Her abandoned Beta

Her horse (10 years ago)

Blackrock city 10 years ago

*Summer*

“Call the slaughterer”.

My father's words had sent a bone-numbing chill through me, and now I am standing near the stall with my forehead pressed to my mare's, the hand of my uninjured arm brushing over Misty’s gorgeous white coat. I had pleaded with my father not to send for the horrid man who would take Misty away.

“I'll not keep a horse that throws my daughter off its back”. He had said sternly before marching toward the residence.

I had known it would be fruitless to argue, but still I had raced after him, trying to explain the truth of what had happened … but he wasn't having it. The horse is a danger, and he will not risk his only daughter's safety. He will be rid of this one and purchase me another, his tone brooking no further arguments.

It isn't fair, isn't fair at all. It hadn't been Misty's fault. If anyone is to blame it is the Alpha of the Thornback pack… known as Thor to his intimates… for inviting me to go riding with him along Rotten Row, then inviting my brother as well, paying far more attention to said brother, who is nine years my senior, than to me.

At birth, I had been promised to Thor, but that doesn’t mean I don’t require some level of wooing, that I don’t yearn to be his sole focus. But no, in spite of my presence, the two men had been discussing some new casino that is rumored to be ‘just the thing’ and how they might go in search of it, because in spite of being ‘just the thing’ it is apparently hidden away somewhere.

As always, they were treating me like a child, to be humored, not a girl on the cusp of womanhood, whose body has been changing for some time now in preparation for marriage and childbirth and who has recently acquired a lady's maid. Feeling jealous and petulant, I had stupidly given the usually docile Misty a stinging slap on the rump with my riding crop, intending to send the horse into a frenzied gallop in order to pretend to have lost control of the beast so my future fiancé would dash after us and rescue me.

However, instead of bolting, Misty had reared up at the a***e and unseated me, who had then landed hard on my arm, which had landed even harder on a rock.

I had screamed at the pain that had torn through me and then stared stupidly at the shard of white just above my wrist that protruded through my sleeve and the red that was soaking into the lime-colored fabric of my riding habit.

I can’t remember exactly … being in shock, I suppose … how my brother had lifted me and I had ended up in Thor’s lap as he sat astride his gelding. Holding me close, while urging his horse to canter at a fast tempo, he had escorted me home, leaving My brother to retrieve my mare.

In spite of it being the most excruciating journey of my life, I had welcomed Thor’s arms around me and his nearness. He had even carried me into the residence and up to my bedchamber, as though my leg and not my arm was broken.

He will make an exceptional husband, even if he is eleven years my senior, and presently in no rush to marry, apparently. He hasn’t officially asked for my hand, but our fathers had signed a contract upon my birth giving Wood's End, a small estate that borders up against Thor’s much larger one, to the Alpha upon our marriage. So my future is settled and done, without poetry, flowers, or grand gestures.

The entire arrangement is all so darn boring, lacking in passion, desire, and mad yearning.

Once he had deposited me on my bed, Thor had respectfully taken his leave, turning my care over to the servants who scurried about with words of worry as though I was not long for this world.

Although I know full well that a gentleman does not remain in a she-wolf’s bedchamber if he is not married to her, I was still so damned disappointed that he hadn't hovered over me himself. The physician had been called to come, the bone reset … a process that had pained me immensely … and a splint secured about my forearm to prevent the bone from moving again until it is properly healed. Making me wish I had my Wolf, as it would then have healed faster, but I am not yet of age.

Slightly woozy from the laudanum I had been given to dilute the pain, I had made my way to the stable in order to check on Misty and ensure she was unharmed. I had arrived just as my father made his proclamation. And now there is no hope for it. My beautiful Misty will be led to s*******r.

“I'm sorry, so sorry, sweet girl”. I whisper, over and over, with tears welling in my eyes. “I was incredibly stupid, and now you'll pay the price".

If I weren't hampered with a broken arm, I would have saddle Misty, mounted her, and ridden away, a fantasy that overlooks the fact that I have never saddled a horse in my life and has no idea how to go about it. The advantage to having servants is that tasks are done, and I don’t have to bother with learning the intricacies regarding how they are done.

Except for the slaughtering of horses. My brother, intrigued by the ways in which the packs rids themself of its numerous aging and ill equines, had visited a s*******r depot. He had then returned to regale me with the horrors of the s*******r and aftermath.

I had been all of seven, he had been sixteen, and I had awoken with nightmares for an entire month. And now a horrible, ugly, hunchbacked man is coming to do the unthinkable to Misty, and I haven't the ability to save her.

“Miss Summer ?” Johnny, one of the grooms, says quietly at my back. “The slaughterer is here. We need to retrieve Misty from her stall”.

With anger, frustration, and grief all warring for dominance, I swing around, and my gaze falls on a stranger, no doubt the slaughterer. Only he isn't hideous and old and looking to have a heart made of stone. He is young. Perhaps half a dozen years older than me, if that. Beneath his brown flat-cap, his sandy-blond hair curls about the collar of his plain brown jacket. His white shirt and brown waistcoat is clean, but wrinkled, and I suspect his labor prevents them from remaining pristine all day.

But it is his blue eyes that draw me, eyes that don't look to be those of a killer.

“How can you do it ?” I ask, my voice rough, my throat raw from all the tears that have made their way down it and clogged it. “How can you murder her ? She's not old. She's not wicked. She didn't intend to throw me”.

“We do what we're paid to do”. His voice echoes with resignation, as though it isn't the first time he has been forced to address the accusations.

“Surely, you can spare her”. I beg.

He nods toward my arm. “Did she do that ?”

"No, the ground did, when I fell”. I huff.

"So she tossed you". He points out.

I feel like crying again. “But it wasn't her fault. I goaded her into it. Normally she's a very docile creature”.

“She is that”. Johnny concurs.

“My father is stubborn. He won't listen”. I take a step nearer. “But surely you will see the truth of things. Spare her".

“We risk losing our license if we cheat the customer”. He says softly.

“But you're not cheating my father if he never learns of it. You’re cheating death. How marvelous that would be”. I desperately try.

“Sorry, Miss. Now if you'll be so good as to move aside”. He starts to edge past me.

I ball up my good hand and smack his shoulder, certain I have injured myself more than I have hurt him. He is solid rock, but at least he stops and looks down on me, looming over me by several inches. Were he to hold me in his strong arms … which I most certainly would not allow … the top of my head would come to rest just beneath his collarbone. “She won't suffer. I've a way with horses, so I can see to that. The end comes quickly. She won't even know”.

“You're a monster! How can you do this ?” I cry.

“Do you have any idea how many horses are in Blackrock city ? Do you think people want to be stepping over rotten and smelling carcasses everywhere they turn ? We provide a much-needed service”. He just says.

I hear the defensiveness in his tone, which makes me feel peevish because I know the truth of his words, know something has to be done with the ancient and feeble steeds. “But Misty is neither rotten, smelly, nor near death”.

“You should have thought of that before you goaded her”. He says with an edge to his voice.

His words stings more than my hand did after hitting him. “You're horrid !”

Ignoring my outburst, he strides past me, opens the stall gate, and slips a noosed rope over Misty's head and securing it around her neck, affectionately rubbing the area. “Come on, pretty girl”.

He leads her out. I rush forward and wind my arms around my mare's neck. “I'm so sorry, Misty. So very sorry. I'll never forget you. I'll always love you, sweet girl”. Then I look at the young man. “Please don't let her be frightened”.

Sympathy and sorrow wove themselves through his blue eyes. “I'll sing her the sweetest lullaby ever heard”.

"She'll like that”. After planting a kiss on Misty's neck and taking one final deep breath of her fragrance, I step back, nearly crying out at the pain tightening my chest.

I watch as he leads Misty toward the wagon with its wooden enclosure, suspecting not all horses are in a position to take themselves where they need to go, and that traveling in what looks to be a small plain cottage on wheels provides them with a bit of dignity.

He urges her up the plank and closes the partial door on her. My final look at my beloved horse is her rump and the swishing of her tail as she is being carted off to be executed, like a villain or a murderer.