Disclaimer: I made this fanfic for my own pleasure, my characters belong to me and my story idea but other characters belong to Patricia Briggs as well as most of the world my characters are in. And because I'm not Patricia Briggs her characters will not be so accurate, sorry but only she can perfect her characters.

so yeah short...but then again it's been consistent size to the others i guess haha. Sorry for the slow updates and thanks so much for the reviews ;3; it really helps. I'm working on another fanfic for Mercy Thompson series, this one is actually located in the Tri Cities so Mercy is in it. I hope you look forward to that, cuz i think its taking more of my attention than this...

I'll be working on chapter 4 though :D hopefully longer, maybe, cuz sometimes longer isn't always better ;D thanks for reading~

Bran had never experienced something like this. He felt her emotions, as well as saw through her eyes.

She was younger than she was now, around 6 or 7; she was in background hiding when she would've been playing. The two were arguing, her mother and her uncle. Her mother was beautiful, long silky black hair, porcelain skin, but coal grey eyes. They were fighting about magic, right and wrong.

From what Bran could understand from what he was seeing her uncle was staring to use black magic.

The werewolf alpha, her father, stepped in, siding with her uncle. Her mother looked hurt that her mate would side with a witch using black magic. Her mother turned to her uncle and started yelling, accusing him of doing something horribly wrong. Her father came to her, forcing her to go back to her room. He wasn't gentle, and had left bruises on her arm. He had yelled at her, but he had never harmed her, not enough to leave bruises.

Around age 8, her mother was dead now. Her uncle was scarier than her dad. He gave of a sickening feeling and she didn't ever want to go near him if she didn't have to. Her dad was more violent, doing things that she didn't understand, and wished she still didn't. Fear, sorrow, and confusion, over powered her day to day.

Age 10, her uncle suggested to her father that it would be best to turn her into a werewolf and make her join the pack. He had done it on a full moon, and he hadn't been careful. She had actually thought she was about to die. After the change she found her telepathic powers to be limited, but still accessible. She would only use them with neighborhood pets, before, her only friends.

Now she had a wolf, and she was the kindest, bestest friend she could have. She was gentle and protected her whenever her uncle or father decided she needed to be beaten down.

Age 12, she knew it was wrong what was happening to her, and now to other wolves in the pack. She couldn't do anything though; her wolf couldn't protect their minds. She also knew that her father was only a puppet to her uncle. It helped sometimes, but others it made her sick. She hated them both. Hated them so much, that sometimes she couldn't even feel fear.

Age 15, it was before Bran's appearance, early in the morning. Her third week being locked up. Her wolf was trying to warn her, but she wasn't paying attention, she was giving up. She started to lose feelings, a numbness slowly taking over pushing the wolf aside. It was taking it's time though, but each passing second it grew stronger locking away her heart. She accept it, as she had given up, there was no point to life if she didn't have hope.

The bolts on the door were coming undone. It was time. Who would it be, the man that claimed to be her father or the puppeteer?

Bran was suddenly shut out. He blinked in surprised, staring down at Libby. She was drenched in sweat, she stank of fear, and her chest heaved as if she had just run several miles. She was staring at Bran with molten yellow eyes.

"That is a memory that you can guess," She growled, Bran cocked his head, listening as it was the wolf. "You have seen enough, more than enough."

Bran nodded his head, "Yes, rest, heal, I will not ask anymore for now." Libby lower her gaze, bowing her head as best she could to show respect.

Bran left the room, realizing he was upset. Her torture was something that could've been avoided. If he had paid more attention… no he couldn't blame himself, though it was hard not to. He sighed once he had closed the door behind him. Samuel was waiting at the end of the hall for him. They were currently using the house that had belonged the second in command of the pack. He was dead now.

"Da?" Samuel stared at Bran with concerned eyes.

"Witches are never good news." He stated heading into the media room of the house. He would think in there, come up with a plan.

"Should we get Charles and Anna in on this?" Samuel asked following him into the room, but he didn't sit down when Bran flopped down on the sofa.

"Maybe, let me think." Bran said with the wave of his hand.

Samuel shrugged retreating into the kitchen. Everything was well stocked, socked enough to feed about three hungry werewolves maybe four.