Claws: A Rogue Werewolf story

Becca Williams:

I was a child again seated on a velvet red upholstered chair in a room with oak walls. The room was surrounded in red and gold velvet tapestries lining the tops of the windows and gold carved statues of wolves. My little fingers wandered across the face of the wolf statue, touching its golden snout, feeling the cold metal of the statue against my fingertips.

Sunlight casted a shadow over the room, exposing a desk piled high with paperwork, and wood shelves full of leather bound books.

“Becca!” a deep voice sounded.

I instantly turned to meet the gaze of the person who it belonged to. A tall man with tanned slightly wrinkled skin and bright ocean blue colored eyes. His lips creased when he looked at me, a smile threatening to break free, even though he was attempting to remain serious in the given moment.

“What did I say about touching our ancient artifacts?” He questioned.

I found myself sinking further in my seat. I knew the man was angry I was touching the statue, especially so carelessly. I should’ve been more careful with it, I know it’s sacred and can easily fall off the table and dent.

I nodded my head in understanding.

His voice softened as he neared me, the tension in his face slightly releasing. He pressed his large body into the seat across from me.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” he consoled me. He pressed a kiss onto the top of my head and I brightened with a smile.

Loud clamoring and frantic footsteps sounded from behind the doorway.

I turned to meet the man’s gaze and his eyes widened as he froze in place as if he was silently being alerted of something. His gaze remained transfixed on the bookshelf ahead, as if he was staring into space even though nothing was in front of him.

He turned on his feet quickly, rushing towards the mahogany desk drawers. He rummaged through them at an all time high pace.

He quickly removed his hand from the desk drawers. He clutched a bag in his hand tightly before he rushed back towards me. The brown sack was opened quickly, he swiped his fingertips through the bag’s contents before sprinkling the unknown substance along the top of my hair then over the rest of my clothing before wrapping the satchel in my hands and pressing my hand within his.

“Take this,” he said in a hurry, pushing me to my feet then scrambling us towards the door.

He lifted his nose to the air to scent the foreign smell. I smelled it, too.

He lifted me into his arms and rushed us over to the bookshelf. “It’s okay, honey,” he whispered in a low voice.

I knew it wouldn’t be, but for some reason I believed him.

One click of the bookshelf and a secret passageway entrance opened and he placed me onto my feet.

“I love you, sweetheart. Stay quiet. Stay hidden. Daddy loves you, Becca.”

“But daddy,” I whispered, my voice cracking and tears forming along my eyes.

I knew whatever was happening would ruin my life. I knew that my father would be in trouble. I knew by the echoed screams that I wouldn’t see him again.

“Please listen to daddy, Becca,” he whispered before the door closed and darkness surrounded me.

The last thing I saw was the look of forlorn sadness in his eyes— and beneath the sadness also lived fear.

I was scared too for what lay ahead, but I remembered his words—they replayed in my head as I sat silently in the darkness, clutching a small sack in my hand tightly. I love you sweetheart. Stay quiet. Stay hidden. Daddy loves you, Becca.

I felt fear gripping me, I heard the blood curdling screams, I smelled fire burning around me.

It felt real.

That was until I woke up.

It’s like that more nights than not—about two nights out of the week I suffer from the same constant dream—or more like a nightmare in this case.

I’m five years old in an elegant room surrounded by a man who calls himself my father. Everything is pleasant until the man goes silent and blankly stares ahead at nothing, almost as if he’s speaking to voices inside his head, and he learns of trouble ahead. Then he sprinkles dust, let’s call it fairy dust since that’s how unrealistic it sounds and tells me to hide and stay quiet. He tells me that he loves me and that everything will be alright. I’m surrounded by darkness as I sit quietly in a hidden compartment of a room while screams surround me. I can tell that a battle is taking place, I can smell fire burning, I can hear the torment of people suffering. And then I wake up.

The images fade from my mind and I’m left second guessing the dream and wondering if it’s an actual reality.

I mean—it feels so…so real. It feels as if it’s a part of my past and a memory I’ve chosen to forget.

The memory feels familiar. The man in the memory feels oddly familiar, too.

I even see his blue eyes in mine as I stare back at myself in the mirror.

I begin to wonder if it’s not just a nightmare but an actual memory?

I’ve tortured myself with the thought too often and too frequently at that—there’s no telling if it’s an actual memory or if it’s just a recurring nightmare from my unknown past probably filled with a load of trauma.

Then my eyes flutter open and I’m left with just memories of a dream and with questions that I’ll never be able to truly find answers for.

I sound crazy, don’t I? I probably sound certifiable.

It’s actually kind of funny. I’ve grown to realize that this is how I probably imagined my life to be—even if it does end up turning into a nightmare.

I wanted to imagine that I have a father who cares about me enough to protect me from evil and hide me away from anyone who may hurt me. I wanted to imagine that I lived in a palace surrounded by riches and luxuries. I wanted to imagine that before my life turned out so shitty, it was good–really really good.

But I know it’s just an illusion.

I’d give anything not to be in the position that I am now.

I’m twenty years old and an orphan. But I guess when you’re past adulthood you’re not really considered an orphan anymore, right? So I guess I’m just twenty years old and used to be an orphan.

I heaved out a breath as I tossed over to the side and noticed the sun brightly streaming through the cracks of the curtains I had left open last night.

I basically came home and passed out right after work. My feet were killing me, and so was my head, and so was my stomach. I hadn’t even thought of eating last night after work, and now I was beyond starving. My stomach loudly growling had done as much as tell me so.

There’s not much to show for my life.

I forgot to mention a lot—and I did it purposefully because frankly, I’m ashamed but I guess shame is just a part of living and being well—sort of human.

I’m twenty years old and an orphaned werewolf.

But there’s more to my story than just that.

I’m twenty years old, a werewolf, who was previously an orphan who now happens to be a stripper.

And I left out my most distinguishing quality: I’m a rogue.

Rogue werewolves are well—-it’s not good to be a rogue werewolf let me start off by saying that.

Rogue werewolves are looked down upon. They’re lower than low in the werewolf realm.

Werewolves are creatures that roam in packs, there is a hierarchy to our species. A hierarchy obviously that I’m a part of but at the lowest level.

Since I was orphaned when I was a child at five years old, I was forced into a werewolf orphanage. Some of the orphans got lucky, they became household staff at pack homes but then there’s ones like me, who aren’t selected for even the lowest of roles and just remain straight rogues.

I guess I was sort of glad I didn’t end up as some Alpha’s maid or better yet used for breeding or just fucking.

Being a rogue, especially being a rogue while an adult had its benefits, no one could adopt you and you had freedom to make your own decisions in life.

And that decision happened to be choosing a job to support myself.

Rogues didn’t have many options in the werewolf realm, it was slim pickings. So when I turned seventeen and was officially kicked out of the orphanage, I was presented with a few job choices. 1. Jobs in the human realm—boring but at least no one would judge me there. And 2. Jobs in the werewolf realm i.e. one as a stripper.

I thought about giving up werewolf life for good and just getting a human job then attending a human college and eventually marrying a boring old human man. I thought about it—I really did.

It honestly would’ve been the safest option, the most reasonable one. But there was something about me—-something inside me, including my wolf that convinced me not to.

In reality, I wasn’t ready to give the werewolf life up yet and leave behind the life I’ve known since birth. I was used to werewolves, even if they treated me like I was a second class citizen, it was the life I was born into after all.

And there was also a part of me that wondered if my birth parents were out there somewhere—maybe somewhere far—maybe looking for me even?

I knew that was a fat chance. I figured they gave me up for a reason.

Werewolves were protective creatures especially werewolf mothers, my mother had to have willingly given me up and abandoned me otherwise she’d be searching for me. Unless she died? Fat chance at that, too. The most reasonable answer was that they didn’t want me as their child.

I’ve learned to accept that possibility over the last five years. It’s easier to accept that you were abandoned rather than deny it.

I remember up until I was twelve years old I used to hound the orphanage staff for answers, questions, and do massive amounts of research hoping I’d find my parents even though I couldn’t even remember their faces, their bone structure, their eyes, or even what their names were.

But no one had answers. It was like I was a ghost and so was my family.

Melissa, the head of the orphanage even told me that when I first arrived at the orphanage that I wasn’t sure of my name. Eventually after a few weeks I told her that my name was Becca.

I pressed myself into a seated position on my bed and sighed heavily.

Last night I worked the early shift at the club, but tonight I was marked for closing.

After 3 am, especially at ‘Claws’, where all the strippers were she-wolves, and almost all of the clientele were werewolves, even Alpha’s at times, things always got messy.

3:00 am was the witching hour—or in this case—the werewolf hour.

All that angst, ego, and testosterone in one room surrounded by barely clothed women was always a shit show waiting to happen.

Here’s to another day as a stripper.

Hey, at least it pays the bills.