"Get up."
The command barks out above me. It is gritty and smells of stale tobacco.
I spit blood onto the mat. It is bright red against the grey rubber. I push myself up on shaking arms. My ribs scream in protest. The bruise forming on my side feels like a hot poker, but I welcome the pain. Pain is real. Pain keeps me focused.
"Again," Coach Miller grunts. He stands over me, a behemoth of a man with scars mapping his bald head. He holds the focus pads up. "And this time, Vance, try not to telegraph your hook. You are signaling like a lighthouse."
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I wrap my fingers tighter into fists inside the gloves.
"I am tired, Miller," I wheeze.
"Oh, you are tired?" He lowers the pads. He steps into my personal space. He is human, but he has the presence of an Alpha. "The world does not care if you are tired. The guy in the alley with a knife does not care. Do you think your rent cares?"
"No," I say. I plant my feet.
"Three years, Elara," he says. His voice drops, losing some of the performative aggression. "You have been coming here for three years. Every day. You hit the bag until your knuckles bleed. You spar with guys twice your size. You fight like you are trying to outrun something."
He narrows his eyes.
"But you never tell me what it is."
I stare at him. I cannot tell him. How do I explain that I am running from a biology that rejected me? That I am training to fight monsters that can crush cars with their bare hands?
"I just want to be strong," I lie. It is the same lie I have told since I arrived in this soot-stained city.
"Bull," Miller says. He raises the pads again. "One-two combo. Left kick. Go."
I snap into motion. Jab. Cross. My shin connects with the heavy pad on his thigh with a sickening thud. The impact rattles my teeth. It feels good. It drowns out the other ache. The one deep in my chest that never goes away.
Three years.
One thousand and ninety-five days since I slid down that trellis.
I throw a hook. Miller catches it easily, but I put my weight behind it. He grunts.
"Better," he says. "Keep your guard up. Protect the chin."
We go for another ten minutes. By the time he calls time, I am dripping with sweat. My lungs burn. I strip off my gloves and lean against the ropes, gasping.
Miller tosses me a towel.
"You are getting faster," he admits. He walks over to his desk and picks up a clipboard. "But you are still fighting angry. Anger makes you sloppy. You need ice."
"I need money," I correct him. I check the clock on the wall. "I have a shift in an hour."
"At the diner?" He scoffs. "You are wasting your life slinging hash, kid. You could go pro. I could get you fights. Real ones. With purses."
I freeze.
Professional fighting means medical exams. It means blood tests. It means exposure.
If anyone tests my blood, they will see the anomalies. They will see the markers of a species that is not supposed to exist to the human public. Or worse, a stray wolf might catch my scent on TV or in a ring.
"No," I say sharply. "Just self-defense, Miller. That is the deal."
He shakes his head. "Suit yourself. But you are a natural. It is a waste."
"See you tomorrow," I say. I grab my bag and duck out the back door before he can press me further.
The city air hits me like a wet towel. It smells of exhaust, garbage, and wet pavement. It is disgusting. It is perfect.
The stench of the city covers everything. It is my shield.
I pull my hood up. I keep my head down as I walk to the subway. I am invisible here. Just another girl in a grey hoodie trying to survive the urban grind.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. A text from my landlord.
*Rent is due. Do not make me come up there, Elara.*
I delete the message. I know rent is due. I have the cash in my sock drawer, minus fifty bucks I had to spend on scent blockers.
The blockers are expensive. They are illegal, sold out of the back of a shady herbalist shop in Chinatown. They burn my throat when I swallow them, and they make me dizzy, but they work. They dull my natural scent down to nothing. To any passing werewolf, I smell like cheap detergent and nothingness.
I descend into the subway. The station is crowded. I squeeze into a corner of the train car.
Suddenly, a sharp pain lances through my chest.
I gasp, clutching my sternum. It is not a heart attack. It is the bond.
It happens randomly. A phantom tug. A reminder that somewhere, hundreds of miles away, Kael is breathing.
Because I never accepted his rejection.
He said the words. He cut me off. But the ritual requires both parties to acknowledge the break for the magical tether to fully dissolve. I ran before I could say it. I ran before I could let him go.
So the bond remains. It is a jagged, broken thing. A live wire hanging in the empty space of my soul.
Usually, it is just a dull ache. But sometimes, like right now, it flares hot. It means he is feeling something intense. Anger? Lust? Pain?
"Get out of my head," I whisper. I squeeze my eyes shut.
A man standing next to me looks at me warily. He shifts away.
"Rough day, sweetheart?" he asks. He has a leering grin.
I open my eyes. I look at him. I channel three years of rage, three years of sleeping with a knife under my pillow, three years of Miller screaming in my face.
"Do not talk to me," I say. My voice is flat. Dead.
The man blinks. The smile drops off his face. He senses the violence coiling under my skin. He turns around and pretends to look at the subway map.
I get off at 4th Street.
My apartment is a shoebox above a laundromat. The walls are paper thin. The radiator clanks like a dying engine. It is a far cry from the Silverclaw estate with its silk sheets and mahogany furniture.
But this shoebox is mine. I pay for it. I bleed for it.
I rush up the stairs, skipping the broken step. I unlock the door and throw my gym bag on the futon. I strip off my sweaty clothes and jump in the shower. I scrub my skin until it is raw.
Lemon and bleach. That is the soap I use. It is harsh, but it kills the lingering pheromones.
I dress quickly. Black pants. Black shirt. The uniform of the invisible.
I grab my apron and head back out. The walk to the diner is short. The neon sign of "Joe’s All-Night Diner" flickers in the twilight. The 'O' is burnt out, so it just says "J e’s".
I push through the glass door. The bell chimes.
"You are late," a voice rasps.
Marge is behind the counter. She is sixty, chain-smokes on her breaks, and has a heart of gold buried under layers of cynicism.
"Two minutes, Marge," I say. I tie my apron around my waist. "The subway was slow."
"The subway is always slow," she says. She slides a pot of coffee toward me. "Table four needs a refill. And the guy in the corner wants to know if the pie is fresh."
"Is it?"
"It was fresh on Tuesday," she says with a wink.
I take the coffee pot. I move through the diner on autopilot.
"Refill?" I ask table four. A couple nods, not looking up from their phones. I pour. I move on.
This is my life now. Pouring coffee. Scrubbing tables. Dodge the hands of drunk patrons.
I am not Elara Vance, daughter of the Beta line. I am just Elara, the waitress. I have no wolf. I have no pack. I have no future.
"Hey, Elara," Marge calls out from the pass-through window. "You okay? You look pale."
I pause. I touch my chest. The ache from the subway has settled into a low thrumming vibration.
"Just a headache," I say.
"You work too hard," Marge scolds. She slams a plate of burgers onto the counter. "You train all day, you work all night. You never date. You never go out. You are going to burn out, girl."
"I am fine," I repeat.
"You are lonely," she says bluntly. "I have eyes. You walk around with a wall up so high I am surprised you don't get a nosebleed."
I force a smile. "I like the wall, Marge. It keeps the draft out."
She snorts. "Yeah, well. One day someone is going to knock it down. And I hope I am here to see it."
The bell above the door chimes again.
A draft of cold air sweeps into the diner.
I shiver. It is not just the cold. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. A primal instinct, the one I thought was dead and buried, prickles down my spine.
Danger.
I turn slowly toward the door.
It is not a customer. Not a normal one.
I grip the coffee pot handle until my knuckles turn white.
I survive because I pay attention. I survive because I know what predators look like.
And I know, with a sinking dread in my gut, that my quiet, lonely life is about to get very loud.
