The King's Queen

The Challenge of Life

♔ Eustacia (P.O.V)

Beep, beep, beep. My alarm clock screams its hateful siren, signaling to me, it’s time to get up.

Sitting up, I yawn as I throw my arms in the air behind my head. I lace my left hand around my right forearm and my right hand around my left forearm, gently I squeeze them stretching my stiff muscles.

Sighing I scratch my head, glancing over at the alarm clock, the scream reads: 6:32 am.

“s**t,” I mutter under my breath.

I overslept thirty-two minutes, so I won’t have the time to wash off in the river. If I were to, I undoubtedly would be lashed for not being on time, let alone doing anything without orders to do so.

“Today is going to be great,” I mutter sarcastically to no one.

I briskly throw my long unkempt, raven black hair that reaches the small of my back into a low ponytail. I’m wearing my only article of clothing, so I don’t need to get ready. That piece of clothing is a discolored tan, ragged, and patchy makeshift dress.

I just turned twenty-one on Halloween, almost two weeks ago. Within that time, I still haven’t found my mate, or they found me. Something that is slightly unusual, but how can I meet my mate if I’m never around another werewolf?

My life is, after all, one of a maid’s. Well, less than a maid, it’s more of a type of slavery. I’ve been living in these conditions for nearly six years, so it is a sort of everyday life for me.

Ever since my father, Theo, the Rushing River pack's previous alpha, died in a rogue attack, I’ve been discarded and abused. All because of Flynn and his followers.

We were all told by my father that Flynn's first shift came before the age of fifteen. Which is rare but a sign of a healthy and robust wolf. So when his father, Julian, vanished mysteriously, it left an opening for the beta position, which Flynn filled—allowing him to ascend to the title when my father died.

For whatever reason, after he took the title, he treated me as a pest. It started by banning me from silly tasks like watching tv. Slowly it progressed, and I became nothing more than an omega.

That wasn’t enough though. I was forbidden to look into any mirrors, use any of their showers, food, or clothes.

Simply put, I’m not allowed anything the pack gets. The only luxury I'm given is an outhouse on the corner of the pack territory for when I need to do my business. Along with one hunt a week, although sometimes I sneak more.

I honestly have no idea how I’ve come this far.

To clean myself, I wash off in a nearby river when everyone else is asleep. I wash my clothes in that river, being sure to scrub them carefully against abrasive rocks trying to clean them ever so little. A tedious task since the material is old and brittle.

The clothing I have is stitched together from various objects that have been thrown out—often ranging from washcloths and towels to old fabrics like blankets or actual clothing.

I carved a small rabbit bone from one of my previous kills for my sewing needle and sinew as my string to bind all my objects together, using a sharpened deer bone for my knife to size my materials and cut my sinew when finished. The results are not pretty, but they keep my clothes in one piece, so I’m not going to complain.

Eating takes on a whole new challenge, I’m not allowed to touch their food, so I’m forced to hunt wildlife in my wolf form. That is a task all on its own. I’m allowed only one hunt a week. I would starve if I didn’t sneak more since I’m not allowed to keep my leftovers.

If I do anything they don’t like or if they feel like it, they can throw me into the Gray Room. A dungeon with nothing but concrete walls, ceilings, and floors. Everything but the ceiling is stained a muddy brown from the dried blood from all their captives getting trashed repetitively.

Some of the stains may belong to me, something I don’t want to remember, let alone risk. To avoid that, if I ever get the chance to hunt in my wolf form, I’ll roll in something with a pungent smell before I go. Like fox dung, old leaves, or something like that.

If I’m hunting and luck is on my side, allowing me to catch something big, I’ll take it just outside the pack territory and bury it. Hopefully, I'm able to come back to it at a later date if a rogue or another animal doesn’t get to it before then.

Everything in my life is a struggle, and if I had the strength, I would run away. I tried a while ago, and it proved to be a waste of time.

As cliché as it sounds, the only person capable of saving me from this nightmare is my mate.

Although, I’m sure he’d reject me simply because of my appearance. Seeing as no mirrors are allowed for me, I’m not quite sure what I look like except for reflections I see from the river.

I have tan skin, and when it’s not matted, my black hair reaches the small of my back, blue eyes, and a little button nose. My figure is petite, and my ribs protrude ever so slightly out, a further sign of my poor state. Everything is fragile, almost as if it’ll break with a single sneeze. Not to mention the scars, they cover me everywhere. Whip marks on my back, arms, anything they can get their hands on. Pain rises in my chest at the thought of them and the memories that belong with them.

Quickly I push it out of my head and leave my small makeshift room.

I begin heading to the kitchen on the bottom floor, having to go down two more flights of stairs to get to the bottom.

A sigh escapes my lips as I reach the kitchen. Within moments I take in the familiar scenery.

It has two white electric ovens, two white microwaves, and a white toaster. They are all in their respective spots directly against the wall or beige counters across from the entrance.

From the wall to a sliding door that leads outside, they fall in place: clean counter, oven, clean counter, oven—resting on their respective counters the microwave and toaster. Followed by the white fridge, which stands by the right side of the door.

The first order of the day, get breakfast ready for the thirty pack members.

I turn the ovens on broil and throw in some bread that I had previously buttered. Some pieces are sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, others only with butter. Roughly thirty-six pieces each.

I crack a carton of eggs into a bowl and begin to beat them with a fork. Once I’m satisfied with the mixture, I throw in some cheese, peppers, and a few seasonings, then throw it all into a pan and cook them evenly.

Removing the toast from the oven, I sit them on separate plates on the kitchen table in the next room over, by cinnamon and no cinnamon. The scrambled eggs find a plate beside them.

Preheating the ovens to a set amount, it only takes a few minutes since they’re already warm; I throw some bacon in them while I prepare some pancakes.

Once it’s all finished, everything is set in the dining room directly to the kitchen's left.

Pancakes piled high on their plate, three large packs worth of bacon now decorate its placement with its greasy goodness, the eggs and toast emitting their sweet aroma. I rush back to the kitchen to grab the assortment of jellies out of the fridge and bring them back to the dining room, sitting them on the table.

Proud of my breakfast achievement, I head back to the kitchen and begin cleaning up my mess, my stomach growling with hunger.

Turning the ovens off, I read the time they shined, 7:30 a.m.—only an hour, not too bad.

I pile the dishes into the sink, taking care to wash them by hand and dry them as I go. Eventually, they get put back into their repetitive hiding places. Mindlessly I begin to clean off the fallen food from the oven top and counters, followed by sweeping up the hardwood floor and disposing of the accumulated dust and crumbs.

Pleased with how my choir turned out this time, I leave everything how it was before I got there, with the addition of all the food.

Finished, I head back to my room, making sure to stay out of the way.

~~~~~~

In my room, I relax in my makeshift bed.

While the pack members gorge themselves on food, I have about two hours to myself. Within those two hours, I have at most a secret thirty-minute window from 8 a.m. to 8:30 a.m. to do anything that would possibly lead to me being thrown into the Gray Room. Such as, catch a small meal, dig up my previously hidden prey, wash off in the river, or patch my clothing.

Grunting, I roll over and stare at my alarm clock: 7:45 a.m. That means I have fifteen minutes left until the pack loses interest in their food, and the first border patrol hits my hunting spot. Of course, there could be stragglers, but they are the least of my worries.

Biting my lip, I ponder on what I should do today.

My clothing is as good as it’ll be for now. I have no fabric of any sort nor sinew to patch even the smallest of holes, furthering the place of clothing priority to the back of my list.

It’s been a week since I last went on a hunting trip, and that trip only yielded a fox that I stashed a part of. It would have been dug up by some other creature within that period, making it one of my less essential priorities. I can wash up safer in the morning before anyone is up. So that only leaves one significant issue now.

Food.

“That’s it,” I mutter to myself.

My mind made up; I quickly glance over at the rectangular shining box to see the displayed time: 7:56 a.m. Most, if not all, of the pack members, should be eating in the dining room or their bedrooms. 

I silently get to my feet, leaving my hand-built animal hide shoes in the far right corner of my ‘room.’ I can’t afford to be heard sneaking through the house, and going barefoot makes being silent less of a task.

The future that would await me if I was found outside the house or sneaking around would be bleak. Endless lashings from Alpha Flynn, wolfsbane injected into my veins, silver poured on my skin, or anything else Alpha Flynn and his lover Emma could think of. Slowly opening my door, I begin to count the seconds as they pass.

One. Two. I slink down the hallway. Three. Four.

The hallway is illuminated by a window and the Victorian chandelier that hang down from the ceiling. Six doors scatter on either side of the hallway, each inhabited by the highest-ranking members or friends in the pack of Emma’s and Flynn’s.

Silently and slowly, I begin my way down the long cream-colored walls, reflected by the polished brown wooden flooring. All are narrowing and attaching to the mahogany-colored stair railings leading to the next floor.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. . . Eighteen. . . Twenty-two.

Descending down the stairs, I discreetly make sure to step lightly on each step, distributing my weight evenly, being careful not to touch the rails as I go down.

Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.

As I reach the bottom of the stairs, the hallway comes into view. The walls and flooring mimic those of the layer above it.

Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.

The paintings that decorate the walls, all of them of fields and trees, painted with beautiful blues, greens, and yellows. The chandelier that mimics the same one on the level before is illuminating the hallway.

Twenty-nine. I’ve passed four of the doors.

Thud! Tink, tink. The sound of glass shattering hits my ears. Being a werewolf, my hearing is sensitive, yet for some reason, my hearing has always been slightly above average, even for a werewolf of alpha blood.

"What was that?” Zoe, my wolf, hisses in my head.

"I’m not sure Zo, but I’m not waiting to find out.” Shaking my head, I push her out of my thoughts.

She’s weak; the toll of us not being able to eat correctly has affected her too. Just talking to me uses energy she doesn’t have, and that energy I need her to keep for us to shift.

Otherwise. . . I’m a sitting duck in a wolf pack, just waiting to be gobbled up, or in my case, taken to the Gray Room.

Thirty.

If my ears serve me right, I got lucky, and the noise was from the door directly to the right of the stairs, not only there but towards the back of the room. If they were to approach the door now, they’d take at least seventeen seconds, granted their stride is standard and a casual pace. That gets me to forty-seven seconds, enough time to reach the stairs and be down them.

Thirty-one. Thirty-two. . . Forty-

Smash! Tink, tink, tink. A loud noise resembling the sound of glass breaking vibrates through the air yet again. An ear-piercing feminine scream penetrates the already noisy atmosphere.

“Well, s**t,” I mutter to myself as panic slowly creeps into my chest.

Quickly, I slip into the fifth door; luckily, it’s empty.

The room is solid white with a gray carpet. A king-sized bed fitted with a solid white comforter tucked neatly under the edges as two fluffy white pillows decorate the surface's smooth top. A foam-like backboard sits elegantly behind the bed frame, complemented by a small gray nightstand on both sides of the bed; all placed neatly against the far wall.

Two white lamps accompany the nightstands. However, I notice something of use to me sitting on the left side stand, perfume.

Even if werewolves have some form of fragrance on their body, regardless of their type, they’ll still be able to be tracked as it doesn’t wholly mask our smells. However, what the fragrances do is they slow down the process of being pursued, primarily if more than one person uses the scent.

“Bingo,” I whisper.

Sprinkling myself generously with the perfume, I backtrack to the door, spraying my trail as I go.

Seventy-one.

I carefully roll the perfume over to the general area of the nightstand, hoping that the owner would assume they dropped it or it fell off.

Focusing my hearing on the outside world of the door, I carefully listen for any movement or voices. All while keeping count.

Seventy-four.

Rsh, Rsh. Scuffling can be heard from somewhere farther than the hallway, in the room I assume the object was broken in. Hoping it’s safe to look in the hallway, I carefully grab the doorknob and slowly poke my head out the door. Glancing from left to right, I notice the hallway is empty.

All clear.

Silently, I begin slinking back down the wall heading to the stairs that lead to the ground floor.

Seventy-five. Seventy-six. Seventy-seven. Seventy-eight.

“Phew,” I sigh in silent relief as I finally make it to the stairs. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until I reached them.

Carefully I descend.

Seventy-nine. Eighty. Eighty-one.

Finally, at the bottom of the stairs, I focus my hearing on my surroundings. To the right of me is the door that leads to the living room, the area the pack congregates to watch television. Laughter erupts from the living room as multiple pack members enjoy a comedy. They should be occupied for a few moments with the show, so I should be safe.

Eighty-nine. Ninety.

To the left of me is the kitchen, which is utterly silent except for the fridge's humming. The pack members are never in there except to get snacks, so I don’t expect anything drastic.

Ninety-three.

Directly across the kitchen opening is the sliding door, my exit.

I slither from the stairway into the kitchen, making sure to keep my ears alert for any movement. Luckily, it’s silent. Leaving my crouched position, I begin to tiptoe to the sliding door and smoothly slide it to the left, opening it.

Ninety-four. Ninety-five.

If my counting is correct, I should have beat the routine border patrol. Silently, I soak in my surroundings, making sure I’m right.

The area around me is peaceful, only filled with the melodies of birds, insects, and the river that runs directly through the land on the other side of the house. The lively green grass spreads vastly until it meets with the forest trees. No sound or presence of any people around, it’s safe to go ahead and enter the forest.

Promptly, I run to the forest entrance entering a couple of feet until I approach a towering oak tree with a hollowed-out trunk where I have a backpack stashed. Carefully reaching into the hole that resides in the tree's northern equator, I remove my bag from its safe place.

Seeing as our clothing gets shredded if we shift in them, it’s always ideal to either have an extra pair with you or remove the clothing. As the first option posses a problem for me since I’ve physically had to tailor these, I decide to go with the latter.

Stripping off my clothing, I shove them into the backpack and immediately stash the bag and its contents back into the tree and brace myself for my shift.

We usually get our first shift at the age of sixteen. We are prepped for an entire year from the day we turn fifteen till the day before our sixteenth birthday. Over that year, all you hear is ‘it’ll hurt,’ or my favorite, ’it’s the most painful experience you’ll probably live through.

Ironic, the adults don’t ever speak of those who don’t make it through the shift, yet they are willing to say words like that. Even more ironic now, considering my situation.

Rolling my shoulders and popping my back, I reach out to Zoe, my wolf, and allow her to take over my body. As if answering my call, I feel the fever shooting through my being as my body temperature rises. The pain igniting as my bones break and reform into their new-found positions. Their loud shattering rings through the air and in my ears.

My skin tears and realign over my newly formed bones; solid black fur sprouts on each specific hair follicle sending an unbearable itching trough me until it covers my entire body.

My teeth elongate and form into sharp canines meant to sink into my prey, and my nails form into claws whose purpose rein to tear away at foes. My eyes burn as they shift into their wolf counterparts, my eardrums ring as they do the same.

Everything becomes more substantial and better than my human form.

The pain that ravishes my senses is a dull sensation compared to my first shift. I was alone and had no one to walk me through it but my wolf. I was very close to death, yet somehow I pulled through.

As my shift is coming near its end, the ecstasy floods my senses, making it all worth it. Quickly, Zoe engulfs me, taking control over our complete wolf form.