Page 7 of Runt of the Pack
Sensation returns slowly. First, the bone-deep ache throbbing heavily in my limbs. Then, the wet rasp of breath sawing in and out of my lungs. So, I do still live—though likely not for long. The functions of this borrowed flesh yet persist against all odds, refusing to still. A growl rumbles in my throat, low and weak. Even on the brink of death, the wolf in me stubbornly fights on.
I force my eyelids open with great effort. The blurred white expanse of snowfields fills my vision. It must be near dawn, the eastern sky barely touched with grey behind black pines. I blink slowly, adjusting. Have I lain here all night since the fight? Grisha still lives, and hunts my brother. But I could not move even if I wished to. My shattered body will not rise again. This lonely wilderness will be my grave.
A shadow passes before me, a silent specter against the ghostly snow. I tense, expecting a killing blow to end this agony. But nothing touches me. Blinking the ice from my lashes, I make out a hulking white shape drawing cautiously nearer. A wolf, with fur the pristine white of a first winter’s snow. A hallucination born of blood loss and fading hope. But it seems real enough, moon-bright eyes fixed unblinkingly upon me.
The wolf paces a slow circle around my prostrate form, surveying my injuries with an uncannily intent gaze. This mystical creature’s eyes burn with a strange purpose that I cannot grasp. It hesitates, wavering, battling some internal conflict unknown to me. Then finally, it creeps nearer until its face looms directly over mine, warm breath fanning across my cheek.
Gently, it nuzzles along my jawline, the contact sending a spark of warmth through my benumbed nerves. The creature’s ministrations grow bolder as I do not resist, licking the congealing blood from my mangled shoulder. The rough caress stings, yet it begins to rouse me from my stupor. I lift my head slightly with a low whine, watching as it moves to lap gingerly at the wounds coating my back and flank.
Why does it help me, a stranger and trespasser in these parts? A dozen questions swirl weakly through my fading mind. But I lack even the strength to voice them. The wolf’s gleaming white fur blurs as my head sinks heavily back into the snow. A whimper catches in my throat, animal and human at once. I do not wish to die alone. Not here, so far from Pack and Kin.
The wolf exhales harshly through its nostrils, the almost wolfish equivalent of a resigned sigh. Then its body settles against my uninjured side, a living fur bulwark guarding me against the chill. Its warmth slowly seeps into my bones, kindling a fragile ember of life beneath my endless cold. Its head rests atop mine and lets loose a crystalline howl that rings out defiantly against the silent trees.
I’m here, it proclaims. You do not walk this path alone.
Those notes of song are the last thing I know before darkness reclaims me. But this time, its embrace is gentler, cradling, rather than crushing. I surrender willingly, too weary to resist. In fleeting moments between oblivion, I sometimes feel the steady rise and fall of the wolf’s flank against me, anchoring me to this world. Our combined heartbeats thrum against the frozen earth—the wolf’s strong and relentless, mine ever more hesitant and stumbling. But still, I cling.
I do not know how much time crawls by in fitful bouts of consciousness pierced by nothingness. The sky overhead slowly fades from black to muted grey, heralding the dawn that I did not expect to see. And yet the wolf remains, keeping silent vigil even as night’s shadows retreat.
I shift weakly, limbs heavy and aching, but functional. The wolf raises its head, eyes gleaming as they meet my own. In them, I see my own reflection—a haggard man, limbs matted with blood and snow, but very much alive. Thanks to its care.
Gratitude wells within my chest, even as questions continue to churn. But before I can voice them, sweet oblivion wraps me in its arms, and this time, there’s no fight left in me.
7
VLAD
I awake to shadows. For long moments, I lie still, senses straining against the darkness. Where am I? No familiar scents surround me—only aged wood, melting snow, and the smoky tang of a dying fire. The roar of the storm outside is deafening, even through the walls. I try to rise, only to be met with blinding pain as agony rips through my shoulder and right leg. Broken. Useless. A ragged snarl tears from my throat.
Blinking hard, I take stock of my surroundings. A small bed tucked against rough-hewn walls. Moth-eaten wool blankets covering my battered body... As my vision clears, the memories come flooding back—Grisha’s savage fangs tearing into my flesh, Luciana’s screams as she plummeted to her death.
I shut my eyes against the visceral visions, but still, they hound me. My pulse pounds as I relive every agonizing moment of my failure and loss. Luciana, my brother’s mate, sacrificed because I could not protect her. And Gavriil, still missing, his fate hanging maddeningly beyond my reach.
Tears blur my vision unbidden. In letting the traitor Grisha deceive me, I have failed my clan and my pack. My presence was worse than useless in that clearing—it led those I love to harm and death. Never have I felt so hollowed out, so unworthy of the Alpha title I strove so hard to attain.
I remember the mysterious white wolf finding me last night after the fight, its warmth and presence pulling me back from the brink… Was it real? Did I imagine it? Perhaps the wolf spirit’s visit confirmed my inadequacy, forsaking me now as punishment.
A bone-deep shame settles over me, more crippling than any physical wound. I am broken in ways no healer can mend. The bandages that dress my wounds may knit my ruined body, but my spirit is a ravaged battlefield no one can salvage. I am lost, adrift, severed from the driving purpose that once defined me.
I start. My heightened hearing picks up the faintest sound of distant movement. Whose home is this? Someone brought me here, wherever here may be.
I strain my ears over the gale’s cry. There—footsteps, barely audible. Drawing steadily nearer before stopping just outside the closed door. I tense, lifting my head towards the sound despite the pull of bruised muscles. Is it friend or foe beyond that barrier? I brace for a fight, though in my current state, even a single human could end me. My nails extend into claws, ready to tear out the throat of any who dare threaten me.
The door swings inward and I freeze. A young woman stands haloed in firelight, clad only in a simple linen shift. Wary brown eyes meet mine from beneath waves of dark mahogany hair. By her racing heart, she is as uncertain of me as I am of her.
“You’re awake,” she says bluntly. My heart kicks faster in response. Her voice is pure melody.
I try to rise, to show strength, but a jagged bolt of pain spears my shoulder. I collapse back with a snarl, curses boiling uselessly in my throat.
The woman sits nearby, surveying my struggle with displeasure. Her eyes reflect the low flames flickering in the hearth.
I lick my cracked lips, trying to find my voice. “What... what happened? Where am I?” The words scrape painfully past my raw throat.
“You were injured, unconscious. I brought you here to recover.” Her tone makes it clear she finds the situation an unwelcome inconvenience.
Unease twists my stomach into knots. Anything could have happened while I was locked in oblivion. And this stoic stranger clearly has little incentive to offer aid from genuine kindness. I must get my bearings and assess whether she poses a threat. But for now, I am trapped here at her mercy.
Again, I try to sit up, to take stock of my body’s damage. But my mangled shoulder and splinted leg scream in protest. A roar builds in my chest.
