Chapter 2

Back in the cramped confines of her assigned room, Camilla pulled the cloth pouch from her dress and set it on the rickety wooden stool. She unknotted the drawstring and let her fingers sift through the gifts: apples red as dusk, pears soft and sweet-smelling, and a small tin of cooked chicken nestled atop a bed of rice. There were two slender flasks of juice, and even a loaf of honeyed bread wrapped in parchment. Blessed bounty for a girl who, until this morning, had eaten nothing more than a crust every other day.

Careful not to rouse Karina’s suspicions—who inspected her room at odd hours under the pretense of hunting for missing jewelry—Camilla slipped the food under the bed, lining the crates of tattered books that served as makeshift supports. She knew Karina’s own daughters were suspected of pilfering fine necklaces and bracelets each Friday; she stole nothing except moments of peace.

Soon, a sharp voice pierced the stillness. “Camilla!”

She crouched behind the bedframe, heart hammering as she heard the scuff of shoes on dusty boards. Gathering her composure, she wiped her lips with the corner of her sleeve and smoothed her hair, emerging barefoot into the corridor with an expression of feigned surprise.

In the parlor, Larissa and Lakisha lounged on plush velvet sofas, expensive phones cupped in their manicured hands. Their legs were crossed, heels tapping in impatience. “Where is our breakfast?” demanded Lakisha, darker-haired and more venomous of the two. Her lips curved in disdain.

“In the kitchen,” Camilla replied softly, surprising herself with her own will to speak. Anger flared beneath the girls’ perfect makeup. “Dammit!” Larissa spat, tossing her white-blond hair over her shoulder.

Camilla bowed her head and obeyed—serving a thin slice of bread and a small goblet of orange juice—then backed away. But Larissa wasn’t finished. She seized Camilla’s wrist. “Hand me that juice.”

Fear made Camilla’s fingers tremble, and the glass slipped. It shattered across the hardwood, a sound like thunder in the hush. Lakisha cried out as the fallen shards nicked her foot.

Larissa roared, and Camilla braced herself, flinching from the hail of slaps and punches that followed. Each blow burned hotter than the last. She closed her eyes, waiting for it to end. In the distance, her father’s tired footsteps approached, but he paused at the door, unmoved. Camilla dared to glance upward, her vision blurred with tears, and she saw pity flicker in his eyes for a moment before he turned away. No rescue came.

She counted the clock on the opposite wall—its silver rim catching stray light—hoping each tick might speed her to midnight, when, by legend, the wolf within her would awaken. Fourteen more hours. Fourteen hours until she could flee. Fourteen hours of pain to endure.

Night fell at last. Camilla collapsed, half-conscious, a fleeting smile twitching her lips as her mind clung to those last hopeful words. “Only fourteen hours…” She drifted into the merciful black of sleep.

At eleven of the darkest hour, she woke with a start, eyes prickling with dried tears. A small scrap of paper lay on her pillow. Camilla snatched it up and read by the silvery moonlight:

“After you passed out, your father ordered you thrown into the wolf’s den—everyone assumed you had died. I bribed the keeper to let me take you. Although you were still breathing, your pulse was so faint that my mother—blessed witch—nearly could not save you. She did, thanks to your fierce heart. Please forgive me for not being able to stop your suffering, or for not staying by your side as you woke. But your wolf comes tonight—when she arrives, run as far away as you can, and never return. With all my heart, Ash.”

Tears of relief and anguish blurred the last lines. Ash had saved her life once. He believed in her. She folded the note and pressed it to her chest, her chest heaving with hope. Midnight was almost here.

She settled by the window, moonlight pooling on her face. Through the glass, she heard distant howls, rising in chorus. Camilla closed her eyes, waiting—willing—her wolf’s spirit to ignite within. She waited for heat to suffuse her bones, for an unstoppable force to surge, for every legend she had heard to come true. But the clock hands dragged on: twelve… one… two… three… four a.m. And still nothing.

As the dawn threatened once more, Karina’s heavy boot kicked open the door. She barged in, mop in hand, as if Camilla had been hiding treasure rather than simply existing. Without a word, she thrust the mop into Camilla’s hands and stomped upstairs, leaving her to scrub floors by failing dawn.

Camilla’s shoulders slumped, hopelessness pooling in her chest. No wolf had come to rescue her. No miracle stirred inside her. She went through the motions of breakfast: kneading dough, slicing fruit, pouring tea. Then, as she prepared to retreat to her room before the day’s next round of labor began, her father’s voice called from the dining hall.

“Camilla!”

She froze, heart racing. Perhaps he had changed his mind. Perhaps he would finally acknowledge that she was his child and not simply a nuisance.

“Did your wolf come?” His tone was not cruel, but cold, expectant. He stood there, arms folded, gazing down as if waiting for a gift she had not delivered.

Camilla’s throat constricted. “No,” she whispered.

Something in his face tightened, and he turned to Karina, voice low and fatal. “I told you. She has no wolf. She is not of my blood.” He spat the words as though they tasted of ash. Karina smirked. Larissa and Lakisha joined her at the foot of the stairs, whispering to each other with cruel amusement.

“Even if she were mine,” Karina drawled, “she would never have a wolf.”

“Mother was human, wasn’t she?” Camilla dared to ask, voice trembling yet determined. The house grew silent.

Larissa laughed, head thrown back. “Human? She was banished—for disobeying the Alpha.” Lakisha added, “She refused to kill you, so they exiled her. Then she died out there.”

Camilla’s blood ran cold. The woman who had comforted her, who had cajoled her to hide, who had trembled at her daughter’s birth—her mother—had been cast out and left to die. The truth scorched through Camilla’s chest like acid.

“I am your daughter,” she said, voice hard and raw, tears streaking down her cheeks. “You lied to me every day of my life.”

Karina’s features flickered with surprise, then amusement. “Lies?” she echoed. “This child believes in fairy tales.” She sneered.

Camilla could bear it no longer. All the weight of years—the stolen dignity, the unrelenting labor, the lies—poured through her like molten metal. She wrenched open the heavy double doors behind her, the dawn light flooding in, and in that instant she made her choice.

She would not wait another minute for magic that never came. If her mother’s fate were to perish in the forest, then she would face that fate on her own terms. Camilla bolted forward, her heart pounding like a war drum. Mother’s house lay somewhere beyond these gates, in a world of whispered stories and forbidden hope. She would find it—or find nothing at all, but at least she would be free.

The morning air hit her like a storm. She ran.