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Chapter Seventy One
Alaya's POV
I woke on the soft, mossy mound Henry left me on. The iron tang of blood still rested on my tongue. The horrors of the night came flooding back. The desperate pleas of women and children begging for their lives flooded my mind. It wasn't supposed to be like that. They were supposed to worship me for rescuing them from the moronic leadership of Ralph and his insipid son. The only ones supposed to die were Ralph and Casper and their soldiers.
Oh Goddess, the Princess. She was a newborn, only a few days old and innocent.
Fat, heavy tears rolled down my cheeks. I wanted power, I wanted revenge for losing Fyre. I wanted people to cower in my shadow. I didn't want terror and massacre.
"Hmm," Obsidian murmured as she woke from her slumber. "Last night was the best night of my life," she grinned. "The screams, the terror and the carnage wasn't it just amazing?"
"You're insane," I snapped. "You're sick.
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I gazed into the cracked mirror, pursing my lips. It didn't matter that it was cracked right down the middle. There wasn't much to look at anyway. I wasn't ugly just plain. Plain, unnoticed and unwanted. "Runt," the Luna's piercing shriek split the crisp morning air. "Runt," she screeched louder. Runt. I wasn't worthy of a name. I yanked my limp, mousy hair into a messy top knot and dragged my aching body from the floor. The future Alpha turns 18 in three days. The celebration started two days ago and I was the one who had to do all the cooking and cleaning and decorating. I attended to the pack's every need. It's how I earned my keep. I guess I should be grateful. Some rogue and lost wolves are abused or killed by the pack who finds them. I'm ignored when I'm not needed. Unless they want something I don't exist. "RUNT," the Luna barked.
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