The Broken Alpha

Lily

"I won't do it," Lily said, glaring at the man opposite her. "I never do, and I never have."

They were almost eye-to-eye as they leant across the table towards one another. The man – her father – sighed, his shoulders slumping. He'd tried.

"You know I worry about you. This desire of yours – this urge – it's not natural for creatures like us. And you're a warrior, Lils, a Warrior Wolf, destined to fight for your pack. Tying yourself up every month when the moon is full doesn't sit right with me, and it never has."

Lily straightened up, her long, dark blonde hair brushing across her shoulders and tumbling in soft waves down her back. Her brown eyes hardened, but there was something sad, ancient and aching and longing, that she desperately buried beneath layers of stone as she spoke.

"Mum died because of this pack," she spat. "This fight – it's not ours, Dad, can't you see that? It's between the Alphas, not us."

He ran a hand through his short hair, pushing it so that it swept back across his head. It was a few shades darker than hers, but their olive skin was identical, and their eyes held the same defiant glint that shone, with the cold light of the furthest stars, even in the dim light of their dining room.

"Alpha Atticus leads this pack, Lils, and we're part of this pack. Like it or not, it's our duty, our birthright, to defend the Blood Moon wolves. Your mother didn't die because of this pack – she died for this pack. For all of us, including you."

"Don't say that," Lily snarled. It was the same argument they had every month, every time that the moon was full. Duty or not, Lily would staunchly refuse to join in with the Blood Moon pack's fights. They managed to find quarrel with a neighbouring – or sometimes distant – pack every month, and they would always agree to settle their qualms the same way: with a battle to the death, or submission, on the night of the full moon.

Shifting into her wolf form, however, was not something she could refuse; no matter how much she might want to stay human. So, on the night of the full moon, Lily would tie herself down in her family's old wine cellar, restraining herself so that, when the beast took over, she knew she would be able to control it as best she could. She didn't trust her mental hold over her wolf-side, not yet, but the iron chains held her back. She wouldn't hurt anyone down there; she couldn't.

She'd only had to suffer through the transition for two years, but she'd never fought. Not once had she experienced the shift outside of the cramped, damp wine cellar, though she'd been told that to change beneath the light of the full moon was an unparalleled experience, particularly when undergone alongside one's pack. Every month she fought the urge to break free of her chains, and, even if the beast took hold, Lily would struggle against herself, her nature, to stay down until the sun rose once more.

That was when the cheering began, and, despite everything, it was the part Lily hated the most. It was a ritual, a chant, of bestial sound of raw celebration. To the other wolves, especially the other warriors, it was an honour to sing and to hear that rugged, out-of-tune singsong. To Lily, it marked another night of death.

Her dad sank into a chair, its heels scraping against the wooden floor. An empty vase shook slightly with the movement, unbalanced with no water or flowers to hold it down. It had stood empty since her mother's death, three years ago, now; neither she nor her father had the heart to get rid of it, but neither of them could bear to fill it again, not without her there.

"I miss her too, you know," he said quietly, his dark eyes crinkling, softening as he sank back into himself. His fire had died, and in its place a flower grew, extending its leaves to Lily as a peace offering. "Your birthday is coming up soon, your eighteenth, and you'll find your mate then. You'll understand."

With trembling fingers, she took hold, pulling out a chair and straddling it backwards. "I know you do. And, mate or not, I won't want to shift. I don't like arguing with you, Dad, I just – I can't stand it. So much violence, and for what? What is tonight's battle even over?"

He sighed again, scrubbing at his cheeks with calloused hands. "A borderline. Alpha Atticus believes the White Oak pack are infringing upon our territory."

"The White Oaks?" Lily's eyebrows shot up. "But they're a peaceful pack. They won't put up a fight."

Her dad raised one eyebrow at her, sitting back in his chair. "They aren't peaceful. They're sneaky. They push and they push and they push, until they either get what they want, or they can play the part of the victim when those they have wronged fight back. They've been pushing, Lils, taking our woodland and claiming it as their own."

"I don't see why we can't just share the woodland," Lily huffed. "It's not exactly worth dying for, is it?"

"The Blood Moon pack have a reputation to uphold. You grew up with Atticus – you know what he's like. When his father stepped down, he passed on leadership of the most powerful pack in this entire continent. Atticus is doing what he must. As will I."

But Lily was shaking her head, the determination in her eyes fading, shifting into sadness, desolation. "You know what I think. Alpha Atticus is a bully, and he has been for a long time, now. Giving him this power has twisted his already warped mind. How long has he been the Alpha now? Three years, give or take? Think of everything he has done in that time. Alpha Alvaro was tough, sure, and he had a mean streak, but he wasn't cruel. We weren't fighting every full moon, and you know it, Dad. You just won't accept it."

Despite herself, Lily felt a flare of affection for Alpha Atticus. He'd been pig-headed at school, uninterested in education and learning and self-betterment. But he'd had a fiercely protective streak, and he'd hated to see the weak fall prey to the more vicious students. In a world where pack status was everything, Atticus had, for a time, looked out for the Omegas at the pack school.

He was older, too, broad and handsome, in a rugged, typically masculine way. As a Warrior Wolf, Lily had always been able to look out for herself. But she'd appreciated Atticus's efforts from a distance, until age and time and status had changed him, too.

Even before her mother's death, Lily had abhorred violence of any kind. It was pointless and tragic, a means to an end that ruined people, and ruined people's lives. Then such violence had stolen her mother, all for the sake of a witch.

One pack had staked a claim on a woman; a woman who was rumoured to be the most powerful witch in the continent. The Blood Moon pack, in one of Atticus's first acts as Alpha, had positioned themselves to claim her as their own. Witches were not only useful for their spell work, but also as signs of power and status. To command a witch in the world of wolves was to signify one's influence, and, above all, the Blood Moon pack craved power, and status, and influence.

"Alpha Alvaro set this pack up to do great things. Atticus is carrying on as his father intended. Tonight, as the moon rises, we will stand on the battlefield, and we will claim back our rightful land, staking our territory and marking it in blood. I know you won't join us, Lily, but I wish you would. Your abstinence makes me think that your mother died in vain. She wouldn't have wanted you to hate yourself over her death."

"I don't hate myself," Lily frowned. She stood abruptly, the vase rattling, tilting to and fro before settling. "I hate that we use our nature to achieve violent ends. And don't make this about Mum," she added, shoving her chair under the table.

"Lils – I'm sorry."

"So am I." She gave him one final, pleading look. "I'm going to the cellar. I wish you would join me there."

"I can't." The words were choked, broken. "I can't."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow, once you have marked the woods with the blood of your enemies. Oh, wait – only they aren't your enemies, are they? They're innocent people, who probably need the woodland for food, or for shelter." She shook her head, her mouth curling in disgust. "Sometimes, I think Mum died in vain, too." She swept out of the room, squeezing her eyes shut to hide her tears.

"Lily!" Her dad cried out after her, but she was already gone.

Atticus

As he surveyed the crowd gathered before him, Atticus grinned. It was the night of the full moon at last, and his body thrummed with excited energy. He was proud of the legacy he'd built, and proud that so many wolves were eager to stand by his side each month. There was always another battle to fight, fresh territory to claim, and, in the beginning, he'd feared that they may not respect him the way they had his father.

He'd had nothing to worry about, as it turned out. He straightened his back, rolled his shoulders, and then he began to speak.

"Blood Moon pack!" He bellowed, clapping his hands and stomping his feet. A cacophony of howls filled the night air, and his grin stretched wider.

The moon was hovering above the horizon, its crisp white light piercing the black curve of the sky. Atticus could see the grey craters making up its face, dimpled into the shape of two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, and, deep in his chest, he felt the last of his nerves settle.

"Tonight we head North," he continued, his voice loud and strong. "The White Oak pack have pushed at our border for too long, trying to sneak themselves into our woodland. They have been claiming our land and our resources for their own. Tonight, we fight. Tonight, we take them down."

There were whoops and cheers, and more howls as the full moon continued to rise. The shift was uncontrollable, and it began gradually. Soon, the change would take hold.

The Blood Moon pack were the most fearsome around. His father, old Alpha Alvaro, had torn through the continent, with Atticus at his side. When he'd passed on his title, he'd hoped that Atticus would have found his mate soon thereafter. They'd attended Mating Balls and Pack Meets, yet Atticus had not found his Luna.

He didn't mind. There had only ever been one girl he'd ever liked, and she was utterly, completely wrong for him. He'd rather have no Luna than a weak one; he couldn't risk letting his parents down. They'd devoted their lives to their pack, and Atticus had to do the same. He'd grown tougher, harder, meaner, and he never backed down. Not anymore.

He'd buried his protective streak to begin with, but, with time, it had morphed into something twisted and sickly instead. He'd cared for the weak, once. Now he only cared for the strong – he wanted to keep them strong, to make them stronger. He would fight to the death for his pack, but only if they deserved his protection.

So far, only one of his wolves had ever let him down. And, of course, she just so happened to be the one she-wolf he could see himself loving.

Every month, he combed through the assembled crowd, trying desperately to pick her out. He could picture her hair shining beneath the moonlight, the stars reflecting in her huge brown eyes, and, every month, there would be a sliver of hope in his heart that, at least, she would join them – him – on the battlefield.

But every month he was disappointed, and this time was no different. He could make out her dad – they looked so similar, both tall, olive skinned, and with a wistful curve to their mouths that spoke of age-old aristocracy – but Lily was not beside him.

Atticus couldn't let her absence dampen his mood. And, if the gleam in his eyes darkened, drowned out by his broken longing, none of his pack noticed. The moon was steadily climbing, and, as it did, they began to shift.

In the beginning, the transformation from man to beast had been painful. But with each shift, the pain lessened. The crack of bone and the tearing of muscle still sounded gruesome, but Atticus was used to it. He'd endured the shift once a month for five years, now, and it felt almost fluid as his face elongated into a snout, and his knees snapped to make way for hocks. Fur bristled from his skin, and his hands compressed into paws, as his nails lengthened into claws.

Then he fell, his arms becoming his front legs, and he caught himself. Some of the younger, newer wolves collapsed to the ground, writhing against the pain, but if Atticus felt any sympathy for them he didn't show it. Instead he began to pace, pressing his weight down through his legs and into his paws, getting used to the feeling of being an animal rather than a man once again.

Every month it got a little easier, and every month he lost a little more of himself in the process.

Controlling himself in his wolf-form had taken time. The younger wolves looked to him for guidance on nights like these – without a strong Alpha to take charge, to corral them in the right direction, their wolf-side would take hold, and they could end up waking up miles from home, with no memory of how they got there. With practice, they would be able to manoeuvre as a wolf as if they were in their human bodies, but the heady sensation of becoming an animal was not something that could be adjusted to all at once.

There had been rumours circulating of a witch with the power to control a wolf's shift. They were reliant on the moon, and they had no choice in whether or not they turned beneath its light. To take charge of their own bodies would provide the Blood Moon pack with unimaginable power, and it would solidify their position as the strongest pack in the continent. If there was one thing that Atticus wanted, it was power.

But the rumours had, so far, been no more than that. Fighting for witches had cost the lives of his pack members in the past, but Atticus was willing to risk them all if it meant that they would never be challenged again.

There was just one wolf left on the ground, struggling to unfurl its body. With a small sigh, Atticus paced towards it, his black paws thudding rhythmically on the grass. They didn't have time to waste once they'd shifted, and he needed to get the youngster on its feet. He didn't recognise the little wolf – it was silver-grey beneath the glowing moon, with a muzzle and paws that looked as though they'd been dipped in chocolate – and he didn't care to get to know it.

Perhaps in a few years, when the wolf had proved it's worth to him, then – and only then – would he deign to learn it's name.

Atticus barked at the young wolf. It quivered beneath his hard gaze, and, slowly, it stretched out it's paws, putting an experimental amount of weight on them each in turn. Atticus barked again, sharp and irritated, before nipping at it's hindquarters. They didn't have time for this.

The wolf stood on shaky legs, it's back bowing and trembling. Atticus watched it struggle idly, wondering if they could leave it behind. Lily, though stubborn, and almost mutinous in her disagreement with the basic principles of the Blood Moon pack, had never been a nuisance like this.

Lily

The iron chains were heavy, and too tight around her wrists and ankles, but Lily didn't care. So long as they worked – so long as she couldn't hurt anyone – she would suffer through endless torment if she had to. The weight of the chains was nothing in comparison to the guilt she'd have to live with if she broke free and tore someone apart. The mere thought of it left a bitter taste in her mouth. She pursed her lips.

The cellar smelt musty and damp, and she wrinkled her nose. She was sat in the far corner, her arms clutching her knees and huddling them for warmth. She'd stormed off after her argument with her dad, and, brooding and angry, she'd come straight down to the cellar. Dressed in just jeans and a thin t-shirt, she longed to sprint upstairs and grab a jumper. But the moon was rising rapidly outside, a slice of white light stretching across the floor before her, and, cold as she was, it wasn't worth the risk.

Any second now, it would begin. Alone in the darkness, with no light other than the thin sliver of moonlight cutting through the shadowed cellar, she would get through it. Each month, she found that she could exert a little more control over her wolf side. Her dad was adamant that if she let herself out once in a while, she'd gain much more control much more quickly. But, to Lily, it wasn't worth the risk.

She sighed, hugging her knees closer to her chest. Wide brown eyes tracked the moon's curvature, and she tried desperately to think of something – anything – to distract herself. Atticus was the first thing to come to mind, and she gritted her teeth. She wouldn't allow herself to think of his broad shoulders, of his flashing, teasing eyes, of his wicked, sinfully curved mouth. A muscle feathered in her jaw.

She hated him. And yet – some part of her ached for him.

She clenched her jaw as pain gripped her bones. It lurked in the shadows, watching her teasingly, and then it snapped her ankles. Her head jerked, but she did not make a sound. Clinging to the spark of humanity buried deep in her chest, she held back her cries as her body twisted and shattered.

Her muscles ripped and her bones reformed around them. Her throat burned with tears, but all through the pain she focused on that small, burning light within her. She clung to it, even as her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she pulled herself up onto four legs, not two.

The urge to tug free of her chains came – and went. Her head jerked again, but this time in surprise. She knew who she was.

It was the first time that she'd retained her full sense of self, and, despite everything, her jaw lolled open into a distorted grin. Anxious to hold onto herself, Lily thought of mundane, trivial things to keep herself grounded.

It was March – meaning that tonight was the Worm Moon. They would spend the next day giving thanks for the coming spring, but it did not come with the revelry and celebration of many of the other moons. Of that, at least, Lily was glad. Her nose wrinkled at the thought of the Solstice, and she wondered at how odd it felt to be a human in the body of a wolf.

She stared up at the moon, tumbling, warring tides within her knocking swords as she wondered if it was a goddess, as so many of her pack believed, or if it was a devil sent to torment them. Perhaps, had she been born into a different pack, it would not seem so evil as it did. The White Oak pack, for instance – they were a gentle, benevolent group, uninterested in battling with the others surrounding their territory every month.

Her gut ached with sorrow for them. They would lose tonight, and many of their wolves would go down in a fight they had not asked for. Despite what her Dad had told her, Lily did not believe for a second that White Oak pushed and pushed. That was what Blood Moon did, and they could get away with it because they had the numbers and the sheer strength to back up their ill manners.

Her eyes rolled to her paws, a dusty rose in the dim light but resplendent, shimmering white under the moonlight, she imagined. She'd never turned outside, never once allowed herself a taste of the freedom that her pack tried so hard to push on her. Perhaps now she had a hold on herself, on her wolf-side, she would test the waters by leaving the wine cellar. She didn't dare go far, but... a walk would be nice.

She yanked at the chains holding her. They didn't budge.

With a sigh that sounded unnervingly human, she settled on the cold floor. She didn't dare think of the carnage surely taking place at the border, of the blood soaking into the dewy grass, of the fallen bodies and their dead eyes, open and blank as they stared up at the moon.

It was all for nothing. Her lips curled back from her teeth. It wasn't that she didn't understand the need for power, for control over their lands, but peace would never be achieved through violence. Though her dad fought her on it every month, she believed that somewhere, under the lingering wounds of her mother's death, he knew that diplomacy was a far better means to an end than slaughter.

He was the one thing that kept her from devising plans to leave after her eighteenth birthday. There was love between them still, hibernating somewhere beneath years of brittle conversation and snapping remarks. More than that, there was nostalgia and memory for a time when all had been right between them – a burning ember, digging into her heart every time she saw the empty vase on the dining table.

Pack law meant that she wouldn't be able to until then – the Alpha had the right to his wolves, and most talents had made themselves known after two years of shifting. Then, if a wolf wanted to leave, he would give his blessing – almost always if the wolf was of no use to him – or he would disagree, and the wolf could leave and live as a rogue, disgraced and discarded, or fight the Alpha. No wolf in the Blood Moon pack had ever walked away from a fight with its Alpha.

Lily was certain that Alpha Atticus would allow her to walk away without a second glance back at her. She was a Warrior Wolf unwilling to fight, more useless than even the lowliest Omega. They, at least, had a purpose.

In fact, though they lacked the training afforded to the Warrior Wolves, all of the Omegas joined the Alpha on his monthly hunts. In most packs, it was frowned upon – every part of the pack had a duty to uphold, and dying at the hands of better warriors meant they would be unable to perform their own duties – but Atticus, and Alvaro before him, had always encouraged every member of their large, sweeping household to involve themselves.

Those that stayed behind faced worse bullying than the rest. If Lily had fists rather than paws, she would have clenched them. Since Atticus had taken up his father's mantle, only one wolf ever stayed behind. Lily could deal with the taunts and the insults – she could not deal with the bloodshed.

Even though a traitorous part of her ached to make Atticus proud, to do as he wished, to serve him with all that she was and all that she would ever be. That same, delirious part of her longed to awake on her birthday to discover that she was his mate, no matter how poorly matched they might be.