Morgan’s Pov,

I am Morgan, slave to the Black Claw pack. I wake while stars still speckle the sky, stoke fires and prepare the morning meal. As the pack stirs I scrub the stone floors on raw knees, clear the dirt and mess from their crude dens. My days pass in thankless toil, always guarded by one of the four Alphas who delight in tormenting me. 

Caleb with his gnarled yellow teeth, breath foul as rot. Michael who twists my ear till it throbs hot. Owen, blunt featured and sullen, who kicks at me if the food is too cold or too salty. Adrian the quickest to anger, his palm leaving fire on my cheek. The kicks and blows rain down without warning day after day.

I sleep crowded in with other low-ranked wolves, no den to call my own. We divide a few ragged pelts against the cold. My empty belly hinders sleep, my bruised body aches bone deep. I curl tighter, clutching the only possession that is mine - a leather strip with a carved moon charm. A gift from my mother on my naming day, before the pox took her. The smooth curves fit comfortingly in my palm. Mother said it would always protect me. I pray she still watches from the moon's glow.

The Alphas roar my name, demand their morning repast. I scramble up, wincing as cuts reopen. Adrian shoves me aside on his way to eat. "Clumsy cur!" he growls. I brace for his fist but it does not come today. There is excited murmuring, pack members glancing my way. I recognize the cold glint in the Alphas' smiles. Something vicious brews in their minds. Fear trickles down my spine like melting ice.

I'm ordered to serve the Alphas' table alone tonight. In the flickering pit fire their eyes follow my every move, wolfish shadows dancing on their faces. They pass a wineskin freely. Drink deepens their cruelty. I keep my eyes down as I pour the rich mead. 

Owen's thick arm shoots out to block my path. "Take off that hideous charm, slave. Now!" Surprised, I obey, feeling bare without its familiar weight. Hungrily they lean closer. Adrian speaks low and mocking. "She is come of age to be mounted. Past time she earned her miserable keep in my furs." Their laughter peals loud. My heart sinks to watery depths. So this night they will rob me of my last scrap of dignity and pride. 

"Please masters..." My voice cracks small like a mouse's. For answer Michael seizes my wrist, twisting till I sink whimpering. Their next blows and kicks I recount here in detail not, only the blaze of pain and the jagged rocks tearing my back as they cast me from the Pack house. I crawl broken through brush and briar, no direction but away, my only desire to lose their snarling voices in the forest depths. 

I run, branches whipping my arms. Thorns bite my feet. Still I hear their baying close behind, run faster though each breath stabs my sides. I taste salt wetness on my lips but dare not stop. At last I collapse by a quiet stream, so far beyond exhaustion I cannot rise, hardly know myself as girl or wolf. Through the trees misty moonlight falls to blanket me in its gentle glow. As darkness takes me I pray to never wake under the Alphas' rule again. Either freedom or death's peace awaits come the dawn. I curl fetal and broken, the moon charm still clenched in my fist, last remnant of a dying hope...

I wake bruised in forest, remembering the Alphas viciousness. As morning sun filters through leaves my stomach twists hunger. I have not eaten for long day and night.

I think of mistakes from last night. Fool to run from pack that feed and shelter me since a pup. However cruel, I know no other home. If lone wolf, I starve or rival pack kills me. 

Head bowed in shame, I walk back slow to Pack lands. Alphas stand tall on rock above the gathering wolves, their faces stone. My guts twist tighter seeing belt in Alpha Michael's hands. 

"The slave returns!" Alpha Caleb snorts. "Belly empty and tail between legs no doubt!" Dark laughter echoes among the pack.

"On your knees cur!" Alpha Adrian commands. I obey quick, not daring to meet their eyes. My back explodes in new pain as Michael's belt cracks down. He strikes me again and again till I huddle whimpering in mud. Sneers and jeers surround me but I scarce hear them.

"Get up slave," says Alpha Owen. "You got work waiting."

I rise slow, pain screaming my skin. Limping I go to cook fire and grinding stone, take up my old routine. The pack kick dirt at me and shout insults as they pass. I keep eyes down, say nothing. 

Nella the Healer brings me a salve for my wounds that night. "Fools you were to run," she whispers. "Nowhere but starvation for a lone Omega." In her eyes I see pity. It somehow hurts worse than the blows.

Days pass and turn to weeks. Always I wake before sunrise, stoke the cook fires and knead stiff dough. Boil bitter herbs for Nella, stir soup pots that feed dozens. My hands chap and crack from harsh lye soap as I scrub dens and clothing. At night only after the pack is fed do I gnaw my own measly portion by the dying embers, often just hard rinds and crusts. This bitter scaffolding holds up my world entire.

In stolen moments I let my mind wander, dreaming a different life. No relentless tasks from dawn till midnight. No aching gut or stripes upon my back. I imagine a sunny patch of soft grass to call my own. Clean water fresh and sweet, deer meat cooked tender, fur coverings lined thick and white as clouds. A mate who touches me gently, eyes bright with affection not cruelty. 

These shining fancies vanish quick as stars in morning light when the Alphas stomp demands, yanking me cruel to the ground. I cling to the dreams each night nonetheless. They sustain me as meat never could.

The turning of seasons marks time's passage. Three more bitter winters I endure. Pain makes the waits seem longer but brings me greater tolerance. When Alpha Adrian's fist hammers down I do not weep, though my bruises purple black beneath my tunic. When Alpha Michael twists my ear his insults fade dull against my defiance. When Alpha Owen's kicks break bone, I bite back screams lest he see my weakness. Silent, dumbly rooted as oak trees, we weather every storm. 

Nella visits when none look. She mothers me gentle, tutting over wounds that slow my work. In time I realize - her salves slowly knit my bones stronger. Sneaking extra parcels of food strengthens my young frame until corded muscles wind down my arms. I stand taller than Alpha Caleb now, and many warriors too. An Omega still, but no longer meek pup. My eyes find the forest edge more and more when I should be grinding grain or gutting hares for the pot. Someday I will run again under those cool shadows. But this time no whimpering return. 

I am Morgan the Omega slave, owned by none. The Alphas may break my body but never my spirit. And someday my fangs will snap back harder. For now I bend ob

edient, watch and wait. My chance will come.