In a world where fairness is scarce and the dreams of childhood remain elusive fantasies, I find myself caught in an unending nightmare. Every day is a struggle, a relentless horror I yearn to escape. I crave the freedom to shape my destiny, to make choices, and live life on my own terms.

The specter of my own demise looms over me, a constant fear that I might never break free from this torment. At seventeen, my weariness surpasses my years, burdened by a life lived in constant motion, haunted by the destruction and suffering we leave in our wake as werewolves in France.

I am not part of a conventional pack, but entangled in a malevolent existence that I am too young and too tainted to endure. Let me introduce myself: Cassidy Amelia Griffin, born on the 3rd of December, a date I never celebrate, for what joy is there in mere survival? My only family is my father, a man who guards my lineage like a sinister secret.

I know not if I possess what society deems as beauty, for compliments and vanity hold no place in my father's world. Torn and marked by scars, both seen and unseen, I am a product of relentless training, my features overshadowed by my pitch-black hair, pale skin, and haunting blue eyes devoid of vitality.

Allow me to shed light on my kind, the werewolves, scattered in packs across Europe and ruled by a Werewolf Council comprised of esteemed Alphas and Moon Goddess-chosen leaders. They maintain order and administer justice for our kind, navigating the complexities of our world.

At the age of sixteen, werewolves experience their first shift, a transformation that designates the leaders as black wolves. For me, being a black wolf is both a privilege and a burden. My wolf, Eleanor, or Elle, is my steadfast companion in this harsh reality, offering solace in an otherwise desolate existence. Yet, fate seems to have forsaken me, and the prospect of finding my destined mate remains a distant hope in the shadows of my turbulent life.

This will certainly make you ponder. Either I hold the mantle of leadership, or it rests upon my father's shoulders within a faction. However, it's a bit more complicated than that. My father leads a band of 400 rogues. I'm not exactly part of a conventional pack. For reasons unknown to me, my father harbors an intense animosity towards the Wolf Council and traditional packs. This resentment consumes him entirely, saturating every fiber of his being with hatred, directed not just at packs but at me as well. There's no changing his convictions; nothing can divert him from this path.

Leveraging his bitter enmity and shared sentiments, my father has rallied the support of numerous ruthless and violent rogues. He's earned a moniker - "The King of the Rebels." He's heartless, cruel, deceitful, and a murderer. His enjoyment seems to stem from inflicting pain upon the loved ones of others. He dismantles packs without a second thought, torturing and murdering in his ruthless ascent to power. I despise him!

My father systematically targets packs, methodically picking them off. Pack members, particularly women and children, start disappearing. He imprisons them, inflicting suffering upon mates, knowing the other half can sense their pain. He revels in their agony, taking lives swiftly and callously. The pack eventually crumbles under this relentless onslaught, and my father wages war, leaving nothing but devastation in his wake — every man, woman, and child erased.

One might wonder, why does the werewolf council not intervene? A pack hardly endures once it's marked. After looting their resources and seizing their funds, we move on, leaving behind only remnants of utter desolation. It's a sickening and horrifying reality, and I find myself trapped in the midst of it all, uncomfortably aligned with the wrong side.

I can't bear this any longer. The brutality and the bloodshed weigh heavily on me. The anguished cries of tormented women echo in my mind, their pain inflicted so their mates can share in their torment until they lose their sanity. It's an abomination, completely immoral and wicked. This is not something I can endure. It's not right. It's wrong, it's vile, and it's abusive. I refuse to accept this fate. Why was I condemned to be a part of this wretched existence? Why does fate seem to harbor such disdain for me?

My father found a mate, though he held no regard for the concept. He failed to grasp the significance of a mate, seeing it as a weakness, a vulnerability. When he encountered my mother, Amelia Griffin, he took her against her will, abducting her from her pack. He imprisoned her, viewing her as an opportunity to produce a potent heir who could continue his malevolent legacy. He desired a son and forced her into pregnancy with me. I came into this world five months later. My father was displeased, and in a fit of rage, he ended my mother's life with his own hands. On the day of my birth, I lost my mother because of him. He never concealed the truth; he flaunted his capability to reject and murder his own mate. I was an unwanted consequence, yet he still intended to mold me into his heir, to shape me into a ruthless monster and carry on his legacy.

I refused to allow that to come to pass. I would not succumb to becoming a creature of darkness. But the dilemma lay in having him as my father, the King of the Rebels. I was his daughter, branded by association. My name was already stained, my reputation prejudged. I was the Rebel Princess.

"Get up, damn it!"

My eyes snapped open immediately. I found myself staring into the angry, black eyes of my father. He was more than annoyed, and I knew trouble was brewing. I tried to scramble up from the bed, but he gripped my arm with such force that I yelped in pain. He dragged me off the bed and threw me onto the floor. The impact sent waves of pain through my arm, but I refused to let a tear escape. I wouldn't give this monster the satisfaction.

"How many times do I have to tell you to be awake before I am?" he spat, before kicking me in the stomach.

I gasped in pain as I collapsed to the floor again. The pain was coursing through my ribs, intensifying. He kicked me again, and I groaned as the pain only grew more unbearable. Clutching my stomach, I endured the agony, the constant ripples of pain. My father laughed; my suffering was his pleasure.

"We're leaving in the next two hours. Get yourself sorted," he spat before stalking out of the room and slamming the door.

I groaned at the pain but forced myself up from the floor. Crawling over to the bed, I placed my hands on the top and used all my strength to push myself up. I sat on the edge of the bed, hissing in pain as I pulled up my pajama top, revealing the ugly bruises already marring my stomach in yellow and black. I tenderly touched each rib, checking for any breaks.

I hissed in pain, feeling the clear break of one rib. Just what I needed. Pressing my head into my hands, I sighed. This was just another injury to add to my collection. God, I was sick of this. I hated this. I despised my life. This is what my own father could do to me, his own flesh and blood.

I stood up, hobbling into the bathroom attached to the bedroom. I leaned heavily against the door frame as I stumbled into the bathroom. I went straight to the sink and the cupboard under it. Bending down with difficulty, I found a first aid kit. I pulled out a small glass and searched the kit, finding painkillers. I quickly filled the glass with water and downed a couple of painkillers. I stripped from my clothes before climbing into the shower.

Showering quickly and clinically, not allowing myself to enjoy the hot water and the brief respite from my father, my mind wandered to where we would go next. I stumbled out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. I went over to my suitcase that held all my belongings and rifled through it for some clothes. I ended up pulling out a pair of black skinny jeans, dark blue converse, a white blouse, and my leather jacket. I also retrieved my underwear and placed it on the bed. I dried myself quickly before finding the first aid kit and began to bandage around my torso, providing extra support to the broken rib. It was probably true that I could qualify to be a nurse with the amount of medical care I had given myself over my 17 years.

I pulled on all my clothes, towel-drying the last bits of wet hair. Once again, my black glossy hair went pin-straight. There was a knock at the door, and I quickly rushed to open it, praying it wasn't my dad. But it couldn't be him; he would have just walked straight in. I pulled open the door, clutching my throbbing side.

"Princess, here's some food. We're leaving in half an hour," Wade said.

I watched as he scanned me from head to toe with an unsettling look. I shivered in discomfort. Wade had a tendency to be overly leering, and it repulsed me. Quickly, I took the food from his hands and moved to close the door. However, he jammed his foot in the way and forced it open. I stepped back into the room, placing the food down while keeping a vigilant eye on Wade.

Wade was 24 years old and held a position as one of the generals. He had a dark and malevolent demeanor, much like my father. He relished in the opportunity to inflict pain on others, making him just as much a monster as my father. I despised him.

Physically, he was formidable—well-built and toned from countless hours of training. His height easily surpassed mine, casting a looming shadow. However, it was his distinctive scar that stood out the most, starting above his left eyebrow and running all the way down to his jaw. It was a reminder of his fearlessness in battle, a battle scar that seemed to please him, accentuating his fierce and monstrous appearance.

He advanced towards me, resembling a predator taunting its prey. A wicked smirk played on his face, contorting his scar even more. He seized me harshly by the waist, causing sharp pain to shoot through my broken rib. I winced, struggling against his grip. The repulsion I felt was overwhelming, and I shivered as his hands violated my personal boundaries. I couldn't help but question my ability to resist.

"Don't resist, princess," he sneered.

"Release me, you brute!" I shouted, vehemently trying to break free.

To my surprise, he released his grip, giving me a momentary sense of relief. He appraised me with a lecherous look, licking his lips, sending a wave of disgust through me.

"It's just a matter of time. I've made arrangements," Wade whispered menacingly into my ear, before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

A deal? What the hell does he mean? I shuddered at the possibilities running through my mind at the time. I couldn't do this much longer. I am seventeen and still suffering. I have suffered for seventeen years. I really can't take this anymore. I physically and mentally can't cope any more. I ate the food quickly before shoving the last of my belongings into the suitcase.

You see, this wasn't my home. This was a pack house. This wasn't our pack house. This was the pack house of another pack who my father had destroyed yesterday. We had been hiding out in the forest in a campsite we had set up. My father had made sure a couple of the pack members went missing and then yesterday my father had declared a full war. The pack was small. It was wiped out in a couple of hours. We had taken minimal damage. I didn't personally fight because my father doesn't want me to. He doesn't trust me to not let one of the opposing side just end my life.

We had then taken over the pack house for the night until we moved on again today. All we would leave behind was the devastation. I had been shoved into this room which used to be the Alpha's son's room. I had struggled to get to sleep. The guilt I felt for all of those that died was overwhelming. I had tossed and turned most of the night.

I grabbed my suitcase and headed out of the room. I followed the corridors down towards the front entrance. I passed other rogues but didn't look at them as I went by. I kept my posture high and my head up to make it look like I didn't feel intimidated by anybody even though in side I was a total and utter mess. I followed the scent all the way down to the main entrance. Someone took my suitcase from me and out to one of the cars.

My father was at the front door looking totally and utterly furious. I got scared then. I was ten minutes early. Surely, I haven't done anything. I looked at myself. I was presentable. Dark clothing nothing girly.

He stormed up to me grabbing my wrist.

"I told you not to be LATE. Don't you understand," he screamed at me.

"I was ten minutes early," I protested in vain.

"Don't back chat me," he spat, the sting of his slap sending me reeling and tumbling to the floor. Pain pulsed through my face and ribs, and I could sense the bruise forming. I could endure no more. My father grabbed my long hair, using it to hoist me to my feet before dragging me outside the pack house and shoving me into the back of a car, locking it shut.

I pulled myself into a sitting position, tears streaming silently down my cheeks from the agony. Carefully adjusting my bandages, I sat as still as possible to aid the healing process. Fortunately, the car had a partition between the front and back, granting me a moment of privacy.

The engine roared to life, and the car began to move. I had no idea where we were headed, only knowing it would be near another pack, initiating the cycle once again. I despised my life, enduring daily beatings from my father. Sometimes, I wished death would come for me. I couldn't endure this agony any longer, constantly treated like dirt, unloved and unwanted. I was a pawn in everyone's games, a life devoid of love or care. I yearned for a normal family, one that would love and protect me.

I realized I didn't truly have a life. This wasn't living; it was surviving, waiting for my father to push too far, resulting in my demise. At times, I didn't consider that outcome a tragedy. It would free me from this wretched existence, this constant suffering. I wished for numbness, an escape from the pain.

Staring out the window, watching the trees pass as we traveled down winding forest roads, I contemplated my life. Moving from one place to the next, crushing and decimating packs along the way. What kind of monsters were we? We crossed a country's border, no longer in France but now in Germany. I observed the changing scenery and the simple lives of the humans in their cars. I longed for such simplicity and ease.

Hours seemed to pass as we drove on. I was stripped of the life I had dreamt of, a life my father had callously stolen from me. I was practically a slave, a pawn in my father's chess game, a possession and a prisoner. Fear gnawed at me, wondering what more he would do. He was heartless, indifferent to my well-being or survival.

The guilt that weighed on me daily was unbearable. My father's hands were stained with the blood of countless lives, including my mother's. There was a high likelihood that I would meet a similar fate. I yearned to be free from this anguish, this torment. I had reached my breaking point. I didn't want this life anymore...