A slave collar was clamped around his throat.​

The delicate threads of metal, a combination of silver and gold, marked him as a slave to the shifter community. Welts beaded on his skin where the silver encircled his neck, and Raven couldn’t prevent her lips from curling in disgust.​

She understood the aching need to belong, but she couldn’t condone the process. How could a person permit another to use them just to earn a place in the pack?​

“Why do you do it?” The question slipped out without thinking of the consequences.​

No retaliation came.​

More surprising, he didn’t appear angered at her question. Pack always held their business close to their chest. Unless you were a fur-and-claw-carrying member of the club, you didn’t need to know.​

A sad look passed over the boy’s face. “The collar protects me more than if I remained rogue. Without it, I’d be bottom to everyone. If I’m accepted into a pack, they’ll protect me.”​

“Unless they kill you first.” Rogues don’t last long past their prime out in the open.​

The lean man who stood so proudly before her didn’t look to be the threatening monster everyone claimed about rogues, the reason for their unspoken, kill-first law for unregistered rogues.​

He shrugged. “Those are the rules. Unless you’re born into the pack or challenge and kill for your place, you have to earn your spot.” An uncertain smile tipped the corner of his lips, an expression that didn’t settle easily on his face. An almost indistinguishable sheen of sweat clung to him.​

The people inside were like animals in the way that if they sensed fear or weakness, they singled you out. After years of practice, she made an art out of blending into the background.​

The boy had no such protection.​

“Maybe you’ll find me inside.” Without waiting for her response, he disappeared into the club, leaving the scent of defeat, anxiety, and more damning…hope.​