Broken Bond (Claimed by Wolves 2)

1

Sable

I limp down a hallway dark with shadows, trying to see beyond the empty black.

God, I hate this all-encompassing darkness. It cradles me like a cold embrace and presses in on me from every side as if it’s a real, living entity. I can feel the panic inside myself. It churns restlessly beneath my skin, ready to surge out of me.

I’m trying desperately to find the light. It’s there, I know it is, just beyond my fingertips. Somewhere safe and warm, where the horrors of my past can’t touch me. I just have to find the light and step into it where the living darkness—and the panic—can’t follow me.

Almost as soon as I have that thought, the shadows begin to dissipate. I grip the solid wall beside me, my knees going even weaker with thankfulness. Inch by inch, light pierces through the darkness, opening up a window of illumination ahead of me. Thank God, I think, letting out a long-held breath in a sigh of relief. Safety is there in front of me, just like I thought. No panic attack this time. No shallow breathing, no mindless fear. No curling into a ball of anxiety and losing all sense of myself. I pick up the pace, running for that mirage of comfort.

Except… there’s no comfort on the other side of that light.

Only Uncle Clint’s basement.

My heart stutters in my chest. I slow, then come to a stop just outside the golden glow. If I go any farther, he’ll see me, and I know deep in my soul that he’ll kill me this time.

I got lucky last time.

I won’t get lucky again.

How did I end up back here? I shouldn’t be here. My shifters saved me from this basement just a few hours ago. Did I dream that? Am I still at Clint’s mercy, about to be slashed to a hundred ribbons with his knife?

My stomach churns. I can almost smell the blood on the air. All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Go back, I tell myself. Turn around. Run.

As terrifying as the darkness is, it’s safer than Clint. I’ll just close my eyes and go.

But before I can move, before I can rouse myself from my frozen stupor, my uncle appears before me.

He looms in the circle of light, casting his shadow over me like a stain. He sneers at me, his thin lips curling and his gaze caustic. He’s so big he almost completely eclipses the light, and somehow the darkness that falls over me feels even more absolute than before. Like a snake, he lunges, one hand reaching for my throat.

I try to scream but nothing comes out. His hand is already wrapped around my neck, squeezing my throat closed.

Then the scene changes.

I’m racing up the stairs that lead to the second floor in Clint’s house, where my bedroom is. My uncle’s boots pound heavily on the stairs behind me as he chases me. I forgot to wash his favorite pillow after he drank too much and vomited on it the night before. He reminded me this morning, and I still forgot, and now he’s going to kill me for my insolence.

You useless waste of space.

Such a fuck up.

I gave you one job.

One fucking job.

Such a little bitch.

I should have put you down the day your parents dropped you on my doorstep.

His panted insults stick in my soul like burrs. I press my hands tightly to my ears, trying to drown out his curses and slurs. I almost make it to the top, my heart pounding and my blood pumping, but before I can launch over the landing and make a break for my room and the small hidey-hole in my closet where he can’t reach me, Clint’s meaty hand wraps around my shoulder-length blonde hair. So many times, I’ve thought about cutting it all off so that he has less to grab, but I never have.

What a stupid, vain mistake.

With a vicious yank, Clint pulls me backward, and I pitch down the stairs. I feel weightless for a brief moment before gravity takes over. He watches as my body soars past him, a satisfied smile on his face.

I black out before the pain begins.

More memories of my past come to haunt me. It’s like I’m watching a highlight reel of the worst injuries he’s ever given me, of the worst injustices he’s ever done to me. Each scene flashes past, and I watch it play out with a kind of numb disbelief.. How did I survive this horrific life? How did I come out of this with any sense of self left? I’d rather be back in that endless dark hallway, walking blindly forever, instead of reliving these horrific memories.

Now I’m in the kitchen cooking eggs. I can almost smell the butter sizzling in the cast iron skillet and the heady scent of coffee permeating the room. Even the calm, early morning hours aren’t safe from his punishments though. If anything, he’s crueler before coffee. I make him breakfast every morning, his little servant girl, his little punching bag, and I hope against hope that this morning, I’ll come away clean.

Instead, Uncle Clint roars with laughter. He’s still half-drunk from his bender the night before. Drunk on whiskey and on power. He grabs my hand and shoves it onto the red-hot skillet. The scent of my burning flesh mingles with the smell of toast.

I go backward in time. I’m nine years old, tied to a chair with a bandanna shoved in my mouth because I laughed at a television show we were watching together. Any trace of happiness in his presence has to be stamped out, as if he has some kind of compulsion to make me hurt, both physically and emotionally. The cool snick of his blade opening makes my heart jump with terror.

Not again. Please, not again.

With a jolt, I surface from the dreams.

Heat and pain sear through me until my entire body is in agony, but I try to open my eyes anyway. Nothing happens. I can feel a mattress beneath me, blankets bunched in my aching fingers, but I can’t get my eyelids to respond to any commands at all. I can’t open my hands, either—my fingers are paralyzed into claws, and the muscles in my forearms ache.

I want to let go and wake up so I can escape the nightmares. Escape my uncle.

Despite my insubordinate limbs and eyelids, I get the feeling I’m not alone in the room. There’s a presence beside my bed. Sturdy, strong, with a scent like pine that soothes my soul.

Before I can even fully come awake, I submerge once more.

I’m battered by more horrible memories of Clint’s abuse. My mind moves quickly, switching from scene to scene almost too fast for me to keep up. Somewhere in the deluge, I’m awarded a break from Clint’s snarling face and instead, I get a glimpse of two faces that seem familiar, though even in my fever dreams, I’m sure I’ve never seen them before. A man and a woman, both with fair hair and blue eyes. They’re both smiling, the kind of bright, pure smile I’ve only seen in the past few weeks while living with the shifters. Kindness is like a cloak around them, and when they hug me, all my broken pieces fit back together.

This is such a stark contrast to the other memories I’ve coasted through that it stands out and gives me pause.

My parents?

I barely remember them. It’s more like I have a vague, shadowy notion that they did, at one time, exist. And that’s mostly because I know I didn’t just pop into existence one night without parents on the other side. So even in the midst of these wild dreams, I’m not sure if I imagine those faces or recall them from some deep, dark part of me.

I can’t analyze the two faces for very long though. My mind is already on the move again, back in the hellhole that is my uncle’s house. The nightmares rewind and begin again.

And again.

And again.

For a long time, I drift in and out of consciousness. When I’m awake, I catch dim glimpses of a familiar room—the cabin where I’ve been staying with the shifter men. My vision is never fully right. Blackness spreads across my plane of sight until I’m not sure if my surroundings are real or just another construct from my dreams.

At one point, I come out of a particularly horrifying encounter with Clint, unable to see anything at all but with my hearing turned up high. Voices are arguing nearby, slightly muffled as if they’re outside a closed door. Familiar voices. But I can tell they’re angry and… frightened?

That thought sends a wake-up call to the rest of my senses, and I push past the heavy weight on my eyelids to open my eyes. Everything around me is dark and cold, though the blanket stifles me, trapping the heat that radiates from my body. My skin is raw, and every bone in my body aches terribly. And I still can’t move or speak. I’m frozen in place, listening to my four shifter companions arguing well outside my reach.

Even as I strain to listen, I can’t make out any of their words. Just a low, terrified urgency.