The Last of US

I sat alone in the darkness of the basement closet, my knees pulled tightly against my chest. The space was barely large enough to hold my small cot and the single plastic tote that contained my few worldly belongings. The room was pitch black, save for the thin, mocking sliver of dim light that bled through the crack of the door at the top of the stairs.

This is my life, I thought, the realization a cold weight in my chest. Just a lifetime locked away in a cell.

I had come to terms with it a long time ago. This hell was all I knew. My father was the Alpha of our pride, making us the ruling family over the snow leopards. But there was nothing noble or pride-like left about us. A true pride loves and protects its members. What my family did was repulsive. Young shifters from our territory and the surrounding areas had been disappearing for years, and I knew, with sickening certainty, that my family was behind it.

I hated my bloodline. I hated my pride. The saddest part was that, as far as I knew, we were the last of the snow leopards. The legacy we were leaving behind was a disease. Deep down, I wished the entire line would just die out so the suffering would end.

The only thing stopping me from giving up entirely was Gemma.

Gemma was my leopard and my absolute best friend. She was small—dangerously small—stunted by years of malnutrition and a lack of freedom to run or explore. While other leopards were massive, Gemma was barely half their size, her coat a beautiful snow-white dotted with midnight-black spots. Her paws and the tip of her tail looked as though they had been dipped in ink.

But there was something else about her. A secret we guarded with our lives. Whenever we shifted, a breathtaking blue light glowed from beneath her fur. Neither of us knew what it was or where it came from, only that it felt ancient, powerful, and deeply beautiful. Gemma was my protector, my solace, and my only companion ever since my childhood friend had vanished all those years ago.

Being the outcast of the ruling family meant my life was divided into two horrors: hard labor and complete isolation. When I wasn't locked in the basement, I was a ghost forcing myself to clean the estate, never allowed to speak to or look at my parents or my older brother, Mason, unless spoken to first. But the chores were nothing compared to the true nightmare.

A sudden memory flashed through my mind, and I pressed my head hard against the stone wall to stop it. I was thirteen when my mother, Laylee, had unlocked my door at an unusual hour. I had already finished my chores and received my meager ration of food and water.

“Hello, dear daughter,” she had said, a devilish, unhinged smirk warping her face. “I have news. You are thirteen now, a true woman. From now on, you will serve this family differently. Your new role is to please us.”

The terror of her hand sliding across my skin back then still made my stomach turn. I violently shook my head, forcing the memory back into the dark. I was eighteen now. The abuse had become a nightly routine, a currency my parents traded in, even renting me out to mateless shifters in exchange for coin. They never feared me getting pregnant; everyone knew a snow leopard could only conceive with their true mate. They thought they had me completely controlled.

They were wrong.

A month ago, Gemma had whispered a secret to me in the safety of our shared mental realm: we were pregnant. We didn’t know how, and we didn’t know who the father was, but a tiny cub was growing inside us. For the first time in my life, I had something to protect. I couldn’t let them take my baby. I had to get us out of this hellhole.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of footsteps at the top of the stairs shattered the silence. The sun was barely up.

“Oh, dear sister,” a gruff, menacing voice echoed down the stairwell.

They never used my name. I was always just dear daughter or dear sister. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm. No. Please, not again.

A dark, amused chuckle rumbled from the stairs. “Are you afraid, dear sister?” Mason taunted.

I gulped, closing my eyes. He knew exactly what I was thinking, and it wasn’t because of a mate bond. It was the potion. Every drop of water they allowed me to drink was laced with a foul draft that kept my mind linked to them, a constant invasion that left my head throbbing with agonizing tension. The only place they couldn't reach was Gemma's inner realm. Out here, I was exposed.

Mason stepped into the small room. He was tall, heavily muscled, with long dark hair and piercing yellow eyes. To anyone else, he might have been striking. To me, he was just another monster in a house of horrors. Without a word, he lunged forward, violently grabbing my ankles and jerking me off the cot.

“Since you already know what I’m thinking, I don’t need to explain a damn thing,” he sneered, leaning back against the moldering wall.

Survival instinct took over. To protect the cub, I had to keep him from getting angry. I couldn't risk a beating. Forcing my trembling hands to steady, I reached out, touching his chest slowly, softly—exactly the way he liked it. Unlike my father, who was pure, brutal violence, Mason wanted a twisted version of sensuality. It was as if, in his own sick way, he craved a love his monstrous actions would always deny him.

He let out a low moan, his head dropping back against the stone. The sound made me want to vomit, but I kept my movements deliberate, letting my mind detach from my physical form. My body went completely on autopilot. It was a skill I had perfected over the years. I didn't need to be present for this. I didn't need to feel it.

As I knelt before him and went through the motions to keep him placated, his fingers tangled into my hair, moving almost gently. It was the only time the vicious predator in him seemed to melt away, leaving something sickeningly human in its place.

But while he lost himself in the moment, my mind was miles away, racing with a burning fuel. I was mapping the corridors. I was calculating the guard rotations. For years, I had dreamed of escaping, and they had punished me until they thought the thoughts were just an idle fantasy I’d never act on. They had grown complacent. They thought I was broken.

They didn't know about the new heartbeat fluttering inside me. This time, I wasn't just dreaming. This time, I was leaving.