The Wolf Beneath Her Scars

“NO!”

I jolt awake, my scream tearing through the darkness. For a moment, I cannot remember where I am. The nightmares cling to me, dragging pieces of the past into the cramped room.

“I thought I put all of this behind me,” I whisper.

I push myself up and make my way to the bathroom as quietly as possible, fear still gripping me as I cross the darkened hallway.

Leaning against the sink, I stare at my pale reflection. Some people might consider me beautiful, with my waist-length black hair and eyes of pure gold. My skin is smooth and pale, except for the faded scar running down the left side of my face, narrowly missing my eye.

I reach up with a shaky hand and trace it.

Then I step backward until I feel the wall behind me and slide to the floor. Quiet tears slip down my cheeks as I bury my face in my knees.

Eventually, my eyes close.

When I open them again, I am in a forest.

It is not a forest I know, but somehow, it feels like one that knows me. The branches seem to reach toward me, welcoming me home.

I follow a rough path that looks as though no one has walked it in years, trailing my fingers over coarse bark and soft moss.

Then I notice the silence.

The birds have stopped singing. Nothing stirs among the trees.

I know this part of the dream, but it still scares me.

Taking a deep breath, I turn.

Glowing red eyes watch me from the darkness.

“Come home, my love,” a mysterious voice echoes through the forest. “You belong with me.”

Calm washes over me. Those eyes should frighten me, but they never do. They draw me closer, promising something I can never quite name.

I take a step toward them.

The underbrush rustles beside me.

The vision snaps away like broken glass.

I hit the cold linoleum of the bathroom floor, gasping for air. The phantom voice still echoes behind my temples, urgent and desperate. It does not feel like a wandering dream anymore. It feels like a warning, sharp and immediate, reminding me that my eighteenth birthday arrives in exactly twenty-four hours.

I pull myself up by the edges of the porcelain sink. My heart thumps against my ribs. Shivering in the drafty air, I splash icy water onto my face to drown out the memory of those crimson eyes. The manor is silent, but the quiet here is never safe.

I creep back into my tiny room beneath the eaves. I pull on a pair of faded black leggings and an overly large, threadbare knit sweater, tugging the sleeves down over my knuckles against the morning chill, then lace up my heavy, scuffed boots. There is no time to linger on dreams that cannot feed me. In this house, delays bring consequences.

I take the narrow, unlit servant stairwell down to the ground floor. Each wooden tread creaks under my weight, and I test every step before resting on it. The kitchen is freezing when I reach it, dark except for the gray pre-dawn light leaking through the grimy windows.

I walk straight to the heavy iron range. The ashes from last night are cold and gray. I shovel them out into a bucket, then open the heavy back door to fetch the morning split logs. The frost on the grass bites through the worn soles of my boots as I haul an armload of dry pine from the shed. My shoulders burn under the weight, but I keep moving.

Back inside, I stack the logs in the hearth and strike a match. The small flame licks at the birch bark and takes hold. As the cast iron slowly warms, I set the heavy copper kettle on the burner and pull down the silver breakfast tray.

Everything must be exact. Victoria demands her bitter black coffee at six sharp, and Chloe insists on warm milk steeped with clover honey. I arrange the delicate porcelain cups and saucers that belonged to my father’s family long before my stepmother ever crossed the threshold.

A soft click sounds behind me.

I freeze with the honey jar in my hand.

“Still playing the dutiful little servant, Khione?”

Chloe stands in the doorway of the pantry. Her honey-blonde curls are already styled, and she wears a pastel designer loungewear set with plush shearling slides. Her green eyes gleam with that familiar, petty spite she wears like perfume.

“I am preparing the morning coffee,” I say quietly, keeping my eyes fixed on the counter.

“Did I give you permission to speak to me?” Chloe steps forward, her slides scuffing softly against the stone flags. She circles me slowly, her chin tilted high. “Look at you. Covered in soot, smelling like wet ashes. You truly look like you belong in the dirt.”

“The kettle is boiling,” I say, keeping my voice level. “I need to pour it.”

“Let it boil,” she sneers. She steps into my path, blocking the stove. “You think you are clever, don’t you? Hiding behind those freakish gold eyes of yours. You think you will just turn eighteen and everything will magically change.”

“I have work to do, Chloe.”

I reach out carefully to take the silver tray. Chloe’s hands dart out. Her fingers do not grasp the handle. Instead, she shoves the tray hard with both palms, knocking it violently from my grip.

The porcelain coffee service crashes to the stone floor. Cups shatter into jagged white shards. Boiling water splashes across the hearth, hissing angrily as steam billows into the cold air. A few scalding drops hit the skin of my bare ankle, and I bite down on my lower lip to stifle the cry.

“Look what you did,” Chloe says with a cruel little laugh. “Clumsy little stray. You ruined Grandmother’s porcelain.”

“You pushed it,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

“Clean it up,” she snaps, her voice rising in shrill triumph. “On your knees, Khione. Where you belong. Use your hands.”

Heavy footsteps echo from the hall. The cold atmosphere in the room drops even further as the kitchen door swings open wide. Victoria Ward stands on the threshold.

My stepmother is dressed in a sharp, tailored black pantsuit, her silver-streaked hair pulled back into a sleek, severe low bun. Her gray eyes sweep across the ruined porcelain and the spilled water. She does not look angry. Her face is completely blank, carved from cold stone.

“What is the meaning of this noise?” Victoria asks, her voice silky and smooth.

“She dropped the tray, Mother,” Chloe whines immediately, stepping back to feign distress. “She was clumsy and ruined the china, and then she dared to speak back to me.”

Victoria walks into the room. She ignores her daughter completely, fixing her sharp gaze directly onto me. She steps over the broken shards without looking down, her designer pointed-toe stilettos clicking with absolute authority.

She stops inches away from me. The faint scent of dried lavender and old money rolls off her clothes.

“Clean the floor, Khione,” Victoria says softly.

“Yes, Victoria,” I whisper.

I drop to my knees on the cold flagstones. The damp chill seeps instantly through the worn knees of my leggings. Carefully, I begin picking up the broken white pieces, my fingers stinging from the heat remaining in the porcelain.

Victoria tilts her head, watching me crawl. A faint, terrible smile touches the corners of her mouth.

“Do not look so sullen, child,” Victoria murmurs, her tone patronizing and chillingly pleasant. “You should savor every chore today. After all, your duties in this house will conclude permanently at midnight tomorrow.”

I look up from the floor. Her gray eyes hold no warmth, only a calculating, predatory gleam that makes my stomach turn sick with dread.

“My duties?” I manage to ask, my voice barely audible.

“Every single one,” Victoria replies smoothly. “Tomorrow night, your debt to this family will be settled in full. A new arrangement has been made for you. One far more suited to your particular talents.”

Chloe giggles behind her, a shrill and spiteful sound.

Victoria turns away without another word, her tailored trousers swishing cleanly past the mess. “Chloe, come along. We will take breakfast in the conservatory. Leave the servant to finish her work.”

They leave the kitchen, their footsteps fading down the long, carpeted hall.

I stay on the floor, my hands trembling violently among the sharp porcelain fragments. A jagged edge cuts deep into the fleshy base of my palm. I barely feel the sting. All I can hear is Victoria’s cold voice whispering that my life here will end at midnight tomorrow.

I scramble to my feet and retreat into the dark, damp scullery, leaning against the deep stone washbasin for support.

My breath comes fast and shallow. But as I grip the cold stone, something strange stirs deep inside my chest. It is not fear. It is a sudden, blinding rush of heat that surges through my veins like liquid fire. My golden eyes flash with an inexplicable light in the dark, and for the first time in my life, the quiet girl inside me begins to burn.