Page 3 of Scarred Savages
I zip the ceremonial gown; the fabric hugging my curves. The whole process is always the same: dress up, show up, get sized up, and then… face rejection.
“Here we go.” I deadpan at my reflection. “Time to dazzle with your sparkling personality, Luna. Because that’s totally what they’re looking for.”
My fingers trace the fabric over my scars, each one a reminder of the fire that took everything from me. They accompany me silently, witnesses to every awkward moment during the swimsuit portion of the ceremony, as we’re paraded onstage and every male gaze shifts away in polite horror.
The scars are ugly, jagged lines that map out the nightmares of my past.
Each ceremony unfolds like the last: forced smiles, small talk, frowns when they catch a whiff of my scent, and the inevitable shift in their expressions once they see my scars.
I’ve been trapped in this institute for six years—a stark contrast to the usual one-year stay for most females.
Wolf shifters come from far and wide once they’ve run out of options in their packs. With some packs being very small andthe pool of candidates limited, nobody wants to match with their cousin; the institute provides a much-needed solution.
While every shifter hopes for a scent match, a true love connection, most are chosen based on their looks.
A quiet and obedient female is preferred.
I am not quiet.
Maybe I was once, but years of rejection have toughened me up.
As an orphan, I lack family to “sweeten the deal.” Instead, I carry a mountain of debt.
The institute is a financial black hole, charging exorbitant fees even for the simplest things. My parents’ modest inheritance vanished during my two-year recovery after the fire.
So here I am, scarred and carrying the weight of financial burdens any potential mate would have to bear.
No family, no dowry, no wolf… just scars and debt.
It’s no surprise nobody wants me.
I pull out my latest statement, and the number makes my stomach clench: 487,000 credits.
Even if I found work the moment I left, I’d need three lifetimes to pay it off.
When I first arrived at the institute, I thought it would be straightforward. They promised: Find a mate. Live happily ever after.
The female shifter who found me at the rehab hospital said I needed to be withmy kind.
That they would love and care for me.
Humans didn’t know wolf shifters existed,officially, anyway. A few high-ranking politicians did, but for the masses, our world only existed in their books and movies, disguised as fiction. Most of those whodidknow still clung to the old myths of full moon transformations only.
But we’ve evolved. Mature shifters can shift at will, day or night; no moon is required.
Except for me.
For now, at least.
Even though I hadn’t shifted yet, the female shifter was convinced a human hospital wasn’t the right place for a young pup. So, with no relatives left, they shipped me across the country to The Shifter Institute.
I wanted to believe them.
I thought I’d finally belong, make friends, and find a new family among these shifters. However, they neglected to mention how superficial male shifters can be. They want their females neatly packaged, not some scarred version of Freddy Krueger with an attitude.
And I certainly wasn’t ready for the pettiness of other females.
The institute’s glossy brochures also forgot to mention the real rules—I quickly learned how things work here. I’ve been beaten, held down by those who thought I was worthless, and woken up bruised and bloody in the infirmary more times than I can count. The fact that my wolf has never surfaced makes me heal slower, making me an even easier target.
