The mirror reflected a stranger; it showed a completely different witch to that that which had stood before it two years ago. Back then Hannah Bombay had been a slight and very socially awkward thing. But she’d been pretty. Her hair had always been neat and her body unmarked by life and unseen by anyone but herself.

2 years ago it had all changed. As she stood naked in front of the mirror, Hannah stared down at the scar that had ruined her life. Although the bite had healed long ago, it was still mangled, still grotesque and trailing around her left forearm. It was a constant reminder of her new situation, of the new status quo and her position in society.

Her dark eyed gaze now travelled up to her right arm where a thin line, neatly healed told the brief story of the axe being taken to her in werewolf form. It was the first mark left by Ira Almasy’s game. She nearly died. She would have been killed if it weren’t for uncle Lawrence and Johann.

But she’d thanked Lawrence by refusing to heal him. That was the first time she’d felt the burn of silver on werewolf skin. It hadn’t been the last time. Fingers grazed over the lingering, now white marks left by the silver chained bola around her neck a couple of weeks before. Her wrists and ankles still held the marks from the shackles. Silver burns faded over time, barely noticeable unless you knew they were there. But Hannah knew.

Slim fingers trailed down from her neck to the mark now a dark red above her left breast. Despite the original pain and lingering burning sensation, Hannah had been able to speed up the healing with salves and potions. But there was nothing she could do about the lingering mark and the reminder. The ‘A’ was bold, unforgiving.

Next her fingers traced over the extra souvenir left on her inner thigh. It was the same as the other red brand, only this one had been pressed hard, longer. This had been left in anger, irritation. It had taken more care to heal. It filled her with the most anger. It consumed her with the most hatred.

Hannah knew her reality.
She was a toy in a game. Layton had basically told her that before branding her. She was a pet dog to them, an animal to maltreat and punish. Her life meant nothing to them. It was of no consequence. It was therefore easy to underestimate her.
That had been evident when the bitch’s assistant had appeared last week with more tasks for her. He’d acted as if they’d not shared the horrors in the barn. Despite her intense hatred, she’d acted as expected for someone in a desperate position now facing reality, humiliated. She barely made eye contact, nodded silently and looked very sorry for herself.
She’d been the reprimanded mutt who had learned her lesson.

Now, as Hannah Bombay stared at her naked body and thought of the stories it told, she made a decision.

For too long had she been controlled by someone else’s game.

She was going to make the bitch pay.