Claimed by the King’s Gamma: Abbie & Gannon Story

I’ve never felt heavier as I open my eyes to a world of pain; every muscle throbs as if I have been trampled. Memories flood back in a rush - fur sprouting from my skin, bones cracking and reforming, and howl's tearing from my throat. Pain is all I remember, not that pain is something I'm not used to. This was a different kind of pain, agonizing yet freeing, only to be trapped again with Mrs. Daley in this dreadful place. Last night, I hoped the pain would end me, prayed the suffering would end in the darkness of oblivion; at least I would be free of Mrs. Daley. However, the thought of leaving Ivy and Tyson with her has guilt tearing me apart.

A soft voice cuts through the fog of confusion and despair. I turn my head, finally noticing the gentle fingers tangled in my hair.

Ivy’s face comes into view, her raven hair falling in messy tangles around her shoulders. She’s perched on the edge of my threadbare mattress, gently stroking my hair as she sings. But something is wrong. Her blue eyes are dull and unfocused. Angry red welts crisscross her arms, disappearing beneath the torn sleeves of her faded dress that are a size too small and older than her. Peering around at the room, I take in the long, angry claw marks marking the wood, which has me staring at my fingertips. Did I do that? Groaning, I stare up at her, noting the same claw marks scratching her chest. Did I do that to her? I whimper at the thought of hurting her.

“Ivy?” I croak, my voice raw. “What…?”

She blinks slowly, seeming to come back to herself. “Oh, Abbie. Finally, you’re awake.” A sad smile flickers across her face. “How are you feeling?”

I try to sit up, wincing as she helps me. “Like death warmed over. What happened?”

Ivy’s expression changes to one of sadness, and I truly take in her form. Now, sitting up, I can see the damage: her dress is barely clinging to her, my claws having shredded most of it. Mrs. Daley will make her pay for that ruined dress, and I know it will be my fault. Her legs are covered in grazes, and those welts—the true horror of the damage from Mrs. Daley’s cane, show on her skin.

“Oh my gosh, Ivy, your clothes.” My hands wave about frantically as I try to cover her bruised and broken skin as if I can somehow stitch my best friend back together, along with the torn fabric.

“It’s okay; I can barely feel them,” she murmurs as she moves. At least they are no longer bleeding. I take in the huge welts, knowing I didn’t cause those, but she wasn’t covered this badly last night when we were locked inside our attic bedroom. Sure, she has always had scars; we both are covered in them, but these are fresh. She winces at my touch.

“I’m fine,