Amara The Cursed Blood

AMARA could smell the scent of her blood. She gazed around the refined baroque-Esque place of a high-ranked werewolf, hoping to see familiar eyes that she could ask for help. The house was spacious and cold, and there was a lounge where the owner usually accepts her guests. It was the same place where she was being tortured in pain—her eyes are the only part of her body that was still intact.

"Wake up, disgusting half-blood!”

Surrounded by loud screeching voices, she felt a solid blow to her stomach. She groaned in pain, choking up a bit of blood at the same time. All she could do was embrace herself, holding into her fractured arms while laying on the cold ceramic floor. She could not get up. Her body felt so numb. She was too weak to move, and she realized that it was merely impossible to protect herself anymore because of the excruciating pain all over her body caused by the group of full-blooded werewolves who jumped on her out of egoistic purpose and pleasure.

It was one of the usual things that kept happening throughout her life with the Crimson moon pack. These full-blooded werewolves were attacking her anytime they wanted.

As a part of Omega—who were treated as slaves all the time—, Amara became the most unfortunate creature in their territory, not only because her father was born as an Omega, but also her mother was a mere human, and so, this made her a half-human and a half-werewolf. The higher ranks in their community were despising this and thus, considering it a taboo.

The lightning struck out of the dark sky, followed by heavy rain. Amara heard them laughing till they snorted. Those groups who came from higher ranks had been bullying her for years already. Gasping for thin air, she knew she was already out of breath and could no longer scream. Her eyes were shut, and she felt that anytime soon, she could be dead.

Amara ought to take revenge. Though, she knew she was weak enough to throw a jab. Her consciousness was slowly drifting away. Her visions were gently going to a long dark tunnel as the memories flashed before her eyes.

She saw a small kid. She realized that it was her; that small suburban girl wasn't born and raised to fight. Her old man, who seemed to be the kindest creature she ever knew, taught her that their strength shouldn't be used to harm someone and to take vengeance. She was taught that a werewolf's power was a gift from the Moon Goddess. Amara knew that it is wicked to seek revenge, but deep down in her heart, there was a small voice declaring she wanted to fight. Amara's eyes opened as the loud rumble of the thunder echoed in the darkroom.

“Why don't you stand up and entertain us?” She quickly recognized Sierra's grating voice, one of the higher ranks' daughter and the keeper of the place, who kept bullying her ever since she was a child.

She remembered her dark past wherein delivering blankets caused her a lifetime trauma when she was a child. Her old man worked as a slave in the pack house and asked her to provide the new blankets for the full blood. She was invited to come and play at Sierra's place and then, later on, uncovered the start of her brutal nightmare.

“What do you want from me?” She couldn't even breathe properly because of the blood flowing in her nose. Her rib cage was broken, her face was pale, her lips were covered with blood. However, she was determined not to die and still hold on for her dear life.

“Oh, no! We're just bored,” said Rose—daughter of the most praised warrior, and then laughed devilishly. “Don't you have a little strength to fight back? It's going to be a good match if you just knew how to fight!”

“She's a weakling. What can you expect from a cursed child who didn't get any of those magnified senses from our goddess?” Sierra commented.

She felt a sting of pain inside her chest. These words were like knives that were slowly cutting her through the bones.

Amara thought she had accepted it a long time ago, that it wasn’t a big deal if she wouldn't get those enhanced abilities and wouldn't shift to a wolf at all... but maybe she was wrong, that deep down in her heart she wanted to shift... and these thoughts will forever haunt her of wanting to become one. Even if it was too late to shift, this would be her only chance to escape in hell, to prove to them that she wasn’t cursed.

Girls her age had experienced shifting into their wolves as soon as they turned thirteen. Even some of the half-bloods in the Omega had shifted for the first time around the same ages, but that opportunity didn't happen to her. Werewolves came up with a reason why she never shifted, and that's because she was a cursed child.

And perhaps she certainly was...

“A cursed child, indeed!”

“Poor, Argus. Your stupid father made a wrong move, half-blood. He should've stayed at home instead of banging a low-life human out there. If only he used his head at least once, you shouldn't be suffering right now! You should've not been born anyway!”

“Don't you ever insult my father—” Amara repeatedly groaned when she felt another kick on her spine.

She coughed once again and tasted her blood coming out of her mouth. Another foot stepped on her face that made her vision more blurry.

"And don't you ever talk back!" Sierra shouted at her as she stepped onto her face firmly, making her feel a lot more pain in her head. They continued to beat her up with no mercy.

She breathed heavily and tried to move her hand. She was about to hold Sierra's foot so she could somehow break it when she heard the door open.

‘I must fight back’, she told herself. But she was already beaten up, almost unconscious that she could not hold on to her foot. Klaud gave Sierra her favorite poisonous spiked club, ready to hit her with a final blow.

But then a violent howling along with heavy winds from the thunderstorm broke in throughout the windows that shattered the glasses into pieces. The intense cold wind blew out the candles, turning the lounge to be completely dark. Amara was crying for help until some heavy footsteps were heard, which she knew were familiar.

The room was lighted as someone entered the room with a lamp. His eyes were blue as ice. He was tall, sculpted with broad shoulders. He then put down the lamp and lit up his cigar as he smoked in the room and proceeded with a long sigh.

“Would you want me to kill all of you?” he asked warily.

“Killian?” Klaud, who also harmed Amara, had spoken in sudden disbelief.

“I knew it!” Killian, one of the top warrior wolves, yelled.