Scars and Survival

Three years of relentless torment carved the proud Crystal Creek Alpha’s daughter into a ghost.

A skinny, scarred woman shuffled down the bustling concrete sidewalk. She clutched a frayed plastic bag holding her meager existence: a few crumpled dollars and a state identification card. The three-centimeter scar across her cheek pulled tight as the chilling wind hit her pale, bruised skin.

Three years had passed, and the world had moved on.

Sloane’s lips curled into a bitter, humorless line. Things had changed outside the walls of the werewolf dungeon, but the most devastating changes happened inside her. She no longer belonged to any pack. She had lost her pristine identity in human society. As a rogue, she was far too weak and battered to survive out in the wild among other feral rogues.

Where could she go?

She stopped walking when a glowing neon sign caught her eye. The building stood tall and imposing, radiating luxury. The sign read 'Vortex Club'. Taped to the polished frosted glass near the side entrance was a simple job advertisement: 'Cleaners Wanted. Accommodation and lunch provided.'

Sloane stared at the words. A bed and a meal. That was all she needed to keep her failing body alive.

She gritted her teeth, pushed the heavy glass door open, and stepped into the recruitment office. The blast of cold air from the central air conditioning bit through her thin, sack-like dress. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her frail torso as she approached the plush reception desk.

The gorgeous woman behind the counter did not look up, tapping an expensive pen against her paperwork. "Name."

"Sloane."

The rough, grating rasp sounded like crushed glass.

The receptionist jumped, nearly dropping her pen. She stared at Sloane's battered face, wrinkling her nose in clear disgust. "What is wrong with your voice?"

Prison had drilled obedience into her bones. Dignity was a luxury she traded for survival. Sloane kept her gaze fixed on the marble floor and answered in a flat tone. "It was caused by smoke."

The gorgeous woman narrowed her eyes, assessing the ragged clothes and the fresh bruises fading into yellow on Sloane's jaw. "You mean, a fire?"

"Yes. A fire."

Sloane lowered her eyes further. She did not mention that someone had set that fire deliberately in her cell, trying to burn her alive while she slept.

Seeing that Sloane would offer no more details, the receptionist ceased to care. She frowned, waving a manicured hand. "That is not good. Vortex is no ordinary club. Our guests are VIPs. You cannot work here. You are not even qualified to be a waitress."

The receptionist stood up and turned around, ready to walk away.

"I only want to be a cleaner."

The muffled, scraping voice echoing through the office halted the woman in her tracks. She turned back around, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. She looked Sloane up and down. "I have never seen a girl in her twenties willing to work as a cleaner."

Sloane lifted her chin just enough to meet the woman's gaze. There was no defiance left in her eyes, only a hollow, numbing resignation. "I would love to be a call girl if I were qualified. But I know how I look. At least I can still do some cleaning work."

She thought bleakly of her past. She was sent to prison as a murderer. She was released now, and dignity meant nothing to her anymore.

The brutal honesty caught the receptionist off guard. She studied the hollowed cheeks and the dead, defeated posture. She walked back to her desk, picked up her pen, and began filling out the employment form. "You are hired. Do you know why I made an exception and hired you, Sloane? I agree with you. Accept your fate and do what you are capable of. Many people are twice your age, yet they still do not get it. You choose to face reality and see what you can do. I am sure you also know what you cannot do."

Sloane did not answer. She just looked at the woman quietly.

The beautiful woman sighed, shaking her head. "You can call me Roxanne. I have to tell you, Vortex Club is not an ordinary club."

Sloane caught the faint, underlying scent of pine and musk radiating from Roxanne. A werewolf. Roxanne clearly believed Sloane was just a destitute human. Without her wolf's aura, Sloane registered as nothing more than a fragile mortal. She offered no correction. She was no longer the Alpha's daughter. She was a cleaner fresh out of hell.

Months bled into one another. Sloane faded into the shadows of the Vortex Club, adjusting to her grim new life among the mop buckets and bleach bottles.

The transition from an Alpha's daughter to the lowest rung of the club's hierarchy was brutal. Over the past few months, she endured constant bullying from the other employees. The waitresses, clad in tight silk and towering heels, treated her like a disease.

In the beginning, the imprisoned werewolves had informed her that every beating she suffered in the dungeon was ordered directly by Alpha Darius. That realization had shattered her remaining will to fight. Day after day, the terrible beatings, tortures, and insults had tamed her.

Her wolf had grown weaker and weaker, the connection thinning into a fragile thread until one day, it snapped. Sloane realized she could no longer summon her beast. Her wolf was gone.

The memory of the imprisoned werewolves laughing at her echoed in her mind. They had discovered her lack of aura and mocked her without end. Their twisted faces and cruel voices acted like a dark spell, haunting her every waking moment. No matter how hard Sloane tried to drive the memories away, she could not get them out of her head.

A harsh voice cut through her hollow daze. "Sloane, a guest in the VIP room spilled their wine. Go and clean it. You are loafing on the job again. You had better watch out, or I will tell Roxanne!"

Sloane turned around, her expression blank. A blonde waitress glared at her, tapping a spiked heel against the plush carpet.

Sloane was always quiet. She did whatever she was told, never talking back, even when they pushed her to her limits. Every single person in the Vortex Club knew about her passive nature. If anyone was in a bad mood, they sought out the mute cleaner to vent their anger.

Sloane nodded without trying to defend herself.

Her dull obedience made the waitress look down on her even more.

Sloane grabbed her plastic caddy and followed the waitress toward the guest elevators. The gleaming silver doors chimed and slid open. Sloane lowered her eyes and took a step inside.

A pair of hands shoved her hard in the chest.

Sloane stumbled backward, her rubber-soled shoes slipping on the polished marble.

The waitress stood inside the elevator, looking at her in pure disgust. "You stink. Can you not smell it? You will ruin the air in the elevator, and the guests might complain about it. Go and take the freight elevator."

Sloane looked down at her clothes. Although she was dressed shabbily, she washed her uniform often. There was no strange smell coming from her body. The waitress was only trying to give her a hard time. If it were anyone else, they would get into a screaming match or a physical fight. But Sloane simply endured it in silence.

As expected, Sloane stepped back quietly. When the elevator doors closed, she caught a glimpse of the waitress pursing her lips in disdain.

Sloane turned around and navigated the labyrinth of back hallways until she reached the heavy, industrial doors of the freight elevator.

The freight elevators were used exclusively to transport supplies and trash. Despite the relative spaciousness of the car, the decor was bare and uninviting, so the waitresses rarely used it.

Sloane pressed the dull metal button. The hum of the heavy machinery echoed through the concrete shaft. She stood in the damp corridor, waiting patiently, her mind numb to the exhaustion aching in her bones.

The heavy double doors groaned as they slowly opened.

Sloane lifted her head to step inside, but her worn shoes froze on the concrete floor.

Two people occupied the center of the freight elevator.

A tall, massively strong man had a woman pinned against the back metal wall. The woman possessed a breathtaking, curvy figure, her back pressed tightly against the steel panel.

The tall man had his arms wrapped around her, hugging her tightly against his broad chest. They were kissing deeply and passionately. The sound of their wet, frantic mouths echoed loudly in the confined space.

Sloane was stunned. The sheer intimacy of the act rooted her to the spot. It would be awkward if she stepped inside the confined space right now, but it would look strange if she turned and ran away.

She stood frozen in front of the open elevator doors, clutching her cleaning caddy, unable to move a single muscle.

The woman in the man's arms broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, letting out a soft, breathy gasp. Sloane had worked in the Vortex Club for a few months now; she was aware of what those gasping, heated sounds meant.

Sloane stared at the back of the curvy woman and the sharp, chiseled profile of the towering man.

The man suddenly stopped kissing.

He did not release the woman, but he turned his head slowly toward the open elevator doors.

Sloane sensed the heavy weight of his gaze locking onto her battered frame. Her heart began beating wildly against her ribs.

She watched him carefully, her breath catching in her scarred throat. In the not-so-spacious freight elevator, the air grew thick and suffocating. An invisible, crushing pressure rolled off the man's massive body.

Sloane was paralyzed. The raw, dominant aura of a powerful Alpha slammed into her senses, heavy enough to steal the oxygen straight from her lungs. The sheer force of his presence pressed down on her fragile shoulders, demanding absolute submission from the broken, wolf-less rogue trapped in his sight.