Page 14 of Scarred Savages
“No, please,” I sob, clutching at my chest as if I could physically hold her there. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone again.”
All my life, I’ve been told I’m not enough. Not pretty enough. Not whole enough. Not worthy enough.
I built walls so high and thick that I thought nothing could breach them. But today, those walls came crumbling down with just one look of disgust from the person who was supposed to see beyond them.
All they see are these scars. But there’s more to me than this.
I hate myself for still wanting it. For still wanting him to want me… but I do.
“Why doesn’t anyone love me?” The words tear from my throat, raw and primal. They hang in the air of my empty room, echoing back to me in the silence that follows.
My wolf whimpers, a soft sound that resonates through my chest. She’s barely there, clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, my voice barely audible through my tears. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be better for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the mate you deserve.”
She pushes back against my consciousness. I want you, she seems to say. I’m here. I won’t leave you.
“I love you,” I whisper to her, reaching out with my mind to touch her presence. “Thank you for staying.”
She responds with a warmth that spreads through my chest, and even in this broken moment, one thing is sure.
I’m no longer alone.
My wolf is with me, and that’s all that matters.
It has to be.
Exhausted, I crawl into bed, cocooning myself under the blankets. Sleep eludes me for hours, Conrad’s cold eyes haunting my mind. Finally, fatigue claims me, but rest is fitful. Every awakening drags me back into the same crushing reality: I’m still at the Institute. Still scarred. Still unwanted.
But tomorrow is a new day.
Soon, my wolf and I will run free.
4
Luna
Notebook: A generous offer rarely comes without a cost. Always check for the strings… they’re usually attached to something sharp. Or, in my case, dicks.
Iwake up with a renewed sense of purpose. Today is my escape from the Shifter Institute, a chance to reclaim my life.
I sit up, stretching to shake off the weight of last night’s rejection. I bury that memory deep, vowing never to revisit it.
He isn’t worth my time or my pain. I refuse to spend another hour crying over a man who wouldn’t even blink for me.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, spiderweb of cracks across the screen. The device stutters to life, and its glitching display reminds me of how I acquired it: I fished it out of thegarbage after Tiffany, one of the institute’s pampered princesses, tossed it away. All because she’d dropped it once and couldn’t bear the “unsightly” crack at the corner.
“Rich people problems,” I mutter.
She hadn’t even bothered to cancel the extra line on her family plan. It must be nice to be so wealthy that you don’t even glance at your monthly bills, but her carelessness has been my lifeline.
I scroll through my social media, immediately regretting it.
Last night’s humiliation has gone viral.
My face is splashed across every corner of InstaShifter: candid shots, video clips, memes shouting “I reject you,” and an avalanche of comments. My follower count skyrocketed from three to a staggering 13,000 overnight.
I groan.
