It all began. Once upon a time.

Too cliche? I agree...but it was.

Distant. Sudden. Ferocious. I was not prepared, no, I would never be prepared. Never was I given the proper strategies needed for what was to come on that fateful night.

I knew I was to be married off, it was naturally in my blood. As it was customary for all who would reach my age to find a mate. I just never dreamed it would creep up that soon in my young life.

Feral.

That is the word that was used to describe him.

Delicate.

That was my nickname, "The Flower of the Pack". Dainty, small, slender, my clothing hung off of my sides. I never cared. All I was ever taught was to bake bread and take care of children. Now I would be taught to submit. They knew I would never have a problem with that. I picked flowers on my spare time, sang with the birds, splashed in the streams. To submit to a barbarian?

It terrified me.

I was told of the stories of the women elders in the pack on their wedding night. Some had nightmarish stories that made me tremble, then the shaman would make them hush, knowing it might make one of us rebel. That was always a fear. A rebel of the pack.

But back to my story, I was not ready. I wanted to take my proper place, do what was expected of me, yet, I feared. I feared for the stains it may leave. A mark on not just the sheets, but my heart. I had never even met the one I was to be wed to. Only heard of stories.

Feral.

A true lone wolf of his pack, one they were bringing into our tribe in order to bring balance. They saw me as a possible partner who might tame the feral.

I was not ready.

The shaman brushed a reddish colored root over my forehead. I closed my eyes, sitting on my knees, I hunched my back to bend down my head. The shaman spoke sternly.

"Head up. He will never accept you like this."

I quickly changed my posture, fearing for punishment.

I wasn't ready.

Today she would teach me a technique customary for the young bride to use on her wedding night. She told me that if I could please him using this technique, that I might be able to keep him as my own, and he would have no need to wonder. Which I didn't seem to mind the idea of now. But I was trying to follow my path. I inhaled the smell of incense burning. It was comforting.

The shaman took my hands, blew on them before raising them to the sky. She murmured a few words and then drew my hands back down. She then got up, motioning for me to follow her.

I got up, legs a little shaky, that wasn't like me.

She beckoned for me to the bed. I swallowed, wondering what she would be teaching me.

"You know of, neema talla?" She asked.

I nodded, the word meant "like a dog" in our language. She closed her eyes.

"It is something you must master to be one with your husband. He will expect it of you. You must not dissapoint." She pointed to the floor. I looked to where her finger gestured to, a rug right before the bed. It looked plush, made of furs much like everything else we wore or adorned our tents with.

"Get on the floor." She demanded, softly.

"Your husband will not ask so nicely." She said this gently.

I did as she said to, knuckles gripping the rug, feeling the softness. She went to my side, and pressed on my back.

"Back down, don't arch it, it makes you tense. More pain." She said. I obeyed. A few more pokes from her, and she nodded in approval.

"Good, good. That will do. For now, practice this position, then Rowan will be pleased." She said.

"Who's Rowan?" I asked, my voice low.

"It is your mate." She explained. My eyes widened. Rowan. It sounded strong.

"Now, rest, tomorrow is your big day." She left the room.

My heart beat fast in my chest. Tomorrow? So soon? Nobody told me. I lay in bed with my mind racing. There would be no sleep tonight.