15 The Crucity
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15 Their Cruelty
Nyra’s POV
When I finally stepped outside the hospital, the sunlight stabbed my eyes like punishment. The air was colder than I expected, sharp enough to make my lungs ache.
For a moment I just stood there on the steps, breathing carefully, trying to pretend I wasn’t shaking.
The pack grounds stretched around me, familiar paths, clean stone, people moving with purpose. Wolves laughed in small groups. Warriors strode past. A couple walked hand-in-hand like love wasn’t something you had to earn.
No one looked at me.
Or worse, some did, quickly, and then looked away as if I was something embarrassing to be seen
noticing.
I tightened my grip on my bag and started walking.
The first few steps were manageable.
Then the pain hit properly.
My stitches pulled tight, and a sharp spear of agony shot through my side. My calf screamed with every footfall, swollen and bruised beneath the bandage. I tried to mask it, straighten my posture, keep my face blank, walk like it didn’t hurt.
But my body betrayed me.
Wolves didn’t limp.
Wolves didn’t flinch.
Wolves didn’t stop mid-step to grab their ribs and swallow down a sound.
I did.
A hot sting bloomed under the bandage on my side.
My breath caught.
I pressed my palm there through my shirt, and my fingers came away warm.
Blood.
My stomach dropped.
I’d ripped a stitch.
The walk to my mother’s cabin at the outskirts was far. Far enough that even a healthy person would feel
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15 Theit Cruelty
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And I wasn’t healthy.
I was held together with thread and stubbornness.
I started again, one step at a time, grit grinding between my teeth.
Tears welled, silent, humiliating, because pain didn’t care how proud you were. It forced itself out of you, made you soft in the worst moments.
If only I had my wolf.
If only I had wolf reflexes, wolf healing, wolf strength.
If only I wasn’t always the one left behind.
The thought was bitter enough to taste.
I blinked hard and kept moving.
The pack paths thinned as I went farther out, the homes spaced wider, the air colder. The laughter faded behind me like I was walking out of a life I’d never been invited into.
By the time the trees grew thicker and the cabins became rougher, my side was burning. My calf felt like it was filled with broken glass.
I was halfway to the outcast edge when I heard footsteps rushing up behind me.
Fast.
My heart jolted.
For a split second, fear rose sharp, they’re calling me back. Something went wrong. I’m in trouble.
I turned, breath catching.
It was the nurse from my room.
Her face was pale, eyes darting around like she was terrified of being seen with me.
I stiffened. “What, did something happen? Am I,
“No,” she cut in quickly. Then she shoved a small package into my hands.
Bottles. Gauze. A roll of disinfectant wipes. Pills.
“Painkillers,” she whispered. “The ones we give people before they get their wolves. It’ll help with the pain.” Her voice shook with urgency. “Disinfect it every day. Here, antibiotics. So it doesn’t get infected.”
I stared down at what she’d given me like my brain couldn’t process it fast enough.
“You…” My throat tightened. “You’ll get punished.”
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15 Their Cruelty
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Her jaw clenched.
“I don’t care,” she said, voice low and fierce. Then her eyes flicked up to mine, and for a heartbeat I saw
it, she was angry. Not at me.
At them.
At the whole sick way this pack treated people who were already bleeding.
She pushed the supplies deeper into my hands. “Hide it.”
I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
The words came out cracked.
Her gaze flicked around again. Panic sharpened it.
Without another word, she turned and walked away quickly, fast enough that if anyone saw, it would look like she’d never stopped.
I stood there holding the medication like it was something holy.
Tears rose again, different this time.
Not from pain.
From gratitude so sudden it hurt.
Because kindness felt rare in my life.
And rare things always felt like miracles.
I tucked the supplies into my bag, wiped my face with the back of my hand, and started walking again.
The painkillers didn’t hit immediately.
So every step was still a fight.
My side throbbed. My calf burned. The bandage soaked slowly, warm against my skin.
I didn’t make it home until noon.
By then, the medication had dulled the worst of the agony, but it couldn’t fix what my body had lost on that walk.
When I reached our cabin, my shirt stuck to my side.
Blood had soaked through.
My vision swam as I climbed the porch steps.
I shoved the door open and stumbled inside, the smell of home, old wood, herbs, smoke, wrapping
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Is the Cruelty
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around me like a blanket.
I didn’t stop.
I went straight to my room and shut the door behind me, breath ragged.
I stripped off my clothes with shaking hands. The bandage peeled away too easily, and fresh blood smeared my skin.
My stomach turned.
Not because of blood.
Because of how normal this had become.
Pain. Shame. Cleaning myself up quietly so no one could call me weak.
I stepped into the shower, letting the water run hot. It stung where it hit torn skin, but I welcomed it anyway. Clean pain was easier than dirty pain.
I cleaned the wound as best as I could, biting down on my lip to keep from crying out. I disinfected it, hands trembling. Wrapped it tighter. Swallowed the painkillers with a gulp of water.
Then I took the antibiotics, holding the bottle for a second like it was proof that someone in this pack still
had a heart.
I had barely set it down when the door creaked open.
I froze.
The air shifted.
My mother.
I hadn’t heard her come in, but she was there now, standing in the doorway, eyes wide, nostrils flaring.
She could smell it.
Blood.
Her gaze snapped to my side.
And the colour drained from her face.
“Nyra,” she said, voice sharp with fear as she crossed the room in two strides. “What have you done?” 1
She rushed to me, hands reaching for the bandage, shaking as she touched it.
Her voice broke as she looked at the blood soaking through.
“Who hurt you?” she demanded, panic rising like a storm. “Who did this to you?”
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