Rogue Royalty, The Rebel Princess

In a world where fairness is scarce and the dreams of childhood remain elusive fantasies, I find myself caught in an unending nightmare. Every day is a struggle, a relentless horror I yearn to escape. I crave the freedom to shape my destiny, to make choices, and live life on my own terms.

The specter of my own demise looms over me, a constant fear that I might never break free from this torment. At seventeen, my weariness surpasses my years, burdened by a life lived in constant motion, haunted by the destruction and suffering we leave in our wake as werewolves in France.

I am not part of a conventional pack, but entangled in a malevolent existence that I am too young and too tainted to endure. Let me introduce myself: Cassidy Amelia Griffin, born on the 3rd of December, a date I never celebrate, for what joy is there in mere survival? My only family is my father, a man who guards my lineage like a sinister secret.

I know not if I possess what society deems as beauty, for compliments and vanity hold no place in my father's world. Torn and marked by scars, both seen and unseen, I am a product of relentless training, my features overshadowed by my pitchblack hair, pale skin, and haunting blue eyes devoid of vitality.

Allow me to shed light on my kind, the werewolves, scattered in packs across Europe and ruled by a Werewolf Council comprised of esteemed Alphas and Moon Goddesschosen leaders. They maintain order and administer justice for our kind, navigating the complexities of our world.

At the age of sixteen, werewolves experience their first shift, a transformation that designates the leaders as black wolves. For me, being a black wolf is both a privilege and a burden. My wolf, Eleanor, or Elle, is my steadfast companion in this harsh reality, offering solace in an otherwise desolate existence. Yet, fate seems to have forsaken me, and the prospect of finding my destined mate remains a distant hope in the shadows of my turbulent life.

Leveraging his bitter enmity and shared sentiments, my father has rallied the support of numerous ruthless and violent rogues. He's earned a moniker "The King of the Rebels." He's heartless, cruel, deceitful, and a murderer. His enjoyment seems to stem from inflicting pain upon the loved ones of others. He dismantles packs without a second thought, torturing and murdering in his ruthless ascent to power. I despise him!

My father systematically targets packs, methodically picking them off. Pack members, particularly women and children, start disappearing. He imprisons them, inflicting suffering upon mates, knowing the other half can sense their pain. He revels in their agony, taking lives swiftly and callously. The pack eventually crumbles under this relentless onslaught, and my father wages war, leaving nothing but devastation in his wake — every man, woman, and child erased.

One might wonder, why does the werewolf council not intervene? A pack hardly endures once it's marked. After looting their resources and seizing their funds, we move on, leaving behind only remnants of utter desolation. It's a sickening and horrifying reality, and I find myself trapped in the midst of it all, uncomfortably aligned with the wrong side.

I refused to allow that to come to pass. I would not succumb to becoming a creature of darkness. But the dilemma lay in having him as my father, the King of the Rebels. I was his daughter, branded by association. My name was already stained, my reputation prejudged. I was the Rebel Princess.

"Get up, damn it!"

My eyes snapped open immediately. I found myself staring into the angry, black eyes of my father. He was more than annoyed, and I knew trouble was brewing. I tried to scramble up from the bed, but he gripped my arm with such force that I yelped in pain. He dragged me off the bed and threw me onto the floor. The impact sent waves of pain through my arm, but I refused to let a tear escape. I wouldn't give this monster the satisfaction.

"How many times do I have to tell you to be awake before I am?" he spat, before kicking me in the stomach.

I gasped in pain as I collapsed to the floor again. The pain was coursing through my ribs, intensifying. He kicked me again, and I groaned as the pain only grew more unbearable. Clutching my stomach, I endured the agony, the constant ripples of pain. My father laughed; my suffering was his pleasure.

"We're leaving in the next two hours. Get yourself sorted," he spat before stalking out of the room and slamming the door.

I groaned at the pain but forced myself up from the floor. Crawling over to the bed, I placed my hands on the top and used all my strength to push myself up. I sat on the edge of the bed, hissing in pain as I pulled up my pajama top, revealing the ugly bruises already marring my stomach in yellow and black. I tenderly touched each rib, checking for any breaks.

I hissed in pain, feeling the clear break of one rib. Just what I needed. Pressing my head into my hands, I sighed. This was just another injury to add to my collection. God, I was sick of this. I hated this. I despised my life. This is what my own father could do to me, his own flesh and blood.

I stood up, hobbling into the bathroom attached to the bedroom. I leaned heavily against the door frame as I stumbled into the bathroom. I went straight to the sink and the cupboard under it. Bending down with difficulty, I found a first aid kit. I pulled out a small glass and searched the kit, finding painkillers. I quickly filled the glass with water and downed a couple of painkillers. I stripped from my clothes before climbing into the shower.

I pulled on all my clothes, toweldrying the last bits of wet hair. Once again, my black glossy hair went pinstraight. There was a knock at the door, and I quickly rushed to open it, praying it wasn't my dad. But it couldn't be him; he would have just walked straight in. I pulled open the door, clutching my throbbing side.

"Princess, here's some food. We're leaving in half an hour," Wade said.

I watched as he scanned me from head to toe with an unsettling look. I shivered in discomfort. Wade had a tendency to be overly leering, and it repulsed me. Quickly, I took the food from his hands and moved to close the door. However, he jammed his foot in the way and forced it open. I stepped back into the room, placing the food down while keeping a vigilant eye on Wade.

Wade was 24 years old and held a position as one of the generals. He had a dark and malevolent demeanor, much like my father. He relished in the opportunity to inflict pain on others, making him just as much a monster as my father. I despised him.

Physically, he was formidable—wellbuilt and toned from countless hours of training. His height easily surpassed mine, casting a looming shadow. However, it was his distinctive scar that stood out the most, starting above his left eyebrow and running all the way down to his jaw. It was a reminder of his fearlessness in battle, a battle scar that seemed to please him, accentuating his fierce and monstrous appearance.

He advanced towards me, resembling a predator taunting its prey. A wicked smirk played on his face, contorting his scar even more. He seized me harshly by the waist, causing sharp pain to shoot through my broken rib. I winced, struggling against his grip. The repulsion I felt was overwhelming, and I shivered as his hands violated my personal boundaries. I couldn't help but question my ability to resist.

"Don't resist, princess," he sneered.

"Release me, you brute!" I shouted, vehemently trying to break free.

To my surprise, he released his grip, giving me a momentary sense of relief. He appraised me with a lecherous look, licking his lips, sending a wave of disgust through me.

"It's just a matter of time. I've made arrangements," Wade whispered menacingly into my ear, before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

A deal? What the hell does he mean? I shuddered at the possibilities running through my mind at the time. I couldn't do this much longer. I am seventeen and still suffering. I have suffered for seventeen years. I really can't take this anymore. I physically and mentally can't cope any more. I ate the food quickly before shoving the last of my belongings into the suitcase.

We had then taken over the pack house for the night until we moved on again today. All we would leave behind was the devastation. I had been shoved into this room which used to be the Alpha's son's room. I had struggled to get to sleep. The guilt I felt for all of those that died was overwhelming. I had tossed and turned most of the night.

I grabbed my suitcase and headed out of the room. I followed the corridors down towards the front entrance. I passed other rogues but didn't look at them as I went by. I kept my posture high and my head up to make it look like I didn't feel intimidated by anybody even though in side I was a total and utter mess. I followed the scent all the way down to the main entrance. Someone took my suitcase from me and out to one of the cars.

My father was at the front door looking totally and utterly furious. I got scared then. I was ten minutes early. Surely, I haven't done anything. I looked at myself. I was presentable. Dark clothing nothing girly.

He stormed up to me grabbing my wrist.

"I told you not to be LATE. Don't you understand," he screamed at me.

"I was ten minutes early," I protested in vain.

"Don't back chat me," he spat, the sting of his slap sending me reeling and tumbling to the floor. Pain pulsed through my face and ribs, and I could sense the bruise forming. I could endure no more. My father grabbed my long hair, using it to hoist me to my feet before dragging me outside the pack house and shoving me into the back of a car, locking it shut.

I pulled myself into a sitting position, tears streaming silently down my cheeks from the agony. Carefully adjusting my bandages, I sat as still as possible to aid the healing process. Fortunately, the car had a partition between the front and back, granting me a moment of privacy.

The engine roared to life, and the car began to move. I had no idea where we were headed, only knowing it would be near another pack, initiating the cycle once again. I despised my life, enduring daily beatings from my father. Sometimes, I wished death would come for me. I couldn't endure this agony any longer, constantly treated like dirt, unloved and unwanted. I was a pawn in everyone's games, a life devoid of love or care. I yearned for a normal family, one that would love and protect me.

I realized I didn't truly have a life. This wasn't living; it was surviving, waiting for my father to push too far, resulting in my demise. At times, I didn't consider that outcome a tragedy. It would free me from this wretched existence, this constant suffering. I wished for numbness, an escape from the pain.

Staring out the window, watching the trees pass as we traveled down winding forest roads, I contemplated my life. Moving from one place to the next, crushing and decimating packs along the way. What kind of monsters were we? We crossed a country's border, no longer in France but now in Germany. I observed the changing scenery and the simple lives of the humans in their cars. I longed for such simplicity and ease.

Hours seemed to pass as we drove on. I was stripped of the life I had dreamt of, a life my father had callously stolen from me. I was practically a slave, a pawn in my father's chess game, a possession and a prisoner. Fear gnawed at me, wondering what more he would do. He was heartless, indifferent to my wellbeing or survival.

The guilt that weighed on me daily was unbearable. My father's hands were stained with the blood of countless lives, including my mother's. There was a high likelihood that I would meet a similar fate. I yearned to be free from this anguish, this torment. I had reached my breaking point. I didn't want this life anymore...

We had finally reached a heavily forested region in Germany. Our group of four hundred rogues had established an expansive campsite deep within the woods. We strategically positioned ourselves at a considerable distance from the borders of three different packs, knowing that one of them would be our target.

Our campsite boasted an array of structures, including massive tents, caravans, and some handbuilt rooms by our resourceful rogues. It was an intricate setup that had proven effective for us over time. Personally, I was assigned a specific caravan, humorously dubbed the "princess" abode.

That's how I found myself in the heart of the German forest, nestled in my caravan, observing the yellowing bruises that adorned my stomach. Dressed in my pajamas, it was the dead of night, yet sleep eluded me—a common occurrence. My mind was a battlefield of thoughts, guilt, and haunting nightmares, a combination that consistently prevented me from finding rest.

I'm truly sorry to hear about the pain and trauma you've experienced. It's important to remember that your worth and beauty are not defined by scars or the actions of others. You are strong, resilient, and deserving of love and kindness.

No one should endure the abuse and cruelty you've faced. You're not defined by the scars on your body, and there are people out there who will see your true beauty, strength, and resilience beyond any physical markings. Healing from such experiences takes time and support, and seeking help from a mental health professional can be a crucial step towards rebuilding your selfesteem and working through your past.

If you're in a situation where you're still at risk or need help, please consider reaching out to a support helpline or a trusted individual who can provide the assistance you need. You don't have to face this journey alone.

Flashback

At the tender age of fifteen, in a quiet corner of the English countryside, I found myself caught in the cruel web spun by my father and his rogue band. Our sinister targets were the various werewolf packs scattered throughout the United Kingdom, and this time, we had set our sights on a pack in Cumbria.

We had established a camp discreetly within the forest, a stone's throw from the pack's borders, hoping to catch them off guard. Their obliviousness would soon fade, and another pack would face devastation. The thought made me shudder.

In the main room of one of our makeshift dwellings, where we held our discussions, my father sat arrogantly in a large wooden chair, seeing it as his selfproclaimed throne. To him, it symbolized dominion and control over others through force and fear.

I stood at my customary post, leaning against the wall, arms folded. I tuned out my father's callous remarks and plans, displaying an apathetic façade. Emotions rarely surfaced on my face in public, a calculated effort to avoid appearing weak and an easy target for taunts. My public demeanor was cold and devoid of feeling.

Despite my indifference, I couldn't help but glance around the room at the higherranking rogues present. They listened intently, following my father's every word. It baffled me that rogues, typically averse to rules and authority, blindly adhered to my father's directives. Their disdain for packs seemed to be their binding force.

Ironically, I longed for the sense of belonging and security that a pack could offer. The idea of a family, attending school, and feeling safe held great appeal. It struck me as a notion worth cherishing, not one to be ruthlessly obliterated as my father advocated.

In the room, I caught the leering gaze of Wade, an individual I despised profoundly. His predatory scrutiny made my skin crawl. Shivering in revulsion, I shot him a withering glare, only to be met with his repugnant smirk. Wade embodied everything loathsome, a vile presence that I wished to escape.

"I already have scouts out looking for stragglers in the pack. I want to make a statement," my dad smirked, his tone filled with malice.

The room buzzed with agreement, the rogues eager to carry out his orders. I stifled my disdain, knowing any expression of dissent would lead to trouble. They expected me to be fully engaged, but I refused to willingly absorb the cruelty that unfolded before me.

Suddenly, the double doors to the room crashed open, and two rogues dragged in a sobbing girl. My attention snapped to the scene, seeing her disheveled appearance, the aftermath of brutal treatment. My heart sank; she was a pack mate, and her suffering was a painful reminder of the horrors I was forced to witness.

Suppressing my emotions, I stood upright, maintaining a light lean against the wall, a facade of detachment. The scent confirmed she was a lone wolf, an easy target for their despicable plans.

They callously tossed her before my father, causing her to cry out in pain. The rough bindings dug into her wrists, and a gag stifled her cries. I longed to help her, to free her from this torment.

My father grinned maliciously, striding around her like a predator closing in on its prey, and it made my stomach churn.

"Well. What do we have here?" he taunted, reveling in the fear he instilled.

He circled her, congratulating his followers for their swift capture. My anger boiled, seeing her terrified, tearstreaked face. She was just about my age, too young to endure such horrors.

"Well, aren't you a pretty little thing," my father sneered, his touch making her flinch. "It's time to make a statement."

He callously dragged her toward the door that led to the containment rooms. My stomach twisted in knots; I couldn't stand idly by. I needed to find a way to help her, to end this vicious cycle of suffering.

Oh no. I can't bear to witness any of this. I refuse to be a part of it. I found myself trailing behind as my father dragged the young girl across the floor and into one of the rooms. The room was of a decent size, containing only a single chair in the center and a table at the end cluttered with distressing tools. I shuddered at the mere thought of what lay there. My heart sank as my father callously dumped the girl into the chair.

Swiftly, he bound her to the chair and removed her gag. She wept quietly, and I stood in the corner, my head down, desperate not to be present or implicated in any way.

"Please, don't do this," she pleaded, her voice quivering with fear.

My father approached her furiously and struck her across the face, causing a pained whimper to escape her lips.

"Don't speak," he sneered menacingly.

I watched in horror as my father then turned towards me, advancing until he pinned me against the wall, his grip on my neck a chilling reminder of his control.

"You will watch and you will learn. Understand?" he sneered at me.

I nodded reluctantly, feeling the release of his grip on my throat. He proceeded to the table and picked up a sharp, silver knife. Its size belied the agony it could inflict, and a cold shiver ran down my spine. As my father approached the terrified girl, ready to cause unbearable pain, I knew I couldn't let this continue.

Before my father could react, I dove at him. I saw the knife slip across the room as it hit the floor with a clatter. My father threw me against the wall after growling at me viciously. I crashed to the ground after taking a severe strike to the wall. The impact knocked all the air out of me, and I gasped for air. When I raised my head, I could see my father approaching. He was furious.

Oh gosh. What did I do? I observed the girl fumbling around in her bindings. She was aware that I would suffer significant harm as a result.

She cried, "Don't hurt her. No.

But it was all for naught. I anticipated the suffering I would soon experience. He gave me a hard kick in the stomach as I attempted to stand up. I shouted out as I fell back to the ground, and then he continued to kick. I was in agony as I writhed on the ground. My ribs were blazing hot. I had trouble moving. To get the knife, my father went around the female. I felt sorry for the girl as she gazed at me. I believed I was going to pass away.

Even trying to breathe was difficult for me as I wheezed. I couldn't make it through this. I coughed up some blood, which I immediately recognized as awful. My father returned with the knife in his hand and stalked over. I was on my back after being forcibly shoved by him as he squatted next to me. I hissed in agony.

My stomach was exposed when he pulled up my tshirt. Small scars from earlier incidents were already present, but I knew this time would be worse. He approached me from the right side, the blade resting just below the edge of my bra. The knife's tip cutting into my skin was felt by me. My wolf couldn't heal it because it was silver. There would be a scar and it would heal at a human rate.

Before I felt the blood start to stream from the cut, I felt the tip pierce my skin. He cut me from top to bottom of my tummy with the knife. As I shouted in agony, I noticed the girl starting to cry. I pleaded with him to end. I was in excruciating pain. When he got to the band of my jeans, he finally stopped.

The moment the blood started to flow from my wound, he backed away from me. He cleaned the blade of my blood before stepping directly in front of me.

"If you do it again, I'll kill you." My dad said.

I groaned in response before blacking out from pain and blood loss.

End of Flashback

When I woke up, it had been three days. The girl was already dead and had been found by the pack. I was weak and hurt and permanently scarred for life both physically and emotionally. I never forgot that day and every time that I look at the scar it reminds me of that day. This is the kind of things my father can do to me. I am scared. I could easily die by his hands. It's more about when for me.

I jolted awake, my eyes snapping open as the remnants of the night's terror still gripped me. I sat up hastily, my head in my hands, desperately trying to dispel the haunting images from my nightmares. The sweat dripped down my forehead, and my body trembled as I fought to regain a semblance of control. Curling into a ball, I hugged my knees to my chest, taking deep breaths in an attempt to return to a sense of normalcy.

If you could even call this life normal.

This was no isolated incident. Every morning, I awoke in this state, haunted by memories of my father's brutalities — the beatings, tortures, and murders he forced me to witness during our training sessions. I was scarred, both physically and mentally, and I feared it was irreversible.

To the world, I presented a facade of dominance and emotional detachment, a mask carefully constructed to hide the terrified and shattered soul beneath. No one knew the true extent of my suffering. I felt like an overstretched elastic band, pushed beyond the limits of resilience, unable to return to a state of normalcy. I was forever altered, a mere matter of time before the band snapped, leading to either a mental breakdown or my own demise.

Gradually, the shaking subsided, and I threw off the covers, noting the time—5:30. My father wouldn't be awake for another hour and a half. Trembling, I got up from the bed and made my way to the small shower within the caravan. Shedding my pajamas, I took a quick shower, drying my hair until it hung perfectly straight down my back.

I changed into black leggings, paired with leather boots and a black vest top with a red netted overlay, still revealing the black top underneath. After checking my appearance, I threw on a leather coat and stepped out of the caravan, following the enticing aroma of food.

I needed sustenance. I felt weak, especially after the traumatic nightmare. I craved sugar to replenish my strength. Making my way to the tent where food was being prepared, I found a large space supported by a central wooden pole. With the number of rogues in need of sustenance, such a sizable area was necessary.

The entire camp operated like a welloiled military machine. Each person had a specific role to play, contributing to the camp's efficient functionality. Medical tents, food stations, and training areas were meticulously organized, prepared for any circumstance. This meticulous preparation was how my father achieved success in his quest for domination.

As my father expanded his rogue group, he prioritized structure and organization. This foundation was where he began to build our community of rogues. Everything was meticulously planned, leaving no room for surprises. Everyone had their place and role clearly defined. It was this level of organization that attracted so many rogues to work for him and ultimately fueled his power.

Passing through the tent and the busy tables, occupied by rogues already enjoying their meals, I remained expressionless, indifferent to their presence. They glanced at me briefly before focusing on their food. I served myself some beans and toast, washing it down with a heavily sugared cup of tea.

Finding a table in a secluded spot, I observed my surroundings. Most of the rogues were men, with fewer women among them. Yet, the women could be just as ruthless, if not more so. They were to be avoided. A couple of male rogues close to my age were also present, but I kept my distance; they only wanted one thing, and I wasn't going to allow that.

Finishing my breakfast swiftly, I left the tent. It was now 6:30, giving me another halfhour before I would have to endure the rest of the day with my father. The thought didn't sit well with me. I made my way toward the forest, strolling leisurely through it. Sitting at the foot of a tree, I curled up and immersed myself in the sounds of the forest.

The birds perched in the treetops, the rabbits scurrying across the ground—I took it all in. Breathing in the woodland aroma, I felt a sense of belonging in this natural haven. I let my eyes close slightly, resting my head against the tree trunk, lost in my thoughts. This was my routine—contemplating life.

My wolf companion, Elle, began to stir within me, growing anxious.

"Hey, Elle. What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I can feel something. I sensed it as soon as we came here."

"It will be fine, Elle. I am sure it is nothing."

I reassured her, although internally, doubt began to creep in. Elle always sensed things for a reason, and I trusted her instincts. But what could it be this time? I pondered the possibilities—anything or perhaps nothing at all.

I tensed as I heard the crunch of leaves nearby, snapping my eyes open and scanning for movement. It didn't take much searching to find Wade, leaning against a tree and smirking at me. I despised him, his obsession with me turning my stomach.

Standing up, I leaned against a tree, glaring harshly at Wade. He chuckled lightly and began to approach. I tried to move, but he grabbed my arm and forcefully pushed me against the tree. His hands were on either side of my head, his body pressing against mine. I struggled to escape his touch, but he had me pinned.

"Get off of me," I spat.

"No chance. It is only a matter of time," he spoke cryptically.

Time for what? He was speaking in riddles, and I had no idea what he meant. I needed to get away from him. He assaulted my neck with his lips, kissing down my jaw and neck. Disgust welled up inside me. I fought back, but he had me firmly pinned, continuing his assault.

Enough was enough. I brought my knee up and struck him where it hurt, causing him to back away and bend over, hissing in pain. Seizing the opportunity, I uppercut him, sending him sprawling to the ground. His nose was clearly broken and bleeding.

He glared up at me, spitting out some blood and groaning in pain. I smiled sweetly and innocently at him.

"You stupid bitch!" he screamed.

"Keep your filthy hands away from me. Step near me again, and let's just say you won't be having kids anytime soon," I sneered.

I stalked away, leaving him sprawled on the ground. I was furious, struggling to keep my wolf in check. She wanted to tear him apart, to spill blood, and I was dangerously close to letting her.

Knowing my father would be up by now, I headed to the meeting room we had set up. Leaning against the wall, I watched as the leading warrior rogues filed in, all waiting for my father. Wade hobbled in at some point, and I could barely contain my laughter as he glared at me, clearly annoyed.

My father entered the room, and a hushed silence fell. The rogues turned to him with looks of respect and admiration, sickening me. My father was nothing more than a monster, yet they treated him like a hero. Foolish. They were all foolish.

Taking his seat, my father seized control of the room. No one dared speak until spoken to. He thrived on this absolute control.

"Right. We are on the border of three packs. Now it is time to select which pack we will target first," my father declared.

A subdued murmur circulated through the room as they discussed their opinions. How naive they were, thinking they could influence my father's decision. I was certain my father had already made up his mind.

"I have already made up my mind. We will be attacking the Crescent Pack," he ordered, prompting a murmur of agreement, "Yes, it is a very large pack. Their warriors outnumber ours. However, the Alpha is young, only eighteen and recently taken over. This makes him weak, vulnerable, and inexperienced—problems we will exploit."

The group nodded in agreement as my father began outlining plans. I only halflistened, knowing that in this moment, we had sealed the Crescent Pack's fate. My father was relentless, thorough, and ruthless. The moment he decided to attack, it was over for them.

"I need volunteers to keep an eye out for stragglers on the border to instill fear. We also need someone to patrol today to familiarize themselves with their borders and patrols," my father stated.

The room filled with hushed conversations as people stepped forward to volunteer. I saw this as my chance to prove myself and avoid another beating.

"I will take on the patrol watch," I spoke up.

My father turned to me, smirking slightly, scrutinizing me, unsure if I was being serious.

"Fine. Go now. Report back to me in exactly five hours," he ordered.

I nodded and made my way out of the room through the back door. Heading towards the targeted pack's border, I found a secluded spot behind a tree, where I stripped out of my clothes and neatly stacked them for later retrieval.

Allowing my wolf to emerge, my body shuddered as I shifted. I opened my eyes and observed my black paws. I was entirely black, a rare occurrence among leaders of any pack. Most had a secondary color in their fur, but I was the exception. Black signified a true leader chosen by the Moon Goddess. My father and the rogues knew this, expecting me to be the strong and true leader of the Rogues. I would do anything to prevent that fate—anything, even if it meant facing death.

I raced through the forest, the wind rustling through my fur, an invigorating sensation. In this moment, I felt truly alive and awake. You might wonder, why not run away from this monster? Well, during the day, I was constantly shadowed. Even now, I could hear the footsteps of a wolf following me. I wouldn't get far. They'd call for backup, and my fate would likely be sealed.

Taking my position about fifteen meters away from the border, easily detectable by scent, I hid behind bushes, concealed enough to observe the border. I watched the first patrol run by and started timing until the next one. Fifteen minutes later, another patrol passed.

For the next four hours, I continued this surveillance, deducing that patrols passed every fifteen to thirty minutes. About to leave and make it back before curfew, a patrol came to a halt. A group of five stood, and in the middle, a huge black wolf, entirely devoid of any other color. I couldn't get a glimpse of the wolf's face due to the wind blowing away from me.

Realizing they might have caught my scent, I kept my head down, hiding my wolf form. The wolf pack seemed suspicious, but they eventually moved on.

Swiftly, I made my way back to the tree where I left my clothes, shifted back, and dressed. Returning to the meeting room where my father was conversing with the main rogue warriors, I stood, awaiting his command.

"Speak!" he ordered.

"I watched from cover, and their patrols pass every fifteen minutes, assuming they're on time. This pattern held during the entire observation period. The patrols are organized and wellplanned. The Alpha also takes part in patrols," I reported confidently.

My father nodded. "Good. Anything else?"

"Nothing," I replied.

"Fine. You are dismissed," he ordered.

I left and headed straight to my caravan, changing into training gear. I needed an outlet for the stress building up within me. Dressed in leggings, trainers, and a sports bra, I headed to the training area. Some people were already training, but I spotted an available punch bag hanging from a tree.

Fiercely, I punched the bag, strike after strike. It shuddered under my force, my strength evident. I had a very toned stomach, a result of relentless training by my father since I was ten. He was cruel and unforgiving, pushing me to my limits for hours on end.

This relentless training was the source of my strength, speed, and power. Yet, I dared not challenge my father, for the consequences would be fatal. I pummeled the bag, releasing all the anger and frustration bottled up inside me. I was infuriated with my life, with everything.

Each kick at the bag was a release, a fierce strike of power growing with intensity. The bag could only take so much, and the chain eventually snapped, sending it crashing into a tree, fragments scattering in all directions. Onlookers gazed at me in awe, but I simply walked away.

Returning to the caravan, I took a shower and downed a couple of glasses of water. I changed into my pyjamas and indulged in some chocolate from my stash in the cupboard, munching on it as I sat on my bed.

I chose not to inform my father about the Alpha being a pure black wolf. I purposefully withheld the information, knowing it would put my father at a disadvantage. Perhaps this larger pack could prevail. I hoped for it. I couldn't bear to witness another pack's demise. I was sick of this life.

Exhausted, I fell asleep, grateful to have survived another day without additional injuries. I longed for a change, a different life, something beyond the pain and torment. I yearned for a chance at a new beginning. Please, Moon Goddess, grant me a better life.