Chapter Three

Ryan

As bad and unruly as my beast had been before my birthday, ever since, he was exponentially worse. It was hard to keep him contained. More than once, someone noticed his eyes looking back at them while we were doing random things—like eating breakfast or vacuuming the floor. It wasn't anything that would get a normal person upset, much less a beast. I'd understand if I was losing my temper or something like that, but eating delicious tater-tot casserole? That shouldn't be setting him off.

I was unsure what I could do other than give him time in his fur. Each morning, after I got the kids settled into school, I went outside and shifted. That's how I spent my day. I ran in the woods. I hunted. I jumped in the river. I never went far—never outside of our territory—the pull to be near the kids was too strong. But he needed out. He needed to run.

Try as I might, figuring out what was wrong wasn't happening. But part of me knew—and I hated it. Before I was captured, before I was stuck at that evil place, the one I rescued the children from—I had a family. We didn't live in a den, but we had a good life in a small cabin in the woods. That didn't last.

My alpha father had what my grandmother called "the sickness." I didn't understand what it was—I was very small then—but it started with his bear being present all the time, just like mine was becoming.

My omega father left shortly after that. I didn't think you could do that with mates, but I learned a whole lot of things I thought were impossible weren't. I still didn't understand how people managed to do them, but they did.

After I was taken, I'd met shifters who were sold by their parents or pack alphas and others who were born in captivity against their omega father's will for the purpose of one day selling them. There was so much evil in this world, and I'd come to accept it as much as I despised it.

Leaving a mate was nothing compared to the horrors I'd witnessed.

You'd think after my omega dad left, my alpha father would be better because clearly it would have had something to do with their relationship, right? Like he would want to fix things? But he wasn't.

He wasn't sad my omega father left. It didn't seem to faze him at all other than having to cook more. And his "sickness" worsened. His mother, my grandmother, came over more and more, reminding me that it was the sickness, and it was my responsibility to behave in a way that wouldn't exacerbate it—because that's what a little kid knows how to do.

Still, I took that task seriously, trying to figure out what to do. I learned to cook, even though I needed to stand on a chair to do so. I cleaned the cabin. I was quiet, not speaking unless spoken to. I did anything and everything to avoid setting my father and his beast off.

It didn't work. It could never work. But, as a small boy, I didn't understand that, vowing to myself each time that I'd do better—do more—and my grandmother? She fed into this until I firmly believed it was all my fault.

Over the next few months, my father went from showing his bear in his eyes to acting out in a way that an animal would while still wearing his skin. I spilled my water, and he bled me. I knew that was the way of bears, but I was a child. I didn't heal the same. I still bore scars from the person who was supposed to love and care for me.

One night, I woke up to a bloodcurdling scream. At first, I pulled the covers over my head, willing it to be a dream, scared that if I went out, I would be blamed for whatever had happened. But, when the screaming turned to sobs, I tiptoed out into the living room to find my grandmother kneeling on the floor, her hands covered in blood. I tried to talk to her, but it was like she wasn't even truly there, like I was watching her on film.

I ran outside, scared that if I stayed there, I, too, would be covered in blood, but once I reached the stoop, I understood it wasn't my grandmother's blood after all. My father was dead.

For a long time, I thought she came upon him, and it was her mourning I heard that night. And maybe it was mourning, in a way—but I learned later that she was the one who put him down. I don't think she had a choice.

She took care of me for a couple of years, until she, too. passed away. And as scary as it already was, that was when my life got bad—not when I had an abusive alpha father, not when my omega father left, not when my grandmother died, leaving me to fend for myself. No, it was when I was taken that everything went to shit.

A rabbit ran past, distracting me from my thoughts, which was good. Dwelling in the past always left me in a bad place, and it wasn't as if I could do anything to change it.

That bunny got every bit of attention from my bear. He bounded toward it, slicing its flesh with his claws and devouring the beast.

Maybe that would calm him for a little while. But what was happening to me was the same thing my father had, I refused to let the children suffer or make someone lose their entire will to be here by having to be the one to put me down.

I would need to take care of it for them—because it was the right thing to do.

Goddess, please don't let it be the sickness. These children need me.