The Lycan's Stolen Bride

Chapter 1 Callie curled into a ball on the floor as the other girls kicked her again. Her ribs already hurt from yesterday. She did not scream anymore. Screaming just made them hit harder. "Filthy noble werewolf trash," one of the girls spat, grabbing a fistful of Callie's hair and yanking her head back as it made Callie look at her involuntarily, her eyes watering from the pain as another slapped her hard across the cheeks. "Thought you were better than us, huh? Look at you now." Callie kept her eyes down. Two years in this place had taught her that much. Fighting back only meant more days locked in the dark room. She had stopped fighting back a long time ago. A whistle blew sharp down the hall. The girls scattered fast, pretending to be busy folding blankets by the time the officer walked in. Callie stayed on the ground a second longer, catching her breath before she pushed herself up. The officer did not even look at her properly. He held a clipboard in one hand and read off it in a bored voice. "Inmate 3456. You've been released. Come with me." Callie's chest tightened. Released. She had waited two years to hear that word, and now it did not feel like anything at all, there was no happiness hearing it, it was almost as if they managed to hollow it out of her and eave her emotionless. Not saying a word, she followed the officer down the hall, holding her side where the girls had kicked her hardest. The matron was waiting by the front gate, arms crossed, her mouth already curled into something mean when she saw Callie. "So they're finally letting you out," the matron said. She stepped closer, blocking Callie's path just long enough to make her point. "Listen carefully, because I will only say this once. Whatever you saw in here, whatever happened in here, you keep your mouth shut about it. You understand me?" Callie said nothing. The matron grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up as Callie could see the scorn and disgust in the matron eyes. "I said, do you understand me, you Wolfless bastard?" "Yes," Callie said quietly. "Good. Hide those bruises before your family sees them. Don't go crying to anyone about how you were treated. You go home, you keep your head down, you obey your parents. And whatever you do, don't kill anyone else." The matron's smile turned cruel. "Because if they send you back here, you won't walk out a second time. You understand? You got lucky once. Don't be stupid enough to throw that away." Callie's fingers curled into fists at her sides. She had not killed anyone. She never had. But no one in this place cared about the truth, and neither did her family. Arguing had never once worked in her favor, they only doubled down on her and made sure she suffered even more. So she just nodded and said nothing. The matron finally stepped aside. Callie walked through the gate without looking back. Outside, the sun felt too bright. She blinked hard, letting her eyes adjust to the bright light outside the only home she had known for the past two years. It had been long since she saw the sun, already thrown in a dark room and kept in solitary confinement, fed scraps and beaten up everyday, so she was a bit different. Her clothes hung off her, tattered from work and thin from two years of bad food. She did not have much to carry, just herself, and even that felt like more than she had strength for. She saw the car first, sleek and black, parked just past the gate. Then she saw him. Peter stood leaning against the side of the car, arms crossed, one leg kicked out in front of the other in that lazy, arrogant way he always stood when he thought people were watching him and he needed to put up an act as the future heir to the family business. He wore an expensive coat, hair combed back, looking every bit like the golden son of the family. For one second, old habit almost took over. The old Callie would have run to him immediately without any thought. She would have thrown her arms around his neck and laughed and cried and demanded to know why it took him so long, why nobody visited, why she had to wait two whole years. But she remembered her place now. Last time she tried something like that, right after she got taken from the house to await trial, she had run to him crying, begging him to believe her. He had shoved her back so hard she stumbled into the wall. "Don't touch me," he had said, disgust twisting his face. "You're dirty. Tainted blood. You are not my sister." She had not forgotten those words. She doubted she ever would. So instead of running to him now, she just turned her eyes to the ground and started walking, slow and quiet, down the side of the street, away from the car. Peter blinked, caught off guard. For one moment, something in his chest twisted, a small flicker of hurt at watching her walk right past him like he was nothing. He had come all this way. He had gotten up early, canceled two meetings, driven for hours to be here on time. And she did not even look at him? The hurt did not last long. It curdled quickly into anger.