The Scentless Mate

Caleb knelt alongside the rickety mattress in his chamber, feeling the bloodless wind bite at his flesh. Shadows flickered across the walls, cast by a single, quivering candle flame. A worn backpack was on the floor beside him, half-filled with clothes and whatever tiny money savings he had managed to accumulate over time. His breath fogged the air, a reminder of how inadequately insulated the space had become—every other diluted punishment for who he had become. A scentless wolf.

His arms trembled as he pushed a little wooden container into the bag. It became the last of his possessions, the simplest thing he had left from his mother. She'd departed years ago, escaping this cruel pack without saying a word. It was now his time, but the worry in his chest had grown to be like an iron weight, heavy and merciless. He stopped, took a long breath, and tightened his hands. There has been no cause for concern. No, not just now.

The distant sound of laughter resonated through the packhouse, harsh and vicious. He could hear the voices from here: Jake, Connor, and the rest of the group that had made his life a living nightmare since he was a boy. Their scoffs and sneers, however, remained in his ears, memories he could not forget.

"Scentless freak," they'd exclaimed, throwing him into the dust. "What sort of wolf are you, besides?"

However, it wasn't just them. The rejection went deeper. His father, formerly a proud Gamma, had looked upon Caleb as if he were a blemish on his own family's reputation. "Why couldn't you be more potent?" he yelled. "Why couldn't you be regular?"

Caleb gritted his teeth against the memories while blinking away the sting of tears. He would not cry. Now, not anymore. Tonight, he shifted, leaving all of it behind—the derision, the pain, the infinite sense of being less. He needs to.

The door creaked as he stood, his rucksack draped over one shoulder. He froze, his heart pounding terribly in his chest. Every sound in the packhouse seemed exaggerated, from the distant clatter of plates to the occasional burst of laughing. He waited, breath held, until the hallway was silence again. He then cracked open the door and entered the dim hall.

The hallway extended ahead of him, lined with doorways that concealed napping wolves or, worse, wolves who might still be conscious. Caleb's pulse quickened as he moved nearer, his sneakers scarcely making a sound on the worn timber ground. The faint sweet fragrance of timber smoke and moist fur hung in the air, but for Caleb, it was nothing more than an empty reminder of what he was missing. A wolf's scent was thought to be their identification and power. His lack of one had turned him into an outcast from the day he was born.

He climbed the stairs, his stomach twisting. With one squeak from the antique planks, he'd be stuck. His father's voice lingered in his thoughts, harsh and unforgiving: "If you're not strong enough to belong here, leave. But don't expect to live on available."

Caleb shook off the platitudes and placed his foot on the first step. He proceeded slowly and cautiously, taking each step deliberately and precisely. The packhouse appeared to hold its breath around him, as if knowing of his intentions.

Midway down, the sound of voices stopped him cold. Two individuals appeared at the foot of the stairs, their shadows extending up the partitions. Caleb's heart raced to his throat as he pressed against the banister, his pulse ringing in his ears.

"Did you hear something?" one of them said. It transformed into Connor, his voice harsh and suspicious.

"Nah," Jake said replied. "It's probably just the wind. Come on, let's grab another drink.

Their laughing faded as they disappeared into the kitchen, and Caleb exhaled a hesitant breath. He hesitated for another moment before taking the previous few paces, his legs trembling. When he reached the ground floor, he rushed in the direction of the next door, his movements swift and silent.

As he stepped out of the door, the bloodless nighttime air slapped him hard. The woods loomed ahead, dark and foreboding, but it was his most immediate threat. He tightened his jacket over himself before plunging into the forest, the weight of thepack pressing into his shoulders.

Every step felt like freedom, but also risk. The Moonshadow pack's area spanned miles, and the wolves patrolled it frequently. If he becomes stuck, there may be no mercy. Caleb pushed forward, his breath coming in rapid rushes. The shrubs pressed in on him, their branches grasping at his clothes like skeletal palms.

He'd been planning his escape for months, memorizing patrol schedules and plotting the safest route. However, preparations meant nothing if concern overcame him now. His wolf twitched uneasily inside him, a faint presence that he'd learned to ignore over the years. It had been quieter with each rejection and insult, until it was nothing more than a shell of what it once had been.

The sound of a howl pierced the night, stopping Caleb in his tracks. It became too near. His blood went to cold as he realized they had discovered his absence. Panic tugged at him, but he forced himself to keep running, his legs burning as he ran through the bush. The shouts became louder, and others joined in, creating a refrain of hatred and fury that seemed to shake the floor.

He slipped over a root and crashed to the ground. An anguish raced through his knee, yet he let out a yelp and scrambled to his toes. There has been no time to prepare, no time to speculate. Thepack began to approach, and if they got him, there would be no escape.

As he ran, his thoughts became disorganized. Is this an error? Had he underestimated their ability, their will to keep him under their thumb? The forest appeared boundless, with the plants going on forever, yet he knew there was a segment. He simply had to discover it.

The sound of footsteps behind him sent a shock through his body. He looked over his shoulder and noticed shadows moving through the trees with alarming speed. His lungs hurt, his legs screamed in pain, but he pressed on, propelled by a strong need to be free.

Suddenly, the floor underneath him vanished. Caleb let out a shocked shout as he went down a steep incline, branches cutting at his skin. He landed hard at the lowest point, knocking the air from his lungs. For a minute, he lay there, disoriented and wheezing, his eyesight blurred.

The sound of footsteps overhead brought him back down to reality. He sprang to his feet, disregarding the anguish that ran through his body, and plunged straight into a shallow gully. The barriers rose excessively on both sides, offering a sliver of shelter. He crushed himself against the cold stone, his heart pounding in his chest.

His pursuers' voices became louder and more angry. Caleb clenched his hands, the nails piercing into his arms. He could not let them find him. Not now. No more while he is so close.

"Spread out," one of them exclaimed. "He's right here somewhere."

Caleb held his breath, shivering as the footsteps approached. A darkness stretched across the ravine, and he squeezed himself closer to the rock, ready to disappear. The seconds stretched into forever, each one heavier than the last.

The footsteps began to vanish almost as quickly as they had arrived. Caleb waited, his breath caught in his throat, till the woods went silent again. Only then did he allow himself to move, his limbs rigid and unresponsive. He had to keep going. The edge of the territory couldn't be far away.

As he emerged from the ravine, he heard the faint sound of running water. Desire blazed in his chest, a fragile element that he urgently clutched to. He followed the sound, his movements brief but effective, until he reached a little creek. The sight of it filled him with relief and urgency. The water could help hide his powerful scent—what little there was, to begin with.

Caleb waded into the brook, the cold water cutting his flesh. He moved upstream, taking precise and calculated steps. The current day tugged at him, but he drove forward, motivated by the faint prospect of independence.

The sound of screams in the distance motivated him. He did not appear to have a lower back. He could not. All that mattered was to put as much distance between himself and the pack that had tortured him for so many years.