Wolfless, Unbroken Abandoned novel Chapter 5

Another woman ran forward, more curious than afraid. She crouched, checking for breath.

“Wait,” she said after a moment, pressing two fingers against Georgia’s lips. “She’s still breathing. Barely. Get the guards.”

Georgia lived.

But survival was no mercy.

Because more pain, more humiliation, more madness lay ahead. And piece by piece, it would destroy the girl who once believed in love, justice, and truth.

Three years had passed, and the woman stumbling along the cracked sidewalk looked nothing like the person she once was. Her frame had grown frail, little more than skin and bone beneath her oversized coat, and her gait wavered as though the pavement might betray her at any moment. She clutched a torn plastic bag that crinkled with every step. Inside it a handful of crumpled bills and a dog–eared identification card–everything she owned, everything she had left.

Her complexion was ashen, bruises blossoming beneath her skin like fading violets, and a jagged scar–about three centimeters long–cut across her face, a permanent reminder of pain endured and never quite healed.

Three years. It was a lifetime. Everything had changed.

A bitter smile touched Georgia’s chapped lips, the gesture fleeting and cynical. Of course things had changed. It wasn’t just the world beyond the werewolf prison that had shifted. She had changed too–profoundly, irreversibly.

She didn’t know where to go. There was no pack waiting for her, no tether back to human society. Her name meant nothing now. She was a rogue, a stray stripped of identity, and far too weak to survive among others like her. Even the desperate turned their backs on someone like Georgia.

Then she noticed it–her dull eyes catching on the brightly colored flyer taped to the dusty glass window of a nearby storefront. A help–wanted sign, the words bold and oddly hopeful against the bleakness of her surroundings.

She moved closer, standing before the paper like it might hold an answer to something deeper. Her gaze hovered over a few lines, skipping past meaningless promises until it landed on the only words that mattered: “Cleaners wanted. Accommodation and lunch provided.”

Her jaw tightened, and with a breath so shallow it barely moved her chest, she pushed through the door of the place called Vetro.

A blast of cold air from the central air conditioning hit her immediately, seeping through her threadbare clothes and crawling across her skin. She shivered.

*Name,” barked a voice from behind a sleek counter.

A woman sat there–impatient, manicured, expensive. She didn’t look up, her pen poised above a form waiting to dismiss.

“Georgia, she rasped, her voice little more than gravel dragged across concrete. It was rough, jarring. The sound of it made. the woman glance up sharply, startled. Her elegant fingers almost dropped the pen,

“What the hell happened to your voice?” the woman asked, her tone more accusatory than curious.

Georgia knew better than to react. Three years in that place had taught her how to keep her head down, how to swallow pain and pride alike. She answered evenly, almost flatly, “Smoke damage.”

That caught the woman’s attention. Her expression shifted, eyes narrowing as she studied Georgia more closely. “You rhean… from a fire?”

Georgia nodded once, her eyes falling. “Yes. A fire.”

But she didn’t say the rest: that the fire had been deliberate, lit by someone who wanted her destroyed.

The woman tilted her head, as though weighing whether it was worth caring. Deciding it wasn’t, she gave a dismissive sniff, “Well, that’s unfortunate. Vetro isn’t just some dive bar. Our clientele expects a certain standard”

The woman stood up abruptly and made a shooing motion. “Forget it. You’re not even fit to carry drinks. We need someone with presence. You’re not qualified.”

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