only by the rapid healing abilities of my inner wolf, Sable.

Sable is the only reason I have kept my sanity in this hell. Just feeling her presence in the back of my mind brings a flicker of warmth to my freezing chest. I still smile remembering the birthday she finally awoke in my mind. There was no cake, no celebration, no grand party like my half-siblings always received. I was on my knees in the dead of night, scrubbing the hardwood floors until my hands bled into the murky, soapy water. The isolation had felt thick enough to choke me.

Then, she spoke. Her fierce, comforting voice echoes in my memory even now.

I remember freezing, the wet scrub brush slipping from my numb fingers and splashing dirty water everywhere. I had spun around, terrified someone was sneaking up on me. *'I'm sorry I wasn't here to help you,'* she had said, her tone dripping with ancient sorrow and deep, protective empathy. *'But I'm here now, and you'll always have me to watch your back. F*ck this pack and your family for the hell they've put you through!'*

I had laughed through my tears that night. She is my first true friend, my real family. We share this broken body, and she keeps my spirit from shattering into a million pieces.

I pull a faded, oversized gray dress over my head, hiding the horrific canvas of my abuse. I tie my mid-length brown hair back, keeping it out of my green eyes. The reality of my duties drags me out of the fragile safety of my room.

I step into the bright hallway of the main floor. The contrast between my threadbare clothes and the plush carpets beneath my feet is a constant, suffocating reminder of my place.

"Hurry up, Marcy!" Drusilla sneers from her bedroom doorway. She leans against the mahogany frame, her dark hair falling in pristine waves over a silk robe. Her dark eyes narrow as she looks me up and down. "I don't have all day to look at your stupid face."

I keep my eyes glued to the floor and quicken my pace. I know better than to talk back. But before I can slip past the next door, Thalia steps out.

"I don't have time for this," Thalia chimes in, demanding my attention. She drops a pair of muddy boots right in my path. "Clean my shoes. Make sure they shine before I need them."

I bend down to pick up the heavy, mud-caked boots. Just as my fingers brush the leather, Thalia’s foot shoots forward. She delivers a hard, vicious kick directly to my back.

The impact hits dead center on my fresh bruises. I gasp, pitching forward and slamming my elbows onto the hardwood floor. The air leaves my lungs in a painful rush. My spine screams in agony.

Thalia smiles with sadistic pleasure, a cruel curl of her lips as she looks down at me. "Maybe that kick will make you clean faster," she suggests.

I bite my lip hard, tasting the metallic tang of my own blood. I swallow the sharp pain shooting through my spine, forcing back my tears. This is normal behavior here. As the only child born to my father’s true mate, I am an outcast among my five half-siblings. They all share the same black hair and dark eyes from his chosen mate. I am the bastard. The unwanted reminder of a past he tries to erase.

I gather the shoes and push myself upright, limping down the hall toward the kitchen. My vision blurs from the throbbing pain in my back, but I force my legs to keep moving. Survival in the Alpha's house means enduring the unendurable.

A blinding pain erupts on my scalp.

My head snaps backward with bone-jarring force as my stepmother yanks my hair backward. The boots tumble from my hands, clattering against the baseboards. I reach up blindly, my hands grabbing at my screaming roots to relieve the agonizing pressure.

"Have you made breakfast for me and my pups?" she growls, her breath hot against my ear. She interrogates me with a menacing hiss. I didn't even sense her coming.

Panic seizes my throat. I nod, breathless. "Yes, Beatrice already made it."

She holds on for another agonizing second before she releases my hair. I crash painfully to the hard floor, my knees taking the full force of the fall. I stay down, curling in on myself.

Her piercing blue eyes study me with cruel amusement. She smooths down her pristine morning dress, towering over my trembling form. "You know, you are only kept alive for your father's reputation," she hisses, her voice dripping with venom. "If it were up to me, I would have disposed of you a long time ago."

I clench my fists against the floorboards. My fingernails dig deep into my palms. Inside my mind, Sable snarls, her fury boiling over. I feel a sharp prickle at my fingertips and fight the primal urge to unsheathe my claws. I want to rip into her leg. I want to stand up and fight. But survival means enduring. Hitting an Alpha female means an instant death sentence. I take a slow, shuddering breath, locking my wolf away.

Drusilla wanders into the hall, standing beside her mother. She giggles from the corner, covering her mouth in mock pity as she looks at me writhing on the floor. "Mother is right. You are nothing but a burden. A pathetic stain on the family's reputation."

Something deep inside me snaps.

The years of swallowing blood, the vicious kicks, the endless scrubbing, the hair pulling—it all crashes together into a suffocating wave of rage. My fragile control shatters.

I lift my head, my green eyes locking onto Drusilla. "Shut up," I growl at her.

Regret floods my veins instantly. The silence in the hallway turns deadly.

Heavy footsteps echo from the living room. My father strides into the corridor. Alpha Vance. His massive frame takes up all the space, suffocating the air out of the hall. His eyes flash with cold fury, locking onto me still kneeling on the floor.

He doesn't ask what happened. He doesn't care that his mate and daughter provoked me.

Without a single moment of hesitation, his heavy hand swings down. It cracks fiercely across my face.

The force of the blow sounds like a gunshot. My head spins, my vision blurring into black and white spots. The metallic tang of blood fills my mouth as I hit the wall, clutching my stinging cheek. My ears ring in a high-pitched whine.

He stands over me, an imposing figure of nightmare and authority. He sneers down at me, his lip curled in disgust. He agrees with Drusilla. "She is right," he spits out. "You are a useless burden to this family. You are nothing but a mistake. Just as useless as your whore of a mother."

The words slice deeper than any physical blow. The tears I fought to restrain finally spill down my cheeks. I squeeze my eyes shut, silent sobs wracking my bruised body. The villagers say I look exactly like my late mother. She was his true mate. He loved her once. Yet he stands here, twisting her memory into something filthy just to break me further.

The rejection carves a hollow cavity in my chest. He watches my pain with dead, cold eyes. He feels no pity for the broken girl bleeding on his floor.

Unmoved by my silent crying, he delivered his final command: 'Hurry up and help your sisters get dressed. The moonball is about to start.'