Jefferson's POV
The first time my father struck me, I had been in my mid-teens. What began as explosive outbursts of uncontrolled rage eventually became a familiar pattern of violence directed solely at me. The initial shock gave way to physical pain, which gradually transformed into something I learned to bear. Over time, my body adapted to the punishment, and I built walls around myself to withstand it.
That was some time before my wolf emerged.
Now, stripped of my wolf's presence, that old and bitter understanding of pain served as my only anchor to reality.
The searing agony in my chest felt unbearable, though I convinced myself I had endured worse suffering before.
Bright fluorescent lights stabbed through my eyelids when I tried to open them, forcing me to squint against the harsh glare. The sharp scent of disinfectant filled my nostrils immediately after, clinical and unmistakable. I recognized my surroundings instantly. A hospital room.
