The pack could have gone wild, loosed in these lands as they had been, a world beyond the world they knew, where they were born. And they would have, if she hadn’t had the voice in her head. The voice wasn’t strong. She didn’t have many words. But she could always speak a little, and she’d already known the basic rights and wrongs, enough so that she’d held their wildness in check. She made sure that other creatures with voices—hare, squirrel, deer—did not become prey unless they were old or infirm, those voices of theirs calling to predators for release from their ailing prisons of flesh.

The pack hadn’t understood—except for her own offspring, they still didn’t—but they obeyed her. Her leadership carried over from the old world, from the fighting ring where her sire and dame had fallen. Where the rest of her litter had died, too—brothers and sisters sacrificed for the amusement of men.

She knew in her old world that there were bonds between some men and dogs, though it wasn’t something with which she’d had any lasting experience. She could remember the Boy when she was a pup, the Boy who’d loved her and called her Honey. But her time with the Boy was short. She was soon taken from him by the Man, beaten and made to fight in the ring. Tooth and claw and blood. Always the blood.

She was undefeated, but the victories were hollow. They meant nothing to her except for how they left her scarred, especially around her neck and chest. Her victories pleased the Man, but why should she care? Her only reward was a cuff on the head, the cage in which she was transported, and the chain that held her in the yard, winter and summer, storm or shine.

The Man was careful with her. He had a thing that spat pain to keep her in check—a small black box he could hold in his hand. When he touched it to her, her muscles jumped and went slack and her mind went spinning, spinning . . .

She had no interest in pleasing him. Their bond was formed of hate and pain. She was only a tool to him, nothing more, while he . . . he was the chief monster in a world of monsters.

She had sneered at the dogs who cozied up to men, who thought they could be a part of men’s lives—the part that held comfort and joy and contentment. When the Boy was gone, she understood that dogs and men could only be enemies. The bond was a lie. A hateful lie to make her stare at the moon and pine for what reason told her was impossible.