Chapter Four

Natalia

Another bitter dawn broke over the Night Walkers' compound, the sky a steel-gray blanket pressing down on the world. I woke to the sting of winter air seeping through the cracked bunkhouse walls, my body curled tight against the cold. Every joint ached from the previous day's labor, and my hands—red, raw, and split—throbbed as I pulled on my thin tunic.

A month.

One month of this hell, and it already felt like years had been scraped off my soul.

The warmth of the Wild Crest woods—the scents of pine, fur, and freedom—felt like a dream now. I'd traded the safety of my pack for a collar and bruises, for endless chores and eyes always watching.

In the kitchen, the head cook spotted me immediately, lips curling. “You, girl. Slop bucket. Hog pen. Then firewood. Move.”

No greeting. No humanity. Just orders.

I didn’t speak. Not because I agreed, but because I knew what defiance earned you in this place.

I hefted the iron bucket, heavy and sloshing with the reek of spoiled food, and stepped outside. The cold hit like a slap. I hissed through clenched teeth, breath fogging as I fought to keep my footing in the ankle-deep snow.

The pen was far, tucked at the edge of the compound near the tree line. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, though every step reminded me of the warm forest paths I'd once run, the way the snow used to mean play, not punishment.

By the time I reached the pen, my hands were numb. I dumped the slop into the trough, its stink curling into my nose. A splash hit my boots. Perfect. Just what I needed—another reason to be mocked.

I turned back toward the kitchen and headed for the woodpile. Snow had crusted over the logs, and my fingers screamed in protest as I began stacking them into the rusted metal bucket. The work was mindless, but even that required energy I no longer had.

That’s when it happened. A hard shove from behind.

I hit the frozen ground with a thud, the bucket tumbling from my arms, logs scattering. Slush soaked through my clothes. The sting of cold was immediate—but it was nothing compared to what I felt when I looked up.

Luke Walker.

One of the Triplet Alphas. The cruelest of them all.

He stood over me in a long black coat, leather boots gleaming—except now they were spattered with grime and melted snow.

His eyes—cold, silver, merciless—narrowed.

“You stupid bitch,” he snarled, kicking snow toward my face. “Look what you’ve done.”

My fingers curled into fists in the snow. Every instinct screamed to hold my tongue, stay low, survive. But something inside snapped.

"You shoved me," I growled, rising slowly. “Maybe if you watched where the hell you were going—”

The air thickened.

Luke stepped closer, towering over me with that predatory stillness that made lesser wolves flinch. “You dare speak to me like that?” he said softly, mockingly. “Lick the mess off my boots, or you’ll regret it.”

I felt my pride rise like fire in my chest. He wanted me to beg. To crawl.

I spat the words at him: “Clean your own damn boots.”

The world seemed to pause. Then that wicked grin—the one I’d come to hate—spread across his face.

“Fine,” he purred. “If you won’t use your tongue, then use your shirt.”

I recoiled. “What?”

“You heard me. Take it off. Clean them. Now.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

But I saw his hand twitch toward the wristband that controlled my shock collar, and I knew he wasn’t bluffing. Worse, he was enjoying this—pushing me to the edge just to watch me fall.

My hands trembled as I lifted the hem of my shirt. I pulled it over my head, exposed to the bitter air and his watching gaze. He said nothing, only watched. Eyes tracking every inch of skin like I was meat in a market.

Burning with shame, I dropped to my knees and began scrubbing the filth from his boots with the frozen fabric. My teeth clenched so hard it hurt, every movement fueled by fury and disgust.

He crouched, fingers tightening on my chin. “You’ll beg for my touch one day,” he whispered, breath misting between us. “And when you do, I’ll make sure you remember this moment.”

I stared back, hate thick in my throat. “Never.”

He chuckled and walked away, satisfied. He had what he wanted: my humiliation.

But I had something too.

Resolve.

---

The following days blurred into a tormenting rhythm. Luke found excuses daily to target me—extra chores, public scoldings, threats of the Matrons. He never missed an opportunity to remind me I was beneath him.

But I didn’t break.

Not when he made me scrub floors he’d deliberately dirtied.

Not when he ordered guards to “supervise” me with lashes and threats.

Not even when he whispered in my ear as I passed, “You’ll be mine soon.”

I survived each day by clinging to a single, burning thought:

One day, the power will shift.

And when it does, Luke Walker will kneel.