The Wolf Took Me

CHAPTER 1.1

Even fairy tales with happy endings are based on nightmares that were twisted into more pleasant versions to amuse kids and trick them into believing lies. The whole purpose of fairy tales was to instill irrational expectations in the minds of young girls. The idea that charming princes actually existed, vanquished evil, swept princesses off their feet, and lived happily ever after in the real world was just... lies.

I should know because I often led a single existence. My life appeared to be living out a fairy tale on the outside, but every day was a nightmare. And things became worse every day, just like a time bomb that was about to go off.

I sat down with a sigh and glanced at the reflection I had changed today, "Mirror, mirror, on my... dresser." I ask, "Who the fuck am I?"

Under layers of today's experimental makeup, the face of a conventional princess peered back at me, a lovely, delicate shell concealing an empty interior. My pale blue eyes were clear with striations of green color. They clashed with my feeble attempt at a dark purple cat eye makeup, which was smudged unevenly in the corners of my eyes. This attempt was a failure, as evidenced by the wrinkles on my nose.

My eyes' color changed. They were usually clear aquamarine in color, but their reflection didn't help me with my query. The only imperfections on my face were a few faint freckles scattered across my pale, almost porcelain-like cheeks.

I looked over the remainder of my body and pursed my plum-colored lips. My limbs and legs were stick-like, my hips and breasts were mediocre, my waist was small, and my light blonde hair was long and straight. If I could have worked and my father had have let me, I would have pursued modelling. But like everything else in my life, he had refused to allow such a luxury.

Every time I caught a glimpse of this princess in the mirror and every time I pretended to have changed my appearance to look like someone else, I loathed the day I was born. I was reminded that I lived while they died every time I looked in the mirror.

the mother. my sibling.

I was informed that my mother's life was documented in our family history books as an extraordinary, alluring, formidable, and powerful lady fighter.

I believe that.

I had no first-hand knowledge. She passed away after my brother and I were born.

During her labor with us, she experienced a brief period of weakness and lost too much blood. Twins, indeed. Our necks were both entwined in the birth cords. My brother was delayed in birth because of problems, but I was born first.

By the end of the day, I had prevailed over him. Never in my life did I not wish that our circumstances had been different. Considering his distant demeanor towards me, I assumed that my father felt the same way.

He might be reminded every day of what our family has lost by the sight of my face.

I just knew my brother by his name, Ash, and that was it. King was the translation. My father had a keen mind and always planned ten steps ahead, so he always knew what he was doing. He appeared to be the CEO of the most illustrious pharmaceutical business in the world. After overseeing every aspect of the business for thirty years, he officially retired from it eight months ago in order to devote more time to "the family business."

Although he and no one else ever disclosed his secret to me, I knew it.

We had two separate realities. One fake universe consisted of surface-level, false projections made for show. The genuine, accurate world was disclosed by the hidden, other world. It was the world my father ruled and shielded from me, in his eyes.

I didn't want anything to do with his world, not mine.

My father never discussed anything with me, but even a moron might have seen the warning flags. He was a mafia boss in his spare time. His pharmacy served as a front for the manufacture of illicit drugs. His pharmaceutical company produced medicines on a different level, not the street-level variety like heroin or cocaine.

Business was booming based on our way of life and the size of his security staff. We lived in a compounded house with tightly guarded security, and my father owned 18 Ashton Martins in addition to other mansions and other properties.

My father required that I practice self-defense every day, and I received my education from private tutors who preferred science topics like chemistry. I wasn't sure what degree of education I had—I had graduated from high school but not from college.

Out of worry for my father, everyone working here was required to adhere to a rigid schedule. They were not allowed to make eye contact with either of us, and all of our "conversations" with him consisted of a whispered or mumbled "yes, Sir."

include my own.

I seemed to have the flawless life of a princess when things were normal. My wardrobe was the size of a typical adolescent bedroom and was loaded with expensive clothing. Our enormous property was situated on meticulously maintained lawns. My bedroom walls were decorated with custom artwork, and my designated "team" included a housekeeper, stylist, private tutors, chef, personal trainer, and twenty-four-hour security guards. My canopy bed was made up with the finest linens.

However, despite all the individuals that came and went throughout my day, I was alone. I had a vanity mirror that gazed back at me in addition to my laptop, which had limited access.

There was no glitz in this life.

I didn't have any friends, saw my father infrequently, and was never allowed to leave the mansion by myself. I was isolated and enmeshed in my own thoughts for the entirety of my personal time. I was given freedom to fill up the huge gaps my father left in my life.

My life had schedules and routines for every day. I got up at six in the morning, went to my personal trainer's, had breakfast, went to my morning lessons, had lunch, went to my afternoon lessons, took self-defense lessons, showered, had dinner, had an hour of "free time," and then finished my shooting lessons before going to bed.

In the sense that I never left the mansion on my own, my time was never truly free. I was permitted to use the library for personal reading purposes, have limited internet access, swim in the pool, practise shooting and explore the estate inside the twelve-foot high perimeter.

Even my nights were exactly the same. I experienced the similar wolf-related dream. A female wolf emerged from the shadows of my subconscious with fur so white that it was practically dazzling.

The dream began similarly; the most stunning, long, lithe wolf arrived slowly at first, its ears lowered, and its eyes darting around before locking gaze with me and sprinting towards me. She came to a standstill six inches away, her ever-raised hair's finer details clearly visible. She slid back into the darkness while tucking her tail and flattening her ears. My name erupted from the shadows just as I thought she had vanished.

'Nova...'

Then I awoke, drenched in perspiration, with a pounding headache, panting more profusely than during my most rigorous workout routine.

Each time.

My mundane daily activities included eating, going to bed while having a wolf dream, homeschooling, working out, and taking shooting lessons. Who among girls in their teens didn't need to deconstruct and reassemble a magazine?

My suspicion that he was a mafia boss was only strengthened by the fact that his home included an active shooter simulator and a shooting range. All of this was done to get me ready to join this secretive, covert underground life.

No matter how I feel about it.

I figured that most people eagerly anticipated reaching 18, becoming of legal age, being freed from parental supervision, and being able to take charge of their own life.

Not me.

My death sentence began on my sixteenth birthday. Nevertheless, one had to be alive in order to pass away. My passing was therefore symbolic.

The only thing my father ever said to me was, "Everything will change." I loathed watching the years pass as I reached my eighteenth birthday and assumed my proper position in my father's mafia. The cocaine cartel is his real family.

They might even name a street for me. Maybe the meaning of my dream was that I ought to play White Wolf. My skin is pasty enough for me to get away with it.

My nurse Kira's mouth tugged to the side at the sight of today's cosmetics trial, "Good morning, Miss Nova."

My brother was meant to be a king and take over the family company, and I was intended to play a supporting role. My name was translated as "princess." When I turned eighteen, in my fantasies, my father set up a marriage for me to settle scores with a rival cartel.

I do not want a life of crime. I'm not something you can trade for something else. I'm not interested in torturing and killing individuals in order to make millions of dollars while dousing them with narcotics.

Through Wattpad stories and YouTube videos, I learned what mafia life entailed; none of it seemed glamorous.

I turned away from her spotless, tapping white shoe and said, "Hi Kira." You object to it?

She spoke in her monotone voice, as usual, and held out a makeup wipe at my face, saying, "Your father would never approve."

I took the cloth with curled, pale fingers, gave my dark purple experimenting and deep contouring lines one more look, and then wiped them away.

In a sequence of clicks, she prepared a tray with three syringes, my daily blood draw, and insulin injections. "How are you feeling today?" she said. I had type I diabetes and was made to eat a healthy diet.

Perhaps my infatuation with chocolate doughnuts made the medication essential.

I know I shouldn't eat them, but I just can't help it. We work together as my covert affair.

I gave the standard monotonous response, "Fine," as expected. My words were meaningless because she kept asking the same questions after me.

Her gaze lowered as she examined the two silver metal rings that encircled my wrists before asking, "And your bracelets?" They were specially constructed to fit at the base of my wrists, and they were two inches broad and half an inch thick. Since I was thirteen, they have been re-fitted every three months as per my father's orders.

My short response, "Fine," was tense, showing that our few interactions had been strained by the inquiry. By using the "bracelets," my father was actually shackling me.

My gaze shifted to the Lykaios label on the syringes as she got closer. Over clear glass, the name of my father's manufacturing company glistened in dark blue. A final name. a name of a family.

What a horrible curse.

"Right or left?"

My left arm was extended, leaving my elbow's interior exposed. The area was covered with tiny scars and lumps that were caused by scar tissue.

A "tight fist."

My hands immediately curled into my palm, and my nails dug into the tender skin. She tied a tight rubber string around my upper arm and bound it above. She drew my wrist closer, rapping the pads of her fingers into my veins as the cable dug into my skin. She used an alcohol pad to clean the area when one burst and throbbed beneath the scar tissue. The smell caused my nose to twitch; it was so familiar that I could sense it while sleeping.

Four vials of blood were carefully drawn out of my vein by her while she grinned. She smoothly dispensed a few drips onto an insulin test sheet before putting the tray aside.

I loosened my fingers and said, "Let go, Nova." "Tape or Band-Aid?"

The Band Aids never stayed in place during my morning workouts. "Tape please." She covered the puncture with a piece of gauze, pressed down firmly, and covered it with tape. But we weren't done yet.

She gave the test strip reading a quick glance and smiled. "Right or left?"

I murmured, "Left."

The daily injections hurt, so I switched sides. I got to my feet and slowly rolled down the top of my trousers, exposing one humiliating flash of skin.

What a shame.

She stroked an alcohol pad down the left side of my tummy, cooling the damp skin two inches from my navel. I scowled at the light brown and green bruises left behind by earlier injections that were visible in the tender area.

After gently pressing the smaller syringe to release the air, Kira softly pinched an inch of my stomach and subcutaneously injected the drug. The bee sting chaser made my nose wrinkle, and my right palm's soft tissue was deeply punctured by my nails.

Last one. Which way should I go?

She must already be aware, right?

I whirled around, turned my back on her, and said, "Left." I then slid my pants down even more. I was now standing there in my pants with my cheek showing to her.

Why am I not trusted to handle this on my own? Ugh.

While tightly holding my skin in her palm, Kira applied a third alcohol pad to the upper quadrant of my left buttock. She quickly inserted the two-inch needle into my gluteal muscle after using a few liquid droplets from the larger syringe to provide the shot.

The initial agony stabbed into my flesh and caused my lips to separate, allowing a quiet gasp to pass between them. I've been doing this every day for the past three years, but I never got used to it. Kira removed the needle, massaged the region with her fingers, then lightly tapped my outer leg.

Once more, how embarrassing.

As I carefully drew up my trousers, paying attention to the painful spots, my cheeks burned.

Unfortunately, other than thinking up more meandering conspiracy ideas about the princess mafia, this medical conversation with Kira was the only thing I had all day. Apart from my professors and personal trainer, Kira was the only person I spoke to every day.

Usually, this marked the conclusion of our fascinating discussions. Not just now, though.

Her grey eyes sparkled as she tapped a fingernail against the empty syringe, "Excellent news, Miss Nova." "Today is the last of these."

I glanced at her and felt the discomfort on my left cheek with one hand. "What?"

Although I'm not a doctor, Type I diabetes doesn't... move on... Has it?

Even though a WebMD search would have most certainly revealed that I had cancer, I made a mental note to double-check this information there later.

She smirked and said, "I'm not supposed to say anything, but your father will explain at dinner tonight." Therefore, keep it a secret.