Chapter 1

For three years, my family bled me dry for my blood. The day they kicked me into a muddy ditch, my stepsister, Sofia Thorne, tossed me 700 dollars.

She called me a worthless bastard, said I was only fit to rot in the slums.

The black Rolls-Royce sped away, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

Sophia was convinced I'd never crawl out of the gutter.

I didn't bother picking up the bank card she'd crushed under her heel. Instead, I hauled away the dying brown wolf from beside the trash can.

As my fingers brushed against its razor-sharp fangs, I suddenly laughed.

Rot in the slums? We'd see who dragged who to hell first.

*****

The taillights flickered twice before vanishing into the alley.

The needle marks on my lower back throbbed with every step.

Rain mixed with mud streamed down my collar, the cold biting straight to the bone.

I bent down, grabbed my tattered canvas bag, and shoved the mud-soaked old hoodie inside.

My fingertips still held the crisp, splintering sensation of crushing that bank card.

700 dollars. Sofia called it my settlement money.

Three years ago, my father, Victor Thorne, brought me back from the farm in the countryside to Ashford.

It wasn't a family reunion. It was so I could donate my blood to Sofia.

Every month, they'd draw my blood. The pain left me curled up in bed all night, shaking, too afraid to make a sound.

Now that Sophia was cured, I was trash to be tossed aside.

Yesterday, Sophia slipped my late mother's sapphire necklace into my bag, then accused me of theft, claiming she'd caught me red-handed.

Victor slapped me so hard my ears rang, then had his bodyguards kick me out of the estate.

Every debt. Every last one. I remembered.

I turned and headed deeper into the alley.

The air was thick with the rank smell of sewage and decay.

I stopped in my tracks.

Mixed in with the filth, I caught a faint trace of blood.

I wasn't scared.

After three years as a caretaker in the Thorne family's private hospital, I'd gotten used to the smell of disinfectant mixed with blood.

One whiff and I knew. Fresh wound. And plenty of it.

About ten feet ahead, next to the trash can, a massive shadow lay sprawled on the ground.

It was a wolf, bigger than a full-grown Great Dane.

Its brown fur was matted with blood and rain, clumped into messy strands.

There was a huge gash on its belly, the flesh laid open.

As I crouched down, the wolf let out a low, threatening growl from deep in its throat.

Its fangs flashed with a cold gleam, as if it would rip my throat out if I dared step closer.

I didn't back down.

Growing up on the farm, I'd dealt with plenty of strays. Backing off only made them more likely to jump you.

I stared into its cloudy eyes, my voice colder than the rain-soaked night. "If that gash on your belly tears any more, you're dead. You want to live."

It froze, fangs bared.

Our eyes locked for a few seconds. Strangely, the wildness in its gaze eased up a bit.

I let go of its scruff and pulled out half a piece of stale bread from my pocket.

This was all I had for dinner tonight.

I broke the bread up and pushed it toward its mouth. "Take a bite. Carbs help keep you warm."

It turned its head away, eyes flashing with defiance.

I didn't waste my breath trying to convince it.

I grabbed a broken piece of glass and, without flinching, sliced open my own wrist.

Warm blood dripped onto the bread, blooming into tiny red stains.

Back when I was tested as a donor for Sofia, the doctor said my rare blood type had some kind of immune factor that was different from most people's. It could calm neural mania.

The way this wolf was acting now was exactly like someone in the grip of genetic mania.

"Eat it. It'll make you feel better," I said.

I nudged the bread closer. The sweet, metallic scent of blood filled the air.

The brown wolf hesitated for a couple of seconds, then finally lowered his head and devoured the bread.

Its tongue brushed against the wound on my wrist. The sweet warmth slid easily down its throat. Somehow, the feverish redness at the corners of its eyes gradually faded.

I ripped off a piece of my shirt and wrapped it around my wrist, fast, no fuss. "I saved you, so your life belongs to me now."

At the mouth of the alley sat an old, abandoned cart.

I found a piece of rope and, after a struggle, managed to haul the wolf onto it.

At well over a hundred pounds, the wolf made the wheels groan.

I gripped the handles and hauled the cart step by step toward my rented basement.

The wolf lay on the cart, its fangs aimed right at the back of my neck. One bite and it could've severed my carotid.

But it sheathed its fangs and lay there quietly, not even twitching.

When I got back to the basement, I hauled the wolf onto my rickety wooden bed.

The overhead bulb buzzed and flickered, casting flickering shadows across the room.

I pulled a rusty metal box from under the bed and dumped out some hydrogen peroxide, sutures, and antibiotics.

They were all backup supplies I'd pocketed at the Thorne family's hospital, a little at a time whenever I changed bandages.

After three years of being forced to donate blood, I knew that in the Thorne family, a post-op infection meant nobody would lift a finger. I'd pored over tutorials and practiced wound care a thousand times, but never on anything this big and breathing.

I poured hydrogen peroxide over the wolf's wound. The pain hit it like a blade twisting in its nerves. Its muscles spasmed uncontrollably, a low growl trapped in its throat.

I kept my face cold as I pinned its front leg down and stabbed the needle into its flesh.

"Don't move. Three layers of stitches. Rip them open, and I'll throw you out for the strays to feast on," I said.

I kept my back to the wolf, my fingers trembling ever so slightly.

I bit down on my lip, refusing to let a single sound escape. My palms were slick with sweat.

Stitching the wolf's skin felt worse than when I'd done it to myself.

The wolf bared its fangs, but the faint scent of my blood lingered in the air, and its wildness faded. It actually stopped struggling.