Chapter Four

Willow

Anyone who says an omega can’t survive on berries, mushrooms, and lots and lots of tea, is, well, probably right.

But I’m giving it my best shot.

I try not to use the fireplace too much, afraid I’ll run out of wood and waste my strength gathering more. Instead, I’m spending my energy training. I carved an X into one of the trees around back for target practice, though so far my aim has been … lacking.

Lift bow. Squint to aim. And …

Fire.

Thwack ! The arrow hits about a foot below its target.

It’ll have to do. Now that I’ve given up on fishing—visiting the river only long enough to replenish my water supply—I need another source of protein. If some disheveled rogue can kill rabbits, why can’t I?

After several possible leads, and two very frightened turkeys, I start to give up hope. I gather all the shrubs I can find, returning with a less-than-impressive haul. I should really save some for breakfast, but by the time it gets dark, I’m hungry, and exhausted, and don’t have the energy to worry about tomorrow’s problems.

Sunrise. More target practice. More ‘hunting’. More measly pickings.

And repeat.

One evening, I don’t make it back until it’s so dark I can barely see where I’m going. That night, I wrap myself up in my flimsy sheets. Quaking with cold. Seeing swirling, murky colors in the dark. Am I sick? Everything is already so uncomfortable, I’m not sure I could tell the difference.

Tomorrow , I promise myself. I’ll kill something big . Strip enough meat to last myself days.

Maybe that’s why, when I dream, I dream of blood.

***

They’re laughing at me. No matter how much it hurts, or how loudly I cry, they’re still laughing.

Rough hands pin me down.

Hungry eyes glare straight through me.

“You’re ours now, princess.”

I jolt upright with a cough. Gritting my teeth, I sit over the edge of the bed.

Sunrise. That means … target practice. Right?

I force myself to drink some water—there’s not enough firewood left to waste on tea—before heading outside. The cold hits me at once, more startling than normal.

Winter is coming, I remind myself matter-of-factly.

Even so, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m forgetting something. I scan the outside of the cabin, then survey the trees, searching for answers. Colors and scents blur together, making a pretty, messy picture.

I take my bow and arrows and head into the forest. There’s big prey for me somewhere between these trees. I just know it.

Treading, occasionally tumbling, I stick my nose into the air. There’s a dewy, coppery scent luring me north. It means deviating from my usual path, which makes my stomach grumble uncertainty, but I push past it.

Maybe these are my survival instincts finally rising to the occasion. Showing me what needs to be done.

I follow my nose deeper into the forest. The pine trees, normally so strong and still, seem to sway.

Crack !

My head snaps to the sound—a dead branch splitting on the forest floor. I duck behind a tree, glaring into the nearby clearing.

There, her head bowed in graceful hunger, a young deer grazes the foliage.

Heart pounding, I pull the bow out from around my shoulder. The arrow feels familiar in my hand, the inside of my fingers calloused with practice.

She’s, what—twenty yards away? Poor thing must be hungry, or she would’ve noticed me. My inner omega snarls ecstatically . Maybe I won’t starve this winter, after all.

Breathing deeply, silently, I stare down the arrow’s tip.

And I fire.

The deer staggers, and for a magical moment I wonder if I’ve actually hit her, when suddenly she bolts.

“Shit,” I hiss.

I aim again, missing by a mile. She disappears deeper and deeper into the trees, those narrow legs carrying her faster than I can follow. No ! I want to scream. Please, come back! Only as I sink to my knees, my throat raw, do I realize I have been screaming.

“Fuck!” I choke out, slamming my fist against the tree.

You’re wasting your strength, a harsh voice says in my head, reminding me of Byron—the strictest of all my fathers. Get up. Get home. Regroup.

He was only ever soft with me. All my fathers were. Not that long ago, their special treatment made me feel, well … special. Like I was something worth cherishing. Only now do I see what they were really doing.

Keeping me weak. Ripe for the sentinels’ picking.

Running away isn’t enough to prove them wrong. I sniffle, struggling to my feet.

I have to survive.

Stumbling, I venture into the clearing to collect my arrows. The first is lodged into an exposed root. The second … damn, where did it go?

Suddenly another branch snaps. I jump, excitedly preparing my single arrow. Is it the same deer? Surely she wouldn’t be that stupid. Maybe it’s another from her herd, or even her fawn.

As I twist my bow around, I discover I’m wrong on both accounts.

On the edge of the trees, glaring out at me through the canopy’s shadow, is not a deer at all.

It’s a growling, hulking, five-hundred-pound grizzly.