Chapter 3

• VALERIE
• Certified virgin slaves were a rare commodity, because it was difficult to ensure a girl was intact. Werewolves didn’t know much about human anatomy, and they didn’t care to invest the time into checking each and every one of us. But the girls at this particular shop were extracted from The Cell—a place where underage humans were imprisoned until they reached the ripe age of sixteen.
• For most of us, there was no chance to ruin ourselves. In fact, for most of us, it had been a decade since we saw a human boy in person.
• I was brought to The Cell at thirteen-years-old. They stuck me in that place for three years, before I was transported here, to Lockheart Botique—a small slave emporium in the market district. Sixteen was not the age of purchase for a slave, but rather, the age where we first began our lessons. We were taught how to provide for our masters, how to please them, and how to act as good service for the rest of our lives. The aunts wanted us well-prepared before we reached the proper selling age of eighteen. After all, a slave’s attitude toward their master was their most important attribute.
• Since the new Alpha took reign, this practice had stopped. Now, slaves had to be eighteen before they were traded at all. The other slaves thought of this as a blessing. But I did not find much mercy in it.
• At least in The Cell, we were safe from the potential masters who stalked our store front, hungrily eying girls like they were meat on hooks.
• I tried not to meet the Alpha’s eyes as I felt his gaze boring into me. I was afraid if I glanced him in the face, my expression would be red-hot with anger.
• If he was truly the blessed Alpha everyone thought him to be, he would have eliminated slavery altogether. He was no better than the others.
• He was no hero to us.
• The Alpha glanced past my shoulder to Aunt Louis. “What’s her background?” he asked.
• Of course, Aunt Louis thought he was referring to Ashley. Fair-haired, light-eyed slaves like her were best-sellers.
• “Oh, you’re a fan of blondes? Well, this here is one of the new girls. The cell sent her here just a week ago,” said Aunt Louis. “She’s clean, I can assure you. But I do believe we have more suitable girls in the back of the store. We don’t put them on display until the busy seasons. Let me show you—“
• “No,” said the Alpha. “This one.” His hard eyes slid over to me and stuck on my face like thorns. It was only then that I realized I was looking directly at him. My heart sank and I tore my gaze away, watching a grow whip past the window to snatch a worm up from a puddle.
• Lucky worm, I thought. How I would give anything to be snatched up and eaten by a bird right now.
• “O-oh,” said Aunt Louis. “Well, certainly I have more just like her. I’ll go fetch one of a more…acceptable breed.”
• “No,” said the Alpha. “I want to know about her. What do you mean by ‘acceptable breed’?”
• “W-well,” Aunt Louis stammered, “I’m afraid she’s not clean. Her parents were criminals.” She came closer and lifted my wrist with a jerk to show The Alpha the wristband I wore.
• The mark of filth.
• To be unclean meant I had been related to one of the various crimes committed against werewolves during the war.
• This, however, was a lie.
• Wolves accused my parents of heinous things and killed them without evidence and without hesitation. They were not criminals, and I was not the child of criminals, but I wore the band anyway. I could not take it off if I tried; it had wrapped around my wrist and melded at the metal chain. It was only to be broken by my future master.
• To wolves, this wristband signified that I was unworthy of purchase—but it was also as good as a sales tag, announcing a lower price for my purchase than the other girls. Even still, no one wanted me.
• “I asked you what her background was,” said the Alpha with a bite of impatience.
• “I’ll go get her records,” Aunt Rita volunteered, scuttling to the back of the room.
• “We keep records of all the girls,” Aunt Louis assured the Alpha. “Our policy is transparency.
• Aunt Rita rushed to a locker in the back of the room and pried open a drawer full of organized files. Several of the other aunts fluttered over to help her. I had never seen them in such disarray before, but I supposed it was to be expected. Time was of the essence with all customers, but the Alpha was a special case. To keep the Alpha waiting would put them in very bad lighting.
• And after all, this was the first time he had ever visited the shop. For the Aunts, it could be the only chance they had to make an impression on him, which seemed difficult given that they were all nervous wrecks.
• It was all quite funny to me. I could have easily spit out my name, my background, what happened before I arrived in the Cell and who my family was. But slaves were not allowed to speak in front of buyers—and to do so in front of such a prestigious wolf would be the end of me.
• “Number one-two-seven…number one-two-seven…” Rita was muttering in a panic. Then she drew a file from the drawer. “Found it! Number one-two-seven!” She crossed the store, splaying the file open in her hands. “Number one-hundred-and-twenty-seven. Valerie Davis. Her parents were executed during the second raid on the human town named Westshield, fifty miles from Orheroad.”
• I felt myself flinch at the word executed. At the memories of my hometown. Of home. My eyes settled on the floorboards at my feet.
• “What was the meaning of their execution?” asked the Alpha.
• “According to this, they were accused of…” she hesitated, flipping to another page. “They were accused of…” There was a pause. Then Aunt Rita continued, “Missing.”
• “Missing?” asked the Alpha. “What do you mean by missing?”
• “It isn’t here,” said Rita, a bead of sweat suddenly forming on her brow. She flipped and flipped, then looked up with a lost expression. “The records don’t show the accusations on her parents.”
• I let out a deep, aching breath. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to laugh or cry. How ridiculous. The court had yet to decide what crime my parents had committed, and yet…it had been years since their slaughter.
• It made no sense. Each and every human found guilty of a crime had an accusation and a sentencing. There were so many ways to be sentenced for crimes against wolves; killing a werewolf, attacking one, engaging in a plot meant to harm wolves. No matter what the reason, wolves always made certain that humans faced the cruelest punishment available. They were ruthless in our sentencing.
• But they were not the smartest of the races. Errors were made often in the judicial system.
• It was nothing to werewolves—not even a mistake worth looking into. But to me, it was my entire life. It was my family.
• The Alpha’s shadow swept over the floorboards at my feet. I realized he was moving closer. Trying to get a look at me.
• But he remained silence.
• So that’s the end, I thought.
• Then, suddenly, I felt his fingers beneath my chin. Strong but gentle, he lifted my gaze from the floor and forced it upon his.
• “Tell me. What had your parent’s done?”