~FREYA~

Freya stood in her kitchen, surveying what little she had left. Food was always scarce, but today it felt like nothing. On the counter sat a small hunk of stale bread and a meagre slice of cheese that Darice had slipped her from the pack house’s stores. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Still, it wouldn’t last long. Running her hand through her lank hair, she grimaced. A visit to the centre of the pack lands would be inevitable soon, and the thought of it made her stomach churn.

She had done her best to avoid the others. Most of the time, she managed to stay out of their way, keeping her head down and her presence as unnoticed as possible. Trouble had a habit of finding her regardless, but isolation helped some. For the past eighteen months, since moving into the small, weathered cottage at the edge of the pack’s territory, she had learned how to fend for herself. Most of her food came from the garden she had painstakingly cultivated, a patch of land that had become her lifeline.

Darice, one of the only wolves who ever spoke to her with kindness, had given her an old gardening book she’d found in the pack house’s dusty library. Through trial and error—and countless failed attempts—Freya had transformed her garden into a thriving little haven. She learned what crops worked well together to deter pests, how to rotate her planting to keep the soil fertile, and when to sow and harvest each type of vegetable. It had taken months of backbreaking work, but it was worth it.

Until last night.

The pack’s teens, emboldened by their cruel sense of entitlement, had decided to pay her a visit. It wasn’t the first time. They didn’t dare step too far out of line under the Alpha’s watchful gaze, but Freya? She was an easy target. They had trampled her carefully tended rows of carrots and pulled up her squash vines for sport. The autumn stock she’d been counting on to carry her through the colder months was gone, destroyed in a single night of malice.

Her stomach growled, a sharp reminder of how precarious her situation had become. Hunger wasn’t new to her—it was as familiar as the creak of the cottage floorboards or the howl of the wind through the forest. There had been other times, too many to count, when her stores had run dry, whether from sabotage or her own inability to forage enough. Each time she had found a way to scrape by, but it never got easier.

Sighing, Freya pushed open the back door and stepped outside. The morning air was crisp, and the weak autumn sun filtered through the canopy of trees above. Her garden lay before her, a sad mess of broken stalks and churned-up soil. She’d already salvaged what little she could—half a basket of bruised potatoes and a few herbs—but it wasn’t much. Still, she found herself walking the rows again, scanning for anything she might have missed, hoping against hope that there was something more.

She crouched down near the remnants of her cabbage patch, running her fingers through the dirt. Nothing. A pang of despair settled in her chest, heavy and unrelenting. She stood slowly, brushing the soil from her hands. This wasn’t the first time, and she doubted it would be the last.

Her eyes drifted to the edge of the forest, where the towering trees seemed to loom like silent sentinels. There was food to be found out there—wild berries, mushrooms, maybe even game if she dared—but the forest was dangerous, especially for someone like her. Still, the idea nagged at the back of her mind. It might be her only choice if she wanted to survive the winter.

She wrapped her arms around herself, the chill in the air creeping into her bones. The centre of the pack lands, with its bustling kitchens and well-stocked storerooms, was closer, but the risk was far greater. Freya could already feel the weight of their stares, hear the sharpness of their words. Hunger was easier to bear than their scorn, but even her pride had limits.

For now, she turned back to the cottage, her heart heavy. Hunger was a cruel master, and she knew it wouldn’t let her rest for long.

Her birthday was only three months away. Most girls her age would be bubbling with anticipation, eager for the moment they would meet their wolf and, if the Goddess willed it, their mate. But Freya felt no such excitement. She didn’t want a mate, not now, not ever—not while she was still waiting for Daemon. He had promised to return for her, and though six long years had passed, she clung to his words as tightly as she clung to the hope of escaping this life.

Darice, kind as she was, had told her more than once to let go of that hope. “He’s not coming back, Freya,” she’d said softly the last time Freya brought it up. “It’s been too long.” But Freya refused to believe it. Daemon wouldn’t have lied to her. He had been her protector, her anchor in a world that had always seemed intent on pulling her down. If he could return, he would. She would wait another six years, or ten, if that’s what it took for him to keep his promise.

Still, waiting didn’t make life any easier. Freya had learned to avoid the males of the pack entirely. She never spoke to them, never looked them in the eye, always keeping her head down and her long, dirty auburn hair hiding her face like a veil. Not that they would have paid her any attention even if she had tried. She was a reject, and rejects didn’t deserve their notice.

But the females were another story. They saw her as a threat, though why, she could never understand. They went out of their way to trip her on the path or shove her against walls when no one was watching. Their cruel words echoed in her ears long after they had spoken them. “Whore,” they hissed. “Slut. Ugly cow.” Freya didn’t know why they hated her so much, but she had learned not to fight back.

She had tried once. Isabelle, the Luna’s daughter, had cornered her with a group of friends, shoving and mocking her until Freya finally snapped. Her slap had been more instinct than intention, a moment of desperation. But Isabelle’s cries had drawn the Luna herself, and Freya had paid dearly for it. Stripped of what little dignity she had left, Freya had knelt in the packhouse courtyard as the Luna whipped her for “insubordination” and for “threatening” Isabelle. The humiliation burned even now, years later, and she had not raised a hand in her defence since.

Freya sighed as she bent down to gather the last of the logs from the stack outside her cottage. The air was crisp, the promise of winter sharp against her skin. Balancing the logs in her arms, she carried them inside, setting them carefully by the hearth. It would be a cold night, and the fire would at least keep her small space warm.

Pulling on the long cloak she’d recently finished knitting, she wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. It wasn’t perfect—there were missed stitches here and there—but it was warm, and that was what mattered. She bolted the cottage door behind her, taking a deep breath before starting the walk toward the packhouse.

Each step felt heavier than the last, dread pooling in her stomach. She had to go—there was no avoiding it. But as she made her way through the winding forest paths, she whispered a silent prayer to the Goddess, begging for mercy.

“Please,” she murmured under her breath, “just let them leave me alone today.”

The packhouse loomed in the distance, its imposing silhouette framed by the fading light. Freya gritted her teeth and quickened her pace, hoping to get in and out before anyone noticed her presence. But deep down, she knew the pack was rarely so kind.

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