THE WOLF WITHIN ME

CHAPTER 1.1

Even fairy tales with happy endings are based on nightmares that were twisted into more pleasant versions to amuse kids and trick them into believing lies. The whole purpose of fairy tales was to instill irrational expectations in the minds of young girls. The idea that charming princes actually existed, vanquished evil, swept princesses off their feet, and lived happily ever after in the real world was just... lies.

I should know because I often led a single existence. My life appeared to be living out a fairy tale on the outside, but every day was a nightmare. And things became worse every day, just like a time bomb that was about to go off.

I sat down with a sigh and glanced at the reflection I had changed today, "Mirror, mirror, on my... dresser." I ask, "Who the fuck am I?"

Under layers of today's experimental makeup, the face of a conventional princess peered back at me, a lovely, delicate shell concealing an empty interior. My pale blue eyes were clear with striations of green color. They clashed with my feeble attempt at a dark purple cat eye makeup, which was smudged unevenly in the corners of my eyes. This attempt was a failure, as evidenced by the wrinkles on my nose.

My eyes' color changed. They were usually clear aquamarine in color, but their reflection didn't help me with my query. The only imperfections on my face were a few faint freckles scattered across my pale, almost porcelain-like cheeks.

I looked over the remainder of my body and pursed my plum-colored lips. My limbs and legs were stick-like, my hips and breasts were mediocre, my waist was small, and my light blonde hair was long and straight. If I could have worked and my father had have let me, I would have pursued modelling. But like everything else in my life, he had refused to allow such a luxury.

Every time I caught a glimpse of this princess in the mirror and every time I pretended to have changed my appearance to look like someone else, I loathed the day I was born. I was reminded that I lived while they died every time I looked in the mirror.

the mother. my sibling.

I was informed that my mother's life was documented in our family history books as an extraordinary, alluring, formidable, and powerful lady fighter.

I believe that.

I had no first-hand knowledge. She passed away after my brother and I were born.

During her labor with us, she experienced a brief period of weakness and lost too much blood. Twins, indeed. Our necks were both entwined in the birth cords. My brother was delayed in birth because of problems, but I was born first.

By the end of the day, I had prevailed over him. Never in my life did I not wish that our circumstances had been different. Considering his distant demeanor towards me, I assumed that my father felt the same way.

He might be reminded every day of what our family has lost by the sight of my face.

I just knew my brother by his name, Ash, and that was it. King was the translation. My father had a keen mind and always planned ten steps ahead, so he always knew what he was doing. He appeared to be the CEO of the most illustrious pharmaceutical business in the world. After overseeing every aspect of the business for thirty years, he officially retired from it eight months ago in order to devote more time to "the family business."

Although he and no one else ever disclosed his secret to me, I knew it.

We had two separate realities. One fake universe consisted of surface-level, false projections made for show. The genuine, accurate world was disclosed by the hidden, other world. It was the world my father ruled and shielded from me, in his eyes.

I didn't want anything to do with his world, not mine.

My father never discussed anything with me, but even a moron might have seen the warning flags. He was a mafia boss in his spare time. His pharmacy served as a front for the manufacture of illicit drugs. His pharmaceutical company produced medicines on a different level, not the street-level variety like heroin or cocaine.

Business was booming based on our way of life and the size of his security staff. We lived in a compounded house with tightly guarded security, and my father owned 18 Ashton Martins in addition to other mansions and other properties.

My father required that I practice self-defense every day, and I received my education from private tutors who preferred science topics like chemistry. I wasn't sure what degree of education I had-I had graduated from high school but not from college.

Out of worry for my father, everyone working here was required to adhere to a rigid schedule. They were not allowed to make eye contact with either of us, and all of our "conversations" with him consisted of a whispered or mumbled "yes, Sir."

include my own.

I seemed to have the flawless life of a princess when things were normal. My wardrobe was the size of a typical adolescent bedroom and was loaded with expensive clothing. Our enormous property was situated on meticulously maintained lawns. My bedroom walls were decorated with custom artwork, and my designated "team" included a housekeeper, stylist, private tutors, chef, personal trainer, and twenty-four-hour security guards. My canopy bed was made up with the finest linens.

However, despite all the individuals that came and went throughout my day, I was alone. I had a vanity mirror that gazed back at me in addition to my laptop, which had limited access.

There was no glitz in this life.

I didn't have any friends, saw my father infrequently, and was never allowed to leave the mansion by myself. I was isolated and enmeshed in my own thoughts for the entirety of my personal time. I was given freedom to fill up the huge gaps my father left in my life.

My life had schedules and routines for every day. I got up at six in the morning, went to my personal trainer's, had breakfast, went to my morning lessons, had lunch, went to my afternoon lessons, took self-defense lessons, showered, had dinner, had an hour of "free time," and then finished my shooting lessons before going to bed.

In the sense that I never left the mansion on my own, my time was never truly free. I was permitted to use the library for personal reading purposes, have limited internet access, swim in the pool, practise shooting and explore the estate inside the twelve-foot high perimeter.

Even my nights were exactly the same. I experienced the similar wolf-related dream. A female wolf emerged from the shadows of my subconscious with fur so white that it was practically dazzling.

The dream began similarly; the most stunning, long, lithe wolf arrived slowly at first, its ears lowered, and its eyes darting around before locking gaze with me and sprinting towards me. She came to a standstill six inches away, her ever-raised hair's finer details clearly visible. She slid back into the darkness while tucking her tail and flattening her ears. My name erupted from the shadows just as I thought she had vanished.

'Nova...'

Then I awoke, drenched in perspiration, with a pounding headache, panting more profusely than during my most rigorous workout routine.

Each time.

My mundane daily activities included eating, going to bed while having a wolf dream, homeschooling, working out, and taking shooting lessons. Who among girls in their teens didn't need to deconstruct and reassemble a magazine?

My suspicion that he was a mafia boss was only strengthened by the fact that his home included an active shooter simulator and a shooting range. All of this was done to get me ready to join this secretive, covert underground life.

No matter how I feel about it.

I figured that most people eagerly anticipated reaching 18, becoming of legal age, being freed from parental supervision, and being able to take charge of their own life.

Not me.

My death sentence began on my sixteenth birthday. Nevertheless, one had to be alive in order to pass away. My passing was therefore symbolic.

The only thing my father ever said to me was, "Everything will change." I loathed watching the years pass as I reached my eighteenth birthday and assumed my proper position in my father's mafia. The cocaine cartel is his real family.

They might even name a street for me. Maybe the meaning of my dream was that I ought to play White Wolf. My skin is pasty enough for me to get away with it.

My nurse Kira's mouth tugged to the side at the sight of today's cosmetics trial, "Good morning, Miss Nova."

My brother was meant to be a king and take over the family company, and I was intended to play a supporting role. My name was translated as "princess." When I turned eighteen, in my fantasies, my father set up a marriage for me to settle scores with a rival cartel.

I do not want a life of crime. I'm not something you can trade for something else. I'm not interested in torturing and killing individuals in order to make millions of dollars while dousing them with narcotics.

Through Wattpad stories and YouTube videos, I learned what mafia life entailed; none of it seemed glamorous.

I turned away from her spotless, tapping white shoe and said, "Hi Kira." You object to it?

She spoke in her monotone voice, as usual, and held out a makeup wipe at my face, saying, "Your father would never approve."

I took the cloth with curled, pale fingers, gave my dark purple experimenting and deep contouring lines one more look, and then wiped them away.

In a sequence of clicks, she prepared a tray with three syringes, my daily blood draw, and insulin injections. "How are you feeling today?" she said. I had type I diabetes and was made to eat a healthy diet.

Perhaps my infatuation with chocolate doughnuts made the medication essential.

I know I shouldn't eat them, but I just can't help it. We work together as my covert affair.

I gave the standard monotonous response, "Fine," as expected. My words were meaningless because she kept asking the same questions after me.

Her gaze lowered as she examined the two silver metal rings that encircled my wrists before asking, "And your bracelets?" They were specially constructed to fit at the base of my wrists, and they were two inches broad and half an inch thick. Since I was thirteen, they have been re-fitted every three months as per my father's orders.

My short response, "Fine," was tense, showing that our few interactions had been strained by the inquiry. By using the "bracelets," my father was actually shackling me.

My gaze shifted to the Lykaios label on the syringes as she got closer. Over clear glass, the name of my father's manufacturing company glistened in dark blue. A final name. a name of a family.

What a horrible curse.

"Right or left?"

My left arm was extended, leaving my elbow's interior exposed. The area was covered with tiny scars and lumps that were caused by scar tissue.

A "tight fist."

My hands immediately curled into my palm, and my nails dug into the tender skin. She tied a tight rubber string around my upper arm and bound it above. She drew my wrist closer, rapping the pads of her fingers into my veins as the cable dug into my skin. She used an alcohol pad to clean the area when one burst and throbbed beneath the scar tissue. The smell caused my nose to twitch; it was so familiar that I could sense it while sleeping.

Four vials of blood were carefully drawn out of my vein by her while she grinned. She smoothly dispensed a few drips onto an insulin test sheet before putting the tray aside.

I loosened my fingers and said, "Let go, Nova." "Tape or Band-Aid?"

The Band Aids never stayed in place during my morning workouts. "Tape please." She covered the puncture with a piece of gauze, pressed down firmly, and covered it with tape. But we weren't done yet.

She gave the test strip reading a quick glance and smiled. "Right or left?"

I murmured, "Left."

The daily injections hurt, so I switched sides. I got to my feet and slowly rolled down the top of my trousers, exposing one humiliating flash of skin.

What a shame.

She stroked an alcohol pad down the left side of my tummy, cooling the damp skin two inches from my navel. I scowled at the light brown and green bruises left behind by earlier injections that were visible in the tender area.

After gently pressing the smaller syringe to release the air, Kira softly pinched an inch of my stomach and subcutaneously injected the drug. The bee sting chaser made my nose wrinkle, and my right palm's soft tissue was deeply punctured by my nails.

Last one. Which way should I go?

She must already be aware, right?

I whirled around, turned my back on her, and said, "Left." I then slid my pants down even more. I was now standing there in my pants with my cheek showing to her.

Why am I not trusted to handle this on my own? Ugh.

While tightly holding my skin in her palm, Kira applied a third alcohol pad to the upper quadrant of my left buttock. She quickly inserted the two-inch needle into my gluteal muscle after using a few liquid droplets from the larger syringe to provide the shot.

The initial agony stabbed into my flesh and caused my lips to separate, allowing a quiet gasp to pass between them. I've been doing this every day for the past three years, but I never got used to it. Kira removed the needle, massaged the region with her fingers, then lightly tapped my outer leg.

Once more, how embarrassing.

As I carefully drew up my trousers, paying attention to the painful spots, my cheeks burned.

Unfortunately, other than thinking up more meandering conspiracy ideas about the princess mafia, this medical conversation with Kira was the only thing I had all day. Apart from my professors and personal trainer, Kira was the only person I spoke to every day.

Usually, this marked the conclusion of our fascinating discussions. Not just now, though.

Her grey eyes sparkled as she tapped a fingernail against the empty syringe, "Excellent news, Miss Nova." "Today is the last of these."

I glanced at her and felt the discomfort on my left cheek with one hand. "What?"

Although I'm not a doctor, Type I diabetes doesn't... move on... Has it?

Even though a WebMD search would have most certainly revealed that I had cancer, I made a mental note to double-check this information there later.

She smirked and said, "I'm not supposed to say anything, but your father will explain at dinner tonight." Therefore, keep it a secret.

My startled eyes pondered her stern response as I wondered with whom she had anticipated that I would communicate this news.

A hefty knock at the door signaled one of my father's security escorts, "Ahem, Miss Nova." Your trainer is on the queue.

I called back and said, "Five minutes." I became behind schedule during my 'chat,' which with Miss Kira produced no useful information.

I put on my exercise clothes as I let out a few choice curse words in response to my tardiness. I alternated between cardio and strength training six days a week. As I hurried down to the gym today, I remembered how much I despised strength training.

My trainer Flint glared at me, his two thick arms already crossed over his large chest, "You're late, princess."

I would have been uninterested if he hadn't been the most handsome man I had ever seen. He had zero body fat on his chiseled frame. His hazel-brown eyes remained narrowed at me as I ran to the weight racks, and his medium-brown hair appeared easily ruffled.

The personal gym that my father had was extremely spectacular. One wall of mirrors, which ran the length of many rooms, reflected the numerous stations, which included free weights, a sizable padded training mat, a punching bag, and other cardio machines.

Every available surface had a mirror, which displayed my flaws and failings from a variety of perspectives.

The only other person here that was close to my age was Flint, who was a few years older than me. I had tried to get his attention before, but he was not interested in me. He blocked out my personal attempts at involvement and replied with pushups and burpees.

He also had a bothersome habit of referring to me as princess.

I put my hair up in a ponytail, pulled a headband over, and tucked the band behind my ears before saying, "Sorry." Despite having long hair, I usually had a few shorter, unpleasant wisps that clung to my forehead while exercising.

Any adolescent girl would swoon at Flint's physical appeal, which had rippling muscles atop muscles that tightened with his motions. He has two facets to his personality: annoyance and apathy. His legs and spine became rigid, his jaw clinched with a tick, and a tempest of an unspoken emotion swirled in his eyes as I surveyed him with my gaze.

Flint is undoubtedly furious today.

With a scowl and a nod of his head, he pointed to a set of weights machines and said, "Legs first."

I sighed as my fingers encircled a set of weights' cool, textured metal handles. "Jeez, Flint," I muttered. Was there a lack of protein bars in the kitchen this morning?

His motivational message was, "Dead lifts, then squats and lunges. You're already late, so stop wasting my time."

"Leg day" boring and agonising. similar like interacting with Flint.

I put my feet at hip width and stacked my back on my shoulders, pulling my lips to one side. I clinched my teeth and set my heels to the ground as the injection site throbbed.

Flint mumbled. Do it now, princess.

Change of plans, Miss Nova.

My training session with Flint was interrupted by a bang when one of my father's security guards opened the door. I looked up as the glass rattled and noticed a few sweat droplets dripping from my forehead on either side.

"Your father is here early, take a shower, and meet him in the dining room in ten minutes."

"Now?" My hands shook as they gripped the weights, knocking the taut muscles on the sides of my legs. I cast Flint a quick glance as my cheeks began to burn warmly. He shook his head and turned to face the exit with the glass doors.

Not once in the past four years, but I couldn't recall the last time my schedule had changed. I quickly racked my weights and ran back to my room once the guard nodded.

As I hastily made my way back to my room down the lengthy, dark hallways, wisps of hair clung to my face and neck, itching my skin. My hurting legs ached as I hurried to my bedroom while dodging the occasional security guard at each corner. Given that my training clothes clung to my physique, the looks I received caused my cheeks to blush hotly.

I rolled my eyes at the clothing hanging for me on the back of the bathroom door after a fast shower. The floral pinafore dress, matching tights, and formal shoes made my nose wrinkle up. Only my father thought I was still dressed for a tea party like a five-year-old, but I did as he asked and put on clothes while my skin was still wet.

I combed my stringy hair with a brush as I cast a quick glance in the mirror. No matter how I felt about my hair, my father required I always wear it long, straight, and tucked behind my ears with clips. My hair was white-blonde and the color of corn silk when I was younger. It faded into a darker tint as I grew older.

He insisted that I spent so much time trying with numerous appearances before they were eliminated because they complemented my light skin and clear aquamarine eyes. If I spent more time outside, my skin wouldn't be so pale, but whenever I tried to tan by the pool in my leisure time, I would doze off.

Oddly, even in my limited experience, I had never met somebody who had pale complexion and light blonde hair as physical characteristics. Even my lashes and eyebrows were a light blonde color. Brown eyes and unkempt hair were a common feature among my father's crew.

Saying, "This way, Miss Nova."

The dining room, the funniest place in the entire estate, is where I went after the security guard. Over the center of the table, a massive crystal chandelier was arranged in a way that resembled an upside-down glacier. Angles of light and shadow were created by twinkling ice-like crystals that covered the ceiling and walls. For the two of us present, the large dining table served only aesthetic purposes.

The table had sixteen chairs at it, and the place was dripping with opulence. My eyes became wider as I noticed my father seated at one end with two people on either side of him. For the first time in years, someone except him and I sat at the dinner table. Since it was mid-morning, we weren't even eating.

On his right, I recognized Nurse Kira, but not the female on his left. She appeared to be a year or two older than me, about my age. She had a petite build, brown hair that was curled, and red cheeks. Her brown eyes were shielded by thin, rounded, wiry glasses that rested on her nose. My father made her tense, as evidenced by her hunched posture and flitting eyes.

He frequently has that result.

Despite being a man of few words, my father still had a strong presence. People stopped what they were doing and understood what he was asking when he pointed and motioned with his eyes. His dark brown hair had grey strands running through it, and his shoulders had a slight forward sag. His tall, muscular frame had shrunk with age or perhaps from lack of use. He was talking to a man in a suit who was standing behind him, but his dark, brooding brown eyes remained hooded.

My father's executive assistant Baron caught my narrowed gaze. He was a large, broad-shouldered, hulking man with scars that were clearly evident on his neck and chin. Baron was the muscle, and my father was the brains, of the enterprise. Erik, a different assistant, was a shorter, stockier-built man with hair that was so short that he should have gone bald.

Neither of them made me feel good. When I was younger, Baron in particular had frightened me because of the way he hovered angry and sulking over my father's shoulder.

I took a position at the other end of the table, palms around my elbows. My heart began to pound in my ears as the silence grew thicker. My arm's back developed goosebumps from the weight of the room's eyeballs, giving me the uneasy feeling that I had been submerged in icy water.

My gaze left Baron's mocking face and went to my father. I was reminded that I had no idea how we were related as my gaze grew closer to him. We didn't resemble each other at all, and I hoped I didn't have his icy, distant nature.

Since my father and I don't resemble each other at all, I concluded that I inherited my mother's characteristics even though I had never seen a single photo of her. Experience had caused his dark brown hair to become thinner, and he wore it brushed back so that he appeared to be constantly exposed to wind. His dark, usually menacing brown eyes battled with his olive complexion for attention. eyes that saw every aspect of his environment, including silent intentions, but concealed every detail from me. They were always firm and steady and never disclosed his genuine feelings or intentions.

"Nova Accalia Lykaios," he said in his customary severe, patronizing, and irate manner. He never used a different tone with me, but every time it felt like auditory sandpaper in my ears.

His voice snapped like a bear trap clamping down on its snared prey, "You. Are. Late." With his elbows on the table and his unrelenting eyes fixed on me, he demanded an explanation.

"I'm sorry, Sir. You're early -" I managed to say in a tight whisper as dryness clogged my throat.

The harshness that resonated through the big, empty room made the girl next to my father tremble. "You need to pay more attention. Seconds matter in life, Nova."

I resisted the desire to sneer. He frequently spoke in this way without any context.

My ears were cut off by the expectancy in his voice as he spoke, "I trust your training is going well."

I didn't know whether he was asking about my training or lessons, so I just nodded in silence.

His cold tone of "Good" cut through the air and froze my skin. "Sit."

I sat down at the end of the table that was furthest from them and peered down at them. My gaze shifted to the girl to his left, who remained hunched over with her eyes cast downward.

His gaze turned to his right, "Kira." The question "Has she bled?"

Did he -

My lips rolled inward so tightly that my jaw sagged and they remained closed.

Is he mentioning my period?

As Kira shook her head, my eyes widened and warmth poured into my cheeks. Brown-haired girl curled inward, rounding her shoulders and spine. I sat erect in my chair, my hips trembling against the hard wooden seat. This was not the talk I had anticipated.

I was well aware of the fact that I was a late bloomer-I'm almost eighteen and haven't had a period yet.

I could be sterile.

Even though I had no desire to have children, the concept seemed strangely reassuring. Before I gave that more serious thought, there was a startling list of things that had to be accomplished. All the men I've ever been around were off limits because I was off limits.

Eighteen... never received a kiss, touch, embrace, or even an intentional glance.

I'm pitiful.

Kira answered, her grey eyes fixed on me, "Leuprorelin has a fourteen day half-life. She won't be eighteen for eleven more weeks. But she should begin to bleed within two to four weeks.

Why do they talk about my menstruation like it's a television that needs to be turned on?

Their casualness made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I shifted once more on my hard, wooden seat. My entire face and neck had reached the "red blotchy stage," a swelling, pink rash that appeared on my face and chest whenever I felt humiliated. I could feel it with one palm pressed into my cheek.

It doesn't get any worse than this.

Brown-haired girl lowered her eyes, and I believe her cheeks had a little pink color.

My eyes moved between the three of them, and I said, "Once she does, put her on the pill. We must stay on schedule." My lips parted, and my tongue became dry.

Did I understand you correctly?

As the words "the pill" sank in, my mouth gaped. The conspiracies surrounding arranged marriage whirled in my head like one of my blonde hairballs clogging the drain in the shower.

My father finally acknowledged me once more. Your physical activities will require more advanced training, and your academics will change starting tomorrow. You are quite uneducated in the areas that matter most, albeit I assume responsibility for that.

I suppose that's as kind as he gets.

He paused, staring at me as if he were waiting for a response. I had none since my mind was completely paralyzed with shock. Normally, my silence was broken by my father's sharp jabs, but this time, the subject of the reproductive system won.

He referred to the unidentified female as "Ivy here." Be your mentor, he says.

My shoulders shook when his fist slammed into the table, and the subsequent echoes gave the impression that the room was trembling. After a brief moment of silence, I swear that eight or nine security personnel dressed in suits came from the darkness like a scene from a terrible action-thriller film.

I wanted to scurry under the table when she said, "After my daughter starts bleeding -" - after which a ceremony to confirm her metamorphosis would be place.

Transformation? Confirmation? what reason?

My dad made a disdainful gesture with his hand. "Nova, you have been fired."

"But I have so many -" I said amid inaudible squeaks.

"Dismissed."

My shoulder was touched, my chair was removed from the table, and I was carried back to my bedroom by a guard. Just as I turned to leave the dining area, I noticed the girl's brown eyes giving me a questioning look.

My ears were deafened by the clicking of my heels on the hardwood floors. The most perplexing, biassed conversation my father has ever tried to have with me was too much for my brain to digest, and it kept replaying in my head. There were no new insights provided by any iteration over the previous one.

I walked back inside and sat on the edge of my bed. I sat down with my hands in my lap while my ugly floral skirt fanned out on each side of me like a pillow.

"... queries."

My thoughts, which burned with related and new unanswered issues, started to irritate me.

What on earth just happened?

Transformation? birth-control methods? Confirmation?

What should the name on my street cred be?

After a few hours and the replacement of one dumb outfit with a T-shirt and yoga pants, Kira came to my door.

"Miss Nova." She walked into my bedroom, shocking Ivy in her wake.

I missed Kira's points when she spoke. I was curled up on my stomach, reading a love story. The major plot involved a police officer going undercover to free a drug cartel family's daughter. It was like a fairy tale from today.

If I could be this girl, I would...

Ah, what if one of my father's security personnel has seen me develop into a young woman? He's holding out for the proper opportunity to let me know how he really feels so he may rescue me from this lonely agony.

The security detail outside my room caught my attention as I looked up. He raised his left hand and rubbed his neck with it.

A girl can dream.

With the exception of relaying a message from my father or "Miss Nova," none of the security guards even gave me a sidelong glance or engaged in conversation.

My eyes arose from my laptop when I became aware of two people standing above me: Kira and Ivy. They were indeed there by my bedside as I blinked my eyes open.

I quickly closed my laptop while keeping my wrist from hingeing, saying, "Oh."

My bedroom served as a physical representation of the fact that I never made any independent decisions. It appeared magnificent, much like the rest of my father's house. Although I would like to claim ownership of the decoration, my father's interior design team made all of the decisions. All I had asked for was "not pink," yet someone had chosen all-white furniture with gold accents and royal blue accents in the curtains and linens.

My initial murmured response was, "I'm not even sure I like blue."

The last I saw of the design team were their dejected faces. In my defence, they made all following decisions without consulting me about my preferences. Six hours after a big truck arrived in front of the house one morning, my bedroom was still standing.

The dresser with the enormous vanity mirror attached was a mistake by the designer. My preoccupation with scrutinising myself in the mirror as a lifeless shell of a person began there.

A tiny balcony is accessible through ten-foot tall French doors in addition to the conventional furniture. The area would make the ideal balcony for a prince to save a princess from, perhaps steal a kiss from, or even set up a Taylor Swift music video. However, not even a Swiftie extra or prince ever showed up. As my seventeenth birthday approached, I grew angrier and angrier at those silly fairy tales.

As well as at myself for having read them in the first place.

When I first began taking my daily injections, I would climb down the stucco wall at night while daydreaming that I was a vigilante and fall on the soft grass below with a gratified grunt.

I never made it past that landing site before being escorted back inside by my father's security squad. They initially found it funny, but after a few more tries, my father had the doors barred.

I first yanked at the bars until my wrists ached and my fingers went numb, but I was unable to stop them. The lack of fresh air that resulted made the room feel more stuffy and unpleasant in addition to keeping me inside. The oppressive environment served as a powerful reminder of my father's plans to keep me imprisoned here.

They exchanged anxious glances for a minute, then Kira's grey eyes turned to my as she asked, "Will one of you please tell me what's going on?"

Let's get started; inform me of drug distribution and cartel leaders; outfit me with a silver handgun and a pink leather holster; I'm ready.

Without without blinking, she said, "You're a werewolf."

I regarded her for a whole minute, slack-jawed and with my eyes wide open. My heart was thumping through my veins, and my breath became laboured. Laughter began to boil up the back of my throat as my gut tightened. They ripped out of me in the form of brief, incisive barks that tickled my mouth's palate.

I had no idea what to anticipate.

I was unaware of her sense of humour.

I squeezed the word out in between strong giggles, "What?" My elbows thumped into my mattress, my breasts jiggled, and my shoulders pitched so hard.

She pronounced each syllable slowly and deliberately, as if doing so would help me understand it better. "You. Are. A. Werewolf."

Her efforts were ignored because they were drowned out by the endless stream of belly-aching chuckles that came from me. My eyes started to water, and Kira's delighted grin became hazy. My torso twitched as I squeezed them shut, my giggles rising to wild squeaks.

I gasped, "That-that's hilarious," and coughed out my words. My stomach twisted and my back rounded as my shoulders heaved and my lungs burned. I had my knees tucked and was on the verge of rolling off my bed with laughter.

They're making fun.

My right side felt a searing pain, which startled me into opening my eyes. I breathed deeply for a few breaths to replenish my oxygen supply.

They must be joking, right?

I immediately felt compelled to participate in the joke. I blurted out, "Like in the movies? Watch out for a full moon? Hide your silver?"

Ivy interrupted with, "It's not like that," and her eyes were as dead serious as a stone. "I'll do my best to make sense to you."

My eyes widened then narrowed as I heard her smooth, almost angelic voice, and a pit of distrust formed in my stomach. They both looked back at me with fixed eyes, firm mouths, but relaxed jaws; neither displayed any sign of amusement or teasing.

They appear... 100 percent serious.

A tremor ran down my spine as their severity pierced and shattered my laughter. I straightened my posture and gaped as the stillness bore heavily on me. "Are you serious? What about the mafia? The drug front of the pharmaceutical company?"

The more I spoke, the more absurd I appeared to be. My skin tingled and my cheeks cooled, as if the blood had stopped flowing.

Ivy's scowling gaze flicked to Kira and asked, "Mafia?"

The arrogance in Kira's voice when she said, "Nova," was so overpowering that I shuddered. "Your father's business produces medications for the nation."

My belly laughed until the back of my throat dried up. There are no werewolves in existence.

contrary to diabetes.

Which I have been told I have ever since I was thirteen. Even the fact that I had no other reason to assume differently led me to believe I had it.

Kira crossed her arms across her chest and asked, "Have you ever known your father to joke?"

She is correct.

I clenched my hands together and replied, "No." I then looked down at my hands. "So...I don't have diabetes?" you ask.

How is that even doable? Why all the tests and blood work?

At the notion of any worse circumstances, my blood froze. I wrapped my hands about my stomach, which was rolling with nausea, and goosebumps appeared on my arms.

Her mouth formed a tight line and said, "No." "The injections were intended to postpone the beginning of your natural cycle."

The way Kira spoke to me was like being thrown a bucket of freezing water. Any traces of my laughter that might have lingered in the back of my throat vanished.

My wide eyes were so dry from staring at her for so long that I asked, "What... Why?" I scrutinised every part of Kira-her precisely coiffed grey hair, the sharp edges of her nursing uniform, the subtle wrinkles that were etched into the corners of her mouth and eyes whether or not she smiled.

When I realised I was observing a total stranger, I felt it in my bones. My lower lip vibrated as I trembled, and my breath became laboured.

How was it possible for the lady I've known since I can't remember not knowing her to voluntarily manipulate my body in this way every day?

What type of father would give her that advice?

My mind had a hard time processing this concept. The notion of physically altering my body for who knows what purpose sounded so heinously wicked that it was inconceivable.

as if adolescent hormones weren't already horrible enough.

The chill that had gripped my body began to slowly glow. My body warmed as my blood pumped more quickly through my veins, fueled by a simmering wrath that grew the longer I sat there embracing myself. My eyes burned with a steely look by the time I lifted them after drawing my shoulders down. Ivy's lips trembled and puckered inward as Kira stood.

Heat crept into my cheeks at the archaic term, "normally, werewolves first shift at fourteen, after the onset of menses." The delay in your onset was made possible by your father.

My mouth tightened, yet I uttered "How? Why!?" in a choked squeak.

She only reacted, "For your protection," Her mouth drew closer together, like a wall of knowledge hanging in front of her expanding pupils.

She was unable to, or at least refused to, elaborate further. She skillfully kept her mouth shut so she couldn't reveal any secrets she stored in her mental vault. The realisation weighed heavily on my stomach. I formed tight fists with my hands while keeping my arms around my stomach.

Your defence? Who are you up against? What else?

The two types of protection I was aware of were self-preservation, such as when parents withheld information from a child they believed was too young to understand the seriousness of the knowledge, or physical protection from a deadly threat.

I didn't understand how this "protection" fit into either group given those descriptions.

It seems more like a lie about my own body to me.

My eyes burned with hot tears as a result of the intimate assault, and I blinked them away until my lashes clumped.

Kira's cold tone in response to my reactions was all I got; she said, "Your father thought it best to delay the transformation until as late as possible." You wouldn't have been allowed to choose a partner until you were eighteen anyhow.

Father is always better.

I continued to stare at her until the hot tears welling up in my eyes caused her countenance to become blurry. Regarding everything she said, I had no comprehension. A fleeting moment of uncertainty caused a seemingly random thought to suddenly come to life.

He must have created whatever was in that syringe in his labs.

I blinked at my alleged nurse carer and asked, "So... I don't have diabetes?"

Given the more significant, unexplained circumstances that I imagined were connected to the heaviness hanging in Ivy's empathetic eyes, my repeated question sounded ridiculous. Since Kira inserted those needles into me for fictitious reasons, I was unable to go past that minor problem at the time. many years.

I was unable to mentally understand the potential motives for that straightforward behaviour.

On the inside of my left elbow, near the injection site, the pads of my right hand's fingers rubbed the area.

Kira gave a headshake. Leuprorelin, a medication that suppresses female reproductive hormones, was injected subcutaneously to delay the start of your menses.

I couldn't believe that was possible, so I just stared at her. I shouted between clenched teeth, "And these?" and extended the silver circles on my wrists like a servile slave.

"Those were low doses of silver nitrate and wolfsbane administration, just like your muscular injections."

My claws dug into my palms as the words scorched into my soul.

As if she were taking off two pieces of jewellery, she reached out, inserted a little key into each, and then effortlessly released them. I shuddered at the icy air's touch on my skin. I held my wrists tightly and scratched at the red marks left behind as I rolled my wrists inside till they crossed my chest.

I mumbled these strange phrases, "Silver nitrate and wolfsbane," as if hearing them in my own would give them some context or explanation. They merely provoked a heat wave across my face, which caused me to droop my chin.

I'm so... ignorant.

"And what were those used for?"

"Suppressing your inner werewolf from appearing earlier," Kira said without flinching.

That certainly makes things plain.

My voice squeaked, high-pitched like a fearful child, a nervous habit, "but... why."

My feet grounded them flat after swinging over the bed. I straightened up after curling my toes into the plush carpet and tickling the flesh there. With each rapid heartbeat, the gravity and seriousness of the conversation pressed into my chest, dragging my limbs down as though they were pumped full of lead, but I stared directly into Kira's stern, stormcloud-gray eyes.

She kept her eyes fixed on my nose.

a werewolf inside? She's... I'm not joking.

She... What. The. FUCK.

I couldn't speak the term "werewolf" through the cracks and rasps in my voice, but I continued, "I still don't believe you, but if I am a - what you say I am - then why not let it happen naturally?"

They both turned to face me, displaying two distinct looks that both communicated a lack of knowledge. As usual, Kira's eyes were grey and expressionless. Ivy remained silent despite the sympathy in her eyes. She might have been shy or unfamiliar with my father's policy of suppressing information, but I couldn't tell.

I didn't need their response since I already knew the answer-that my father had ordered this series of events. Additionally, if their interaction with him was anything like mine, they were unaware of his true intentions. And even if they had, out of loyalty, they wouldn't have told me.

My knees shook. Under the weight of this discourse, I slipped into my bed. I wasn't sure if I was ready to let go of the final bit of denial that clung to me.

It can't be real. I am a helpless, lonely little girl. I am unable to be a monster.

In response to the blatant manipulation of my body during the previous five years, the other part of me, which increased with each breath, clenched my hands into fists. I had no knowledge about werewolves, but it was wicked of my father to have kept me in the dark. My teeth were clinched so tightly as a result of the thoughts that they began to grind against one another.

I abhor him.

My eyes widened as I looked at my alleged carer.

I abhor Kira.

Ivy had dropped hers to the floor space between us, as I noticed when I shifted my sight.

Ivy, even though we've just recently met, you have my utmost hatred if you had anything to do with this.

The monsters are they.

I closed my eyes as I recalled how earlier today I had been the foolish, ignorant girl who had sat in front of her mirror and questioned who she was.

This would never have been taken into account. Never a chance in a million.

I'm a beast.

My nails pressed into the flesh of my palms, causing a slight sting. I rolled out of bed and strolled over to that mirror with straightened legs. Every step brought me closer to the death sentence of my former life, which may have left me feeling uneasy if I hadn't had heated flushed cheeks, short, quick breaths, and eyes so narrow that the darkness vignetted my vanity.

My fiery eyes returned the gaze like two aquamarine gemstones, as I had done countless times before. As if I could vent my rage through my fingertips, one hand gripped the dresser's top edge firmly. The other hand was so tightly curled up against my leg that my wrist was squeezed. My reflection's eyes changed as the pale blue background was replaced with green striations.

I inhaled deeply and let out the most savage scream I could muster. One piercing vibration at a time, it tore through my throat, leaving my mouth dry and my breath depleted. I clenched my stomach and threw my shoulder before striking my reflection in the middle of the face.

It ached like fucking hell.

Additionally, striking my reflection did not make me feel any better.

And did nothing to make me feel better.

Around my knuckles, the glass fractured into a tiny spider web design and cut into the skin. The mirror was undamaged with the exception of a few hairline cracks. Ivy's mouth gaped in the mirror. Tiny fragments tinkled down to my dresser top like my fabrications were breaking apart.

There weren't enough shards.

The room was filled with a dense, oppressive quiet as the weight of truth pressed down on me.

Malfa does not exist. I'm a moron. a foolish, ignorant fool.

I looked down at the little red hairline scratches that resembled the damage to the mirror on my knuckles. My eyes closed and my fingers let go of my fist after a few moments of silence. My thoughts were unhindered as they flowed through the severity of my non-choice reality.

Nothing matters. I have no other option. Never before have I had a choice, so why should I now?

"When?"

Hot tears stinging the corners of my eyes and soaking my lashes caused me to whisper out loud. The heat in my veins cooled, simmered into a dull ache in the middle of my chest, and was replaced with uncertainty and fear about what would happen next.

Kira ran at me, reaching for my hand, but I pushed her away, saying, "We have little time, Miss Nova." She appeared to be counting down the minutes while looking down and checking her watch.

In the meantime, Flint is waiting for you to arrive for your new afternoon training. "Ivy here is a pack historian from the library. She'll get you up to speed on background information."

My only response was to hang my head till it rested against my chest.

The next time I saw Flint, I wanted to punch him in the face more than ever before. He stood with his legs locked in an aggressive stance and his foolish, big arms crossed over his protruding chest. As soon as I opened the gym door, his brown eyes lit up.

He greeted me as I walked up to him, "So." Flint would serve as my executor if becoming a werewolf was my death sentence.

Princess, are you ready to try something new?

I glanced at his face as he spoke in a mocking tone. He didn't try to hide his delight. I thought he'd known all along because of the glint in his eyes, which were hidden under light brown hair that was dangling across his forehead. Knowing that I will turn into a monster gave him a perverse kind of joy, as evidenced by the little upward curl of his lips into a smirk.

He must be aware. How is he so careless? Until -

My eyes widened as my jaw fell to the gym mats beneath our feet. The question "Are you a-a..."

"You show me yours, and I'll show you mine."

His eyes sparkled in a split second. Before his pupils dilated and flooded his full set of brown-hazel eyes with pure black, his irises filled with yellow. They pooled a vivid cobalt blue with another blink.

Flint's eyes were back to hazel and wrinkled at the corners from his resumed sneer before my wordless gasp left my mouth. I took a few steps away from him like an unfamiliar stranger on shaky ankles.

The last brown-hazel eye smirked at me, saying, "Welcome to the pack, Princess. Now let's really get started. We're doing hand to hand combat and defensive positioning until you transform."

I repeated, "Transform?"

That word is used over again.

He nodded before pointing to a set of black mats that were two inches thicker than the typical grey mats we stood on and were spread out on the gym floor. He took an off-center position and clenched two fists in a defensive boxing stance. He smirked in a challenge, his knuckles raised towards his chin.

I walked over and took a position across from him with hefty steps. In contrast to his, my little, pallid hands and skinny, wiry arms seemed ridiculous.

My brows rose in an upward arch as I asked, "Now what, Flint?" My forehead clenched.

He spat out, "Fight me," in a sarcastic, crude manner.

I glanced at him through my pale, knobby knuckles. Flint was unaware that I had never struck a human being with a fist despite the fact that I had practised boxing by hitting a bag or a hand-held target.

not ever.

My right hand's knuckles were marked with red lines that served as a reminder of the obvious.

except for my reflection.

That blow was an outburst of wrath brought on by a five-year-old falsehood. I experienced a hollow sensation inside at this time, as though my feelings had been removed and cast aside as unimportant. I felt physically weak as a result of the dissipated feelings, like an abandoned and empty shell.

"I can't -"

I was concerned by the way Flint's large lips curled inward and then sprang out to create the word "no choice, Princess."

My palms were bit by my nails as my brows furrowed.

Not a princess, I. I was never one and never will be.

Flint responded as if he encouraged my rage, "Good, get angry, maybe then you'll actually hit me." He baited me, and I narrowed my eyes in disgust, "Before I fall asleep standing up."

My nostrils twitched as they flared open, and my chin rose. My cheeks began to get hot as heat raced up the sides of my neck. I clenched my fists even harder.

He said with emphasis, "That's it... Princess."

I jumped forward with fast-twitch muscles in my legs. He blocked my wrist with his side-swept hand as my fist was aimed towards his face. He put me face-down on the mat, one arm crossed across my chest. My nose suddenly started to hurt, and then I fell and hit my hands, making a smacking sound and inhaling the fragrance of rubber.

I gritted my teeth during the touch, and anger erupted within of me. I let out a loud exhale even though I was aware of how frail I still was and turned to face his smug face. He gave him one look before taking his hand away.

Flint gestured for me to stand by curling his fingers inward. "Don't lunge. Again."

I detest his encouragement.

I leaped forward as my calves stiffened and my heels hit the ground. He turned my advancing fist away from me once more, shifted my forward motion as if I were weightless, and then shoved me backward. He moved so effortlessly and delicately, almost like we were passing each other on a stroll in the park.

Upon impact, my cheeks burned.

Above me, Flint's voice chided, "Again, Princess."

I stood while grunting and placed my hands on my knees. I huffed and shifted my hands, then my feet. I turned and simulated turning right before lunging left. Despite a shift in strategy, Flint pushed me down once more as if I were an annoyance that he had to swat away. Flint caught me easier than a viral cold.

Flint grimaced for the first time in his bland, bored look, "Stop lunging." Move around my blocks and hit me since you're not paying attention.

I want to, I swear!

My palms were cut into half-moon shapes by the deeper bite of my nails.

This time, Flint moved me so that my butt smacked the floor and said, "Again."

I let out a hot, slow breath while shaking my fists. My jaw shook as I fell to the ground. again.

Flint flicked his fingers, "Again, Nova." "Hit me."

It's quite embarrassing.

He rolled his eyes and moaned, "Again," as I fell over like a dead fish. "Get up."

My pale skin had red contact marks, but I still raised my hurting arms into fists and said, "Ugh."

Flint just gave me a faint scoff and pinched my left cheek till my lips swelled out in response to my "Again."

I said, "I'm trying!" and pummelling the mat with my fist.

This progressed to becoming the cherry on top of my "worst day of my life."

"Again."

The first day of my "real" education began the morning after Flint beat me up in front of everyone. I had no idea what becoming a werewolf entailed, but I hadn't anticipated that the process would begin with a geography course.

Ivy is serious, too.

There are now five territories in our nation. Ivy spread out a thick book in front of me, pushed a map across two pages, and flattened it with her hand on the binding. Different werewolf packs own, govern, and manage each region.

Her other hand's finger tapped the landlocked territory, etched in a thicker border of black ink. "Your father is Alpha Orion over the Central territory, with controlled alliances between the Northern, Eastern, Southern, and Western territories

As she spoke, she silently tapped her finger across each highlighted area. My father's territory was surrounded by all four directional territories, and the word "White Moon" was put over the map's center.

"My father is in charge of everything?" I scowled as I examined the map. "Like... a... king?"

There are no kings among werewolves. Her eyes gleamed behind her lenses and her lips twitched at the edges.

"So why do you call me Princess?" I questioned her humor as my eyes widened.

I don't know, she said, her smile fading into a tight line and her voice returning to the authoritative teacher role. You don't have much history in this library.

"What?" I followed the dusty, dimly lighted row of bookcases behind her with my eyes. They led to the restricted area's dank, gloomy corner where Ivy had retrieved all of our reading material. "I have things on me in here?"

She let out a snort while pushing her spectacles up her nose. It's in your family history books, of course. Every bundle has a book, however your family's is a little lacking.

My eyebrows moved. The question is, "What do they say?"

Gorgeous, clever, but lonely girl trapped in seclusion?

I've had too much of the fairy tale Kool Aid.

The princess delusion was difficult to let go of, harder than the mafia conspiracy notion, in my defense, as feeble as my ability to punch Flint's arrogant face.

But it's just as embarrassing.

The answer is, "Not much." Her eyebrows wrinkled in a scowl as she shifted in her seat and appeared to be carrying weighted knowledge. She moistened the edges of her parted lips with the tongue tip. "You survived, but your mother and brother perished in childbirth."

My gaze dropped to my hands, which I spread out on my thighs beneath the table and unclasped in my lap.

Survived.

Although the word caused the corners of my mouth to curl downward, it accurately represented my life. I was a physical being who occupied space and turned oxygen into carbon dioxide. I had not lived at all, and I had never accomplished anything noteworthy.

perhaps not yet?

I kept hearing my father's words, "Everything will change," in my head. I was unable to give the concept any thought, though.

"So, let's get back to this." My attention was diverted by her geography lesson about the "direct track to Snoozeville" as she tapped her index finger on the map. "Each region is ruled by a different pack, but your father does indeed command those packs. Everything and everyone are under his control.

Not surprising at all.

As her words "he controls everything" trickled through my ears and sank into my brain, resentment erupted in my stomach. I hoped that other girls in this country wouldn't have their bodies treated in a similar way to how I enjoyed getting pleasure injections.

I won't even begin to discuss the werewolf aspect. I'm still trying to process that mind fuck.

So far, the sole benefit of the werewolf has been the rapid disappearance of my injection bruises. In the past, they had disappeared after a few days, but I wasn't about to start singing and dancing to entice fur to grow out of my skin.

My eyes followed the contours of my father's domain. It appeared to be the most difficult to defend given that it was encircled on all sides.

"How does he manage that?" The country appeared to be a very large area, spanning from sea to sea and containing plains, mountains, and marshes.

She asked, "How can my father control everyone?"

She said in a monotone, as though everyone knew that he controlled the alphas. In Ivy's defence, I had no idea because I had assumed it was.

"Alphas..." I echoed gradually. I was aware that Alpha was the initial letter because my father made me learn the Greek alphabet. However, I was unaware of its significance in this situation.

The dominant male of each pack. The dominant masculine figure is an alpha. Tertiary leaders include betas and gammas. The Central territory is home to your father's pack, but he also has warriors guarding his... interests. Ivy's words followed the line that her finger had taken around the map. "Within every one of the others."

"Warriors?" My eyes grew wider.

Currently, this sounds like an army.

"You are more familiar with them as security personnel." She gave one of the security personnel stationed at the library's front door a nod.

We were seated at a long table and looked through dozens of the oldest and stenchiest books that Ivy had pulled as we were surrounded by old, musty books. Some of their pages appeared to crumble upon touch because they were so delicate, but she handled them with such care; they were in better hands than mine.

I didn't stay in the library for very long. The books I found interesting have nothing to do with this topic, such as romantic novels. or a different perception of reality.

But warriors...

I fixed my attention on the security guard working my detail at the library's entrance. As I observed his strong arms encircling his tall, athletic form, my heart began to beat quicker. He moved while I was looking at him, but he said nothing.

From across the library, he appeared to be an ordinary person wearing only black and carrying a holstered Glock-19 on his hip.

How could I miss that?

I closed my eyes since I was aware of the response.

since I didn't examine closely enough.

"What do my father's 'interests' consist of?" I wondered if they had anything to do with his pharmaceutical company as I repeated Ivy's statement.

"Whatever he decides is the best course of action for his pack. It is known as the White Moon. She tapped the map's center with her index finger to emphasize its significance before bringing her hand back to her lap.

My brows furrowed as I said, "Wait - " My dad is the Alpha, right?

"Yes. a member of the White Moon pack. She began to speak in a patronizing manner, as if she were explaining something to a five-year-old. I definitely had the impression of a five-year-old learning everything for the first time. There is a structure of command and respect inside each pack. Each is headed by a male Alpha, followed by a Beta and a Gamma. Lunas are the Alpha's partners.

There is still more alphabet.

What is the Luna used for? I stepped in.

She is the pack matriarch, Ivy said after sliding her glasses up her nose and looking at me. She supports the Alpha in particular, handling any duties he requires and mating to maintain the lineages.

As she spoke, my heart fell.

An earth mother?

The situation sounded worse than being put to death. I had a pistol and an identity other than being a wife and egg factory at least in the makeshift drug cartel.

"How does the Alpha get picked?"

"Either by birth order within a family, the eldest son has first priority, or...other means." Ivy turned her head aside and focused on the door to the library.

Other means, such as a vote? The phrase "werewolf democracy" sounded good.

One pack overpowering another while slaying any resistance.

Oh.

The thin hairs on the back of my neck stood up at Ivy's words as she spoke in her low, quiet voice. It dawned on her that my father's home was devoid of women and that the guards were referred to as warriors.

He would employ various tactics to keep control of his... "interests," such as having more warriors than other packs.

I braced my elbows against the table while arching my back and cupping my hands in front of me. The selection process for the Betas and Gammas.

I said, "By the Alpha."

Sounds reasonable.

The Luna, too?

The mate bond is used to choose the Luna. I was looking at her while she grinned at the significance of this place.

"And so that is?" I couldn't recall the last time I felt this clueless about a certain subject.

"A biologically necessary matching of two mates. Our resemblance to marriage, the strongest tie. Beyond simply being committed, their souls are linked. Once they are paired, partners make every effort to protect one another. They have such a strong emotional and physical bond that if one suffers, the other will too.

"And?" I leaned in while raising my brows.

I'm not sure if I want the response. The situation is growing worse.

"If one dies, his mate usually dies, too."

Yeah, it got worse.

My lungs whooshed out the entire contents of my lungs at once. I fell back in my seat feeling empty.

Yeah, it got worse.

I questioned, "How are mates chosen?" while cupping my forehead in one palm.

By the goddess of the moon. I cupped my hands about my head.

Which was worse-the onslaught of strange information or my annoyance at my inexperience for not being able to take in what Ivy was throwing at me?

My brows furrowed in unison. The question "And who is she?"

She is the goddess who chooses partners. She communicates with significant werewolves, directing and shaping their future. All the colors of her children, including black, white, gold, and silver, are pure.

I felt a rolling sensation, similar to a dull cramping sensation pulling deeply inside my gut, at Ivy's comments. Along with the mild ache, I felt queasy and my throat started to feel dry.

"Ivy..." My forehead throbbed against my fingertips as I pressed them to it. I reasoned that the headache was likely the result of processing too much new, strange information and trying to figure out how it linked to me in any way.

"I'm..." I fluttered my eyes up and shut till I could see clearly as Ivy doubled. Feeling under the weather. Can we continue later?

"Sure," you say. She put the book down when we peeked inside, and she gave the security guard a nod.

My chair was pulled back as I bent over in anguish after it dug into my stomach. A quick blush in my pants caused me to get up. My stomach started to strain painfully, and I palmed the table in response.

"Are you alright?" Ivy closed the final books on the table, her eyes widening as she did so.

I'm all right. My stomach felt as though it had been booted by a foot wearing cleats as another wave of anguish hit me. I clamped my eyes shut in response.

"Nova..." Her fingers began to reach out to me as my eyes began to awaken.

"I'm good!" I waved her off after opening my eyes.

Ivy had given off the impression that she was a good person, but I felt like I had to handle this on my own. I exhaled deeply on trembling legs, and my chest heaved as I stood up.

I said, "Don't follow me." The security guard came closer, his palms extended as if I were a mound of eggshells, and I scowled at him. I turned on my heel and left the library after pushing my chair closer to the table.

As quickly as they could, my feet moved down the corridor to my bedroom. With each time I set my heels on the floor, the pain progressed from a dull dragging sensation to scorching, intense stabbing.

By the time I clung to my bedroom doorway and had another warm flush in my pants, the pain had intensified to a scorching level. My legs' flesh between them was damp. I quickly entered the loo and removed my trousers with shaking hands.

My mouth dropped when I saw how my pants and knickers were covered entirely with blood.

I entered the shower, got out of my clothes, and cleaned the blood off my legs and garments since I didn't know what else to do. Rivers of reddish liquid dribbled down the bathtub's edges and circled the drain before diminishing and dissipating.

Pain flooded over me in waves that never stopped, so I knelt down and gripped my stomach with my elbows. I had to sit down, cross my arms over my knees, and hold my knees close to my chest before my back stopped sliding down the shower's cold tiles. I remained there, unthinking and still, breathing through the agony until the water turned cold.

The metal hooks along the bar screeched when the shower curtain retracted. As water trickled over my body, I jerked out of the foetal position, my eyes rising.

My chin, lips, and cheeks all trembled violently as they vibrated up into my face. My skin was covered in goosebumps as I tucked my elbows into my tummy to enclose the source of the excruciating pain that was stabbing into my abdomen repeatedly.

"I believe that is sufficient." Over my shoulder, Kira turned off the water.

Her hazy silhouette caught my clouded eyes as anguish numbed my other senses. The knife-like stabs into my pelvic muscles numbed my focus.

If I have to experience this again, I will gladly let Flint knock me down a hundred times.

"This will help. Here." She gave me four large, white pills and a glass of water.

I looked at them clasped in her palm because any sense of trust we had built up was gone.

Her tone became almost gentle as she spoke. My pelvic muscles coiling and feeling ripped open lessened my suspicions. "Pain medications, although you might feel a little sleepy. Food and rest will be helpful.

"Thuh-thanks..."

I took one bite to fully ingest the pills. She pulled me up to a standing position and placed a towel around me. My wet, blood-stained trousers caught her attention, but she didn't change her expression-it was stoic and unreadable.

"Rest." She carried me over to my bed, where the softness underneath me showed that I had been put down.

My body was exhausted from fighting the discomfort, leaving me with a foggy mind, tight muscles, and drained energy. She inserted a needle into my arm, but I was so weak that my eyes were closed and my mind failed to notice the stinging squeeze.

This is what?

My mind questioned whether this was my menstruation as pain forced me to open my eyes and choke out my voice. While I was aware that periods involve a lot of bleeding and discomfort, this felt more like hemorrhaging while someone booted me in the stomach with a pair of spiky heels.

Have I changed?

My eyelids drew closer together as they grew swollen and heavy. Before sleep robbed me of any answers to my questions, my eyelids flickered.