Page 8 of Runt of the Pack
“Don’t.” The woman’s voice cracks sharply through the haze of pain. “Please, don’t tamper with your wound dressings. It’ll mess up the healing process.”
My answering growl holds both agony and indignation. Who is she to tell me what I may or may not do? I am no helpless cub or dotard elder. I am Vladimir Volkov, Alpha of the Roman wolf pack. Or was, before shame and failure stripped that title from me.
The woman steps further into the cramped room, movements cautious. She stops a safe distance away, head angled warily. “Do you have a name?” she asks after an extended silence.
I grunt, still battling the fire in my wounds. “Vlad... Vladimir,” I finally grind out. She nods slowly, considering. Her next words are so soft I almost miss them.
“I’m Anya.”
Anya. The name whispers through my mind, tangled with glimpses of white fur and patient vigil. I can’t stop thinking of the lone wolf that kept me from death’s door... Exhaustion plays tricks on me. I don’t know what to believe, who to trust, or what my future holds.
Anya meets my stare levelly, betraying nothing of her own thoughts. But her quickened pulse and flare of scent—pine and wild musk, mingled with light floral notes—reveal an apprehension she masks well. What is she afraid of? Me?
“Alright, Vlad,” Anya says briskly, shattering the heavy silence. “I brought you some food. You should eat.” She turns and retrieves a steaming bowl from the cluttered table, bringing it over to set on the nightstand within my reach. The savory aroma of meat broth fills my nose, reminding me how long it’s been since I’ve properly fed. But wariness stays my hand.
Anya straightens, fixing me with a piercing look. “We’ll talk in a bit,” she says curtly, then retreats from the room, shutting me in alone again with my doubts.
I eye the offered meal, torn between hunger and suspicion. Can I trust this mysterious girl not to poison me while I lie helpless in her den? But no—if she meant ill, why heal me at all? Why not abandon me to die in the snowy field? I take up the bowl with my good hand, sloshing the simple broth. My empty stomach outweighs caution. I swallow every drop, licking the bowl clean, before collapsing back onto the lumpy mattress.
Sleep tugs at my weakened body, urging me to drift back into dark oblivion where pain cannot follow. But questions still plague me, denying any real rest.
Slipping in and out of consciousness, I do not know how much time has passed. The fire wanes to sullen coals in the soot-stained hearth. Anya does not return. I begin to wonder if she was even real at all, or just another fever dream. But I can still detect her moonlit scent if I focus... pine boughs, wild musk, layered with sweet peony and woven with my own. Proof of her presence, however fleeting.
At length, footsteps sound again outside, followed by the scrape of the door opening. Anya slips in soundlessly. Our eyes meet in silence weighted by uncertainty. She claimed we would talk, but where does one begin unraveling the strangeness that binds us?
“How are you feeling?” Anya asks eventually, still hovering several strides away. Her tone is less brusque now, almost gentle. The change sparks both relief and anger within me. I need no coddling, not even from she who pulled me back from the shadows.
“Well as can be expected,” I rasp in reply. Better to not show more weakness.
Anya’s eyes track the bandages swathing my injuries, seeing through my bravado. With care, she settles onto the room’s lone chair, watching the fitful fire rather than me. She’s waiting for me to break the fragile peace with my questions. But I will not grant her that power over me yet. She called this meeting—let her be the one to begin unraveling our shared riddle.
The fire pops and hisses as we study one another in the dimness. Anya carries herself with a stillness that seems all too familiar. A fierce capacity for silence and patience not many can muster. But there is anxiety in her studied poise, betraying the calm. She fears what I represent—an intruder into her isolated haven. And with good reason.
At long last, she exhales harshly, shoulders slumping as if in defeat. “Very well. I suppose we should... address the obvious, as much as can be addressed.” She pauses, marshaling herself. “You likely have questions. About where you are, who I am. I will answer what I can.”
I wet my cracked lips before responding. “I would appreciate that.”
She inclines her head in acquiescence. Clasping her hands tightly in her lap, Anya begins haltingly recounting the events following our battlefield encounter.
She confirms that she was gathering wood when she found me bloodied and unconscious in the snow. With great difficulty, she managed to half drag, half carry me here to her secluded home. She mended me as best she was able. Beyond that sparse outline, she provides little additional detail, instead lapsing again into wary silence.
Her tale solves some riddles, yet raises others. “You live here alone?” I prompt into the uneasy stillness. Anya’s pulse jumps at my question, but she nods in confirmation.
“For some time now, yes.”
“Why?” I do not ask merely to pry, but to unravel any potential threats.
Anya’s eyes flash with anger at my bold query. “I could ask the same of you,” she retorts coldly. “Why do you wander these parts alone and bloodied, trespassing onto my lands?”
I bristle at her pointed words. The events preceding our crossing are still raw wounds in my mind. Wounds I do not wish to expose to this stranger’s scrutiny. Anya seems to sense she overstepped, exhaling heavily as the tension bleeds from her taut frame.
“Forgive me,” she murmurs. “It’s only... I’ve grown unaccustomed to having company. Solitude changes us, doesn’t it?” Her gaze turns inward, seeing phantoms. “You need not relive troubled memories on my account.”
An unpleasant realization strikes me then—she is as much an outcast as I am now. We are two souls severed from their kin, each bearing the scars of that rupture. A harsh fate for anyone—wolf or human. At last, I understand the wary distance Anya keeps between us. She’s accustomed to solitude. I too, have guarded my secrets and pain closely since parting ways with the Ursa. Yet if there is any hope of gleaning answers from each other, these barriers must come down.
Swallowing the knot in my throat, I try to piece together a plausible story to satisfy Anya’s questions without revealing my true nature.
“I was attacked by... some kind of wild beast while hiking in these woods,” I say slowly. “I don’t remember much else. It’s still a blur.”
