Chapter 1 Chapter 1

AMANDA POV

The tombstone felt cold against my forehead, the only thing grounding me as my world blurred.

"Six years, Mom," I whispered, the words catching in my throat. "Six years since you left, and it still feels like I’m breathing underwater. I can’t do this alone anymore. I’m tired of being strong in a world that only wants to break me."

A single red rose slipped from my trembling fingers, landing on the damp earth. It was my nineteenth birthday—a day that should have been a celebration. Instead, it was just another reminder of everything I’d lost.

Ever since Aunt Rebecca took me in, "family" had become a word for pain. To her, I wasn't a niece; I was a servant, a punching bag, a ghost haunting the corners of her house. While her daughter, Miracle, spent her days in classrooms and silk dresses, I spent mine scrubbing floors in rags so thin they barely held together.

I wiped my face with the back of a scarred hand, my jaw tightening. Not today, I told myself. Today is the last time they see me cry. I had a plan. I was getting out.

A sudden, sharp jolt—like a spark of electricity—shot through my spine. My skin prickled. I fumbled for the cracked pocket watch in my dress, my heart sinking as I saw the time.

"Damn it," I hissed. If I was late for dinner, Rebecca wouldn't just scream; she’d make sure I didn't eat for a week.

I took off, my lungs burning as I sprinted toward the pack borders. I couldn't afford a ride, so I let the desperation fuel my legs. By the time I reached the back door, I was gasping, my chest heaving. I eased the door open, praying the hinges wouldn't betray me. Creak.

"Hiding from someone?"

The voice was like ice water down my neck. Aunt Rebecca stood in the shadows of the hallway, her arms crossed over her chest. She stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she inspected my disheveled hair and stained cheeks.

"You went to the grave, didn't you? Disobedient brat." She leaned in closer, her nostrils flaring. Her expression shifted from anger to confusion. "Wait... why do you smell different? And your eyes..."

"Leave her be," a deep voice rumbled.

Uncle Michael stepped into the light, Miracle trailing behind him with a smug smirk. Michael didn't protect me out of kindness; he only stepped in when my presence interrupted his peace.

"She has work to do," Michael said, his eyes hard. "Miracle needs to be perfect tonight. You’ll be doing her hair, her makeup, and prepping her dresses. The Devil Alpha is visiting the pack, and my daughter will be the one he notices."

Miracle flinched, her smirk vanishing. "But Dad! Everyone knows the Devil Alpha is a monster. I don’t want him to pick me. Send her instead." She pointed a manicured finger at me.

Michael gave a dry, humorless laugh. "Don't be foolish, darling. I would love to throw her to the wolves, but she’s nineteen and wolf-less. The Alpha only summoned unmated girls with wolves. You’re the only one in this house who qualifies."

Miracle’s eyes lit up with a cruel realization. She turned to me, her voice dripping with venom. "Fine. Since I have to get ready, you can handle my laundry. And wash my panties well I left a ketchup surprise for you there don't leave them smelling like a basement."

"And the farm," Rebecca added, her lips curling. "The weeds are overgrowing. You’ll clear the field after you finish scrubbing every tile in this house. Consider it your birthday gift."

Michael stepped toward me, his gaze lingering on my face. "Speaking of birthdays... what is wrong with your eyes, girl?"

I recoiled, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I... I don't know what you mean."

"She’s hiding something," Rebecca hissed. "She’s wolf-less, it’s impossible for her to change, unless..."

"Enough, Rebecca," Michael snapped, cutting her off. "We handled that years ago. It’s nothing." He gave me a chilling smile. "Happy birthday. Go get the food."

I hurried into the kitchen, my hands shaking. The smell of savory pasta filled the air—food I knew I wouldn’t taste unless there were scraps left on their plates. I balanced the heavy pot and brought it to the table, Rebecca’s eyes following my every move like a hawk waiting for a rabbit to trip.

I went back for the glassware, stacking the tray too high in my rush to be finished. As I reached the table, the tray tilted.

Smash.

A glass shattered against the floor, shards exploding across the tile.

"You useless bitch!" Rebecca screamed, leaping to her feet.

"Clean it up," Michael commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

I reached for the broom, but Rebecca’s hand shot out, pinning my shoulder. "No. You don't get the easy way out. Pick it up with your hands. Every. Single. Piece."

I sank to my knees, the cold floor biting into my skin. I began picking up the jagged glass, my vision blurring. A sharp edge sliced deep into my palm. I didn't cry out, even as warm blood began to pool on the white tile.

Then, the scent hit me.

It was thick, dark, and intoxicating—like pine needles and thunderstorms. It was close. Too close. My head throbbed as the electricity from earlier returned, surging through my veins.

Splash!

Ice-cold water drenched my head and shoulders. I looked up to see Miracle holding an empty pitcher, laughing as the water ruined my only decent dress.

"Oops," she giggled. "You looked like you needed to cool off."

Something inside me snapped. The years of silence, the hunger, the bruises—it all condensed into a white-hot flame in my chest. I stood up slowly, the water dripping off my chin.

"I don't have another dress, Miracle," I said, my voice eerily calm.

"And? What are you going to do about it, orphan?"

I didn't think. I grabbed a cup of dark juice from the table and hurled the contents straight into her face.

The room went silent. Miracle’s mouth dropped open, purple liquid staining her expensive silk. With a shriek of rage, she swung her hand to slap me.

I caught her wrist mid-air. Her skin felt cold against the sudden, unnatural heat radiating from my palms. For the first time in six years, the girl who had spent her life making me small looked at me—truly looked at me—and trembled.

"Touch me again," I whispered, my voice sounding deeper, vibrati

ng with a raw power that made the glassware on the table hum, "and I’ll show you exactly what it feels like to be broken."