Huff… huff… huff…
The ragged sounds tore from Damian Grant's throat, each breath shallower than the last, wet with blood and the metallic tang of impending death. Cool grass pressed against his back, his entire body drowned in the pool of his own blood.
All around him lay the broken bodies of his pack, wolves and men alike, His allies. His family. His responsibility. They were all dead, he had led them all to their deaths.
A low, involuntary whine escaped him as he tried to move, but his limbs refused. Silver-tipped arrows protruded from his chest and flank, making every attempt to move even a muscle more torturous than anything he'd ever experienced.
His enemies had come prepared. They had come to end the line of the Alpha King, and they had succeeded.
Damian's vision tunneled. He could feel life slowly leaving his body. This was the end for him, and he knew that when his life began to flash through his eyes.
He had fought. Gods, he had fought. He had been fighting right from the very second he gained consciousness. All his life he had been fighting, and sometimes he wondered if this was really the way to live.
He didn't have a family, they had been killed by the same rival pack that left him here for death. He had thought being an Alpha meant living the best life, but looking back now, he's done nothing but live a miserable and sad life. He was always at the front lines, risking his life for his subjects anytime he could. It had been his responsibility, and he didn't regret fighting for his people one bit.
They loved him, they trusted him, his protection was really all he had to offer them. But even that he had failed to do.
He tried to move once more, but this time he didn't even feel pain, he felt nothing. His slowing heart thudded once, twice, then stuttered. This was it, the end for Damian Grant.
His vision finally went blank, but his heart pumped just enough to give him the chance of a final thought. If ever he got reborn somewhere, he wished to be ordinary. To be the one being protected, the one who didn't have to worry about wars and enemy packs. Yes, he'd like that….a normal ordinary life.
*****
A sharp, stinging pain yanked Damian back from the darkness, only this time it wasn't from the arrows that had killed him seconds ago. His eyes snapped open to a harsh fluorescent glow overhead, reflecting off cracked white tiles. Water surrounded him, lukewarm and pink, the air thick with the smell of blood.
He was submerged to his waist in a bathtub.
Panic surged through him, foreign and frantic. This wasn't his body. His hands were slender and pale. His body felt light, felt human, and every bit of it trembled just from lifting his hands from the water. Deep vertical gashes marred both wrists, still oozing steadily, the edges already turning white from soaking.
He couldn't hear his wolf, he couldn't even heal this meager injury. All he had was an extremely weak body, and a heartbeat so loud it threatened to deafen him.
Then memories that weren't his flooded in without warning; a school hallway echoing with laughter that turned cruel, whispered slurs hissed behind lockers, a phone screen filled with hateful messages. A boy named Damian Grant, eighteen, quiet, openly gay, and utterly alone, had sat in this very tub hours ago and decided the world would be better without him.
And now he was here. Reborn. Reincarnated into the exact kind of fragile, ordinary life he'd wished for in his dying breath. The irony tasted like bile, this wasn't exactly what he had wanted. But before he had the chance to explain, another wave of dizziness crashed over him, stronger this time. The bathroom tilted. Blood loss. He had minutes, maybe less. Old Alpha instincts roared at him to survive.
He tried to stand. Water sloshed, pink rivulets running down his legs. His arms shook as he gripped the porcelain edge, but the body was too weak. His knees buckled. He slipped, head cracking against the tub's rim as he collapsed in a heap on the cold tile floor.
*****
The next time Damian woke up, he was lying on a hospital bed. An IV line tugged at the crook of his elbow, and his wrists were wrapped in thick white bandages.
A soft sob pulled his gaze sideways.
A woman sat in the chair beside the bed, she looked to be in her mid-forties, her eyes red and swollen from crying. She wore a rumpled sweater and clutched a crumpled tissue like a lifeline. When she saw his eyes open, she gasped and leaned forward, fresh tears spilling over.
"Damian… oh God, baby, you're awake."
Her voice cracked. She reached out, hesitant, then gently took his bandaged hand in both of hers.
"I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I'm so sorry I didn't see how much you were hurting—" Her words tumbled out in a rush, choked with guilt and relief. She couldn't finish. She pressed his hand to her cheek, shoulders shaking.
Damian stared at her, the boy's memories slotting into place like puzzle pieces. This was Laura Grant, single mother, night-shift nurse, the only person who had ever fought for the boy whose body he now inhabited. She'd loved him fiercely, even when he'd stopped believing anyone could.
And now she was crying over him.
He felt something ache in him, it wasn't anything like the feelings he was used to. These were new to him, and he had no idea how to react to them.
He didn't know what to say. His throat felt raw, dry. But when Laura leaned in and carefully wrapped her arms around him, mindful of the IV and bandages, he didn't pull away.
"Mom?" He finally said, his voice unfamiliar to him now.
"I'm here baby, I'm not leaving again, I promise." Laura replied, tightening her embrace around him. Damian remained still, tears gathering in his eyes without his consent. Then it spilled, hot tears he didn't know he could shed. He wasn't an Alpha anymore. This body, this boy, his emotions and feelings were different, complex, and nothing like he was used to.
But he had wished for this. And although there were no enemy packs here, Damian knew it wouldn't be an easy ride, especially in this new body of his.