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Blythe is one of ten young human women forced to enter The Running, a reality TV show in which they are hunted by Shifters. Rumors of what happens to the women are all Blythe has: some are eaten, and some become the monsters’ unwilling mates. Can she fight her way out, or will she be caught and disappear forever?

Age Rating: 18+


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Blythe is one of ten young human women forced to enter The Running, a reality TV show in which they are hunted by Shifters. Rumors of what happens to the women are all Blythe has: some are eaten, and some become the monsters' unwilling mates. Can she fight her way out, or will she be caught and disappear forever?

Age Rating: 18+

Original Author: Hayley Cyrus

To Whom It May Concern:

Congratulations! Your house has been chosen to participate in this year’s Running.

Please send the participant listed below to the arena in one week for preparation and the commencement of the Running.


There, in pristine typeface, was her name: Blythe Becker, smudged only by the tears that had fallen onto the page.

Blythe chewed on her fingernails, a nervous habit, as she passed the letter to her father. He read the text over again. Once, twice, thrice.

Her mother sat at the kitchen table, a raggedy but warm blanket around her shoulders. She watched her husband just as intently as Blythe did.

“Oh, Blythe…” he mourned, the letter clutched in his calloused fingers.

The sorrow in his voice sent Blythe’s vision blurry with tears, and she rushed into her father’s embrace, clinging tightly.

For all she knew, this could be the last time he could hold her without the strain of governmental supervision.

“I don’t want to go,” she wept, screwing her green eyes shut and letting the tears stream down her face.

“There must be something we can do,” her mother croaked. “Not our Blythe…”

“Anything we do will just postpone the inevitable at best,” her father said desolately. “If we hold her back, the Officials will come in and take her themselves.”

Every year, in each region of what had once been called the United States, ten young women were selected to enter an arena to face off against a horde of shifters—a breed of being that looked human but could shift into a ferocious animal form at will.

The arena itself stood in a location disclosed only to those transporting the Runners. “For the sake of security,” they insisted.

Each participant’s age sat within the range of eighteen to twenty-five.

Officials claimed this bracket would give the participants the best chance of making it out of the arena alive.

But the public always had their opinions, always tried to dig for the deeper meaning under it all.

Some claimed the Running served as a way to appease the monsters within the arena.

“Of course they’d all be young,” they’d say.

“Young and hot, you know what I mean? Those monsters want to breed, after all.”

Others, albeit fewer, came up with conspiracy theories left and right.

That it was the government’s excuse for selective mass murder.

That the families picked each year were considered dangerous by the upper class.

But Blythe was just the baker’s daughter.

What harm could I be?

She didn’t even know how to fight.

How am I supposed to survive a pack of shifters?

What a silly question. She wouldn’t. So few girls ever escaped.

Everyone knew: in the Running, you either disappeared—or you died.


Claude found it hard to make his feet move up the path to his small house.

He had been wandering aimlessly for the past several hours.

Thinking. Stewing.

He had finally accepted that he must go home and face the disaster of his own making.

It was dark when he entered—well past curfew and lights out—so, when he flicked on the kitchen light and saw Karin sitting at the table, he jumped.

“Good God,” he choked, pressing a hand to his chest reflexively.

Karin had been crying in the gloom by the looks of it.

“Where’s Blythe?” he asked, irrationally afraid that she was already gone.

Karin swallowed, her movements slow. She smoothed her hands over the top of the kitchen table and licked her lips, then said, “In bed. Asleep, God willing.”

His hands crept together over his belly, his fingers interlacing and freeing themselves over and over. Finally, he stepped forward and took a chair opposite her.

“She’ll have a chance,” he said softly.

“A chance?” Karin choked. “A chance? Against those monsters?”

“Some girls make it out,” he protested.

“Do they? Have you ever known one?”

“What do you expect me to do, Karin?”

“I expect you to do something!” she replied. “We can’t just stand by and watch our daughter march off to her death!”

Claude stared at his wife, unable to summon any words. Closing his eyes, he rocked his head, the pain of this grotesque fate eating away at his ability to think.

“How can you just shake your head?” Karin demanded. “This is all your fault!”

His eyes shot up, meeting hers.

“You think I didn’t know?” she continued. “You think I’m blind, you old fool?”

His heart began to pound. “Karin…”

She stood up abruptly, turning her back to him and walking to the sink. “Don’t! Always so noble. Always so concerned for everyone. Well. Look where it’s gotten us!”

Claude stared at her back as she pressed her hands on either side of the sink, shoulders bunching, shoulder blades making sharp folds in the material of her blouse.

He thought back to the things he’d done.

An extra loaf to a family without enough tickets. An extra meat pie. Then a bit of creative accounting. A lie, here and there, about lost supplies.

A few secret messages from one rebel cell to another, passed on parchment paper used to wrap pastries.

All he’d ever wanted to do was help…and if he was honest, make things just a little bit harder for the government that crushed them all.

But he did nothing so terrible that he deserved this.

Nothing worth killing his daughter.

“I never meant for this to happen.”

“Of course not. You never considered that your petty acts of resistance…your minor rebellions…could mean the death of one of our own children!”

A sob bubbled from his throat.

It really is my fault.

Dear God, what have I done?

He managed, “At least—at least now, they’ll have to move us. A house with clean water, away from the Contamination—”

“Where we’ll be watched day and night!” Karin snapped.

“But think of the little ones, Karin. Think of Jonas, and his lungs—”

“You think it comforts me that Jonas will breathe cleaner air? At the cost of our daughter’s life?”

Karin grabbed a pot from where it was drying and slammed it on the counter. Claude flinched.

His legs acted for him: standing, hastening out of the door. He slammed it hard behind him, enraged—but mainly at himself.


The slamming door made the whole house shake.

Blythe winced and burrowed further into the bedclothes, pressing up against Jonas’ small body.

She shared the bed with him and her littlest sisters—for warmth and because they didn’t have the room for everyone to have a cot of their own.

Now they will, she thought, her mouth twisting with bitterness.

When you got chosen for The Running, your family was compensated. A larger house in a better area. More ration tickets, even.

Blythe listened to Jonas’ wheezing. He needed cleaner air.

But I don’t want to trade my life for it, she thought.

Because there was no way a simple baker’s daughter was going to survive.

Is it possible? Is her summoning a punishment for something Father had done?

Blythe thought about getting up. Seeking answers from whichever parent was still in the kitchen.

But a strong need not to know overwhelmed the impulse.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself. I’m dead either way.

Better for everyone if I go quietly.

If I resist, they’ll come for all of us.

This way, at least the others will live better.

Tears built behind her eyelids and squeezed out, rolling down her cheeks. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a grimace of agony.

I’m going to die, she thought. I’m going to die.

All my dreams are over.

The extension to the bakery I was going to help Nattie and Thomas build?

It won’t ever happen now. They’ll have a new bakery, wherever they move to.

I’ll never marry.

Never have children of my own.

I’m going to walk into that arena. I’m going to face those…those things.

They’re going to tear me apart.


They had to pull her away from Momma when the time came.

Thomas, Nattie, and the rest of her siblings had come to the drop off point, all of them crying openly.

Father stood a few feet behind them, close to where the bus had stopped outside the community center to let them off. He touched no one.

Momma grabbed at Blythe’s hands as the guards—dressed head to foot in black, faces hidden behind visored helmets—pulled her by the shoulders.

“Please, no,” Momma sobbed, her fingers wiry and strong, entwining with Blythe’s. “Please, leave her. Take me.”

One of the helmets laughed.

He’s actually laughing at her, Blythe marveled.

The guards said nothing more, yanking Blythe free of her mother and pulling her away.

A short time later, in the stark locker room, she was wearing The Running-issued uniform:

Tight leggings and a short-sleeved shirt in camouflage. Athletic shoes, thin socks.

She tied her black hair up in a ponytail, pulling it off her face. It always managed to get in the way when she baked, tunneling her vision. She couldn’t let that happen now.

She met her own eyes in the mirror.

Well, I don’t look anything like a terrified rabbit. Oh, no! The picture of badass survivalism, that’s me.

God, I’m so fucked.

She dumped her old clothes in a bin marked “Rubbish” and made her way out to the waiting area where nine other girls paced.

It crossed her mind to introduce herself to them—see if she could make friends. If they worked together, they’d have a much better chance of surviving.

But then a woman with dyed hair, red as blood, wearing a black uniform similar to the guards, entered the room, followed by nine more people dressed as she was. She checked a tablet and stepped right up to Blythe.

“Blythe Becker,” she said. It was not a question.

Blythe nodded.

“This way.”

Blythe’s teeth began to chatter, so she clenched her jaw, biting down on her panic.

She did as she was told, following the red-haired woman out of the room along a sterile corridor. The woman’s heels echoed on the polished floor as she went.

“I’m Lorna. I’m your guide. I’ll be going over the rules. Listen close, I’m not going to repeat myself. Questions at the end. Right?”

Lorna’s red hair fell into her face as she spoke. “Rule number one: every year, on the first day of spring, ten human females are to be placed in the Running arena and given weapons to defend themselves.”

Right. Blythe already knew that. Nobody could escape the countless televisions around town playing footage in real time as girl after girl ran, spearing and slashing their way through the arena.

Her gaze landed on a pile of weaponry in the distance: spears, axes, bows, arrows, rope. She’d have to make a run for it as soon as the clock’s bells rang—the proverbial gunshot to go. She had to make it there within the five minutes they gave her before the shifters were released.

“Rule number two: the women are not permitted to harm or help each other.”

That made a prickle of anger bloom in Blythe’s chest.

How is anyone expected to actually survive if nobody could help each other?

More specifically, how am I going to survive?

Her father, in her last week of freedom, had tried to teach her how to fight but had failed miserably. Blythe’s aim was shameful, her ability to throw a punch even worse. She didn’t even want to think about her reaction time.

“Rule number three: if a woman kills a shifter, she has a thirty-minute reprieve to find an exit. If she does not reach a door in thirty minutes, she is still in the Running.”

There was no way Blythe would be able to kill a shifter. They were actual animals, and their healing time was the most inhuman of all of their characteristics. The announcers on television always made a point of that. They’re monstrous—not like us.

And besides, does anyone know how to kill a shifter in the first place? Can they even be killed, or is that just false hope given to those culled for the Running?

The arena was called Lazarus, after all.

Blythe felt sick to her stomach, suddenly wishing they hadn’t fed her or the other contestants before throwing them into the arena.

In her head, she could hear a clock ticking down, closer and closer to noon.

She felt, in that moment, like a prisoner at the gallows, waiting to be hanged for a crime she didn’t know existed.

Her knees were weak, close to giving out, her eyes flooding once again with tears. She couldn’t do this. She was going to die.

And then, she heard it.

The clock struck noon, its resounding bell shaking the trees around her.

The Running had begun.


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Another Running.

Killian sighed and rolled off his mattress, stretching his limbs. Today was the day. In a matter of hours, the guns would sound.

The girls would be released into the arena.

In the center of the arena, in Lazarus’ heart, the mad Shifters would soon be released from their cells in the Dungeon. This one day a year, they’d be let out to play.

Killian hoped to avoid them as much as possible.

The day stretched out ahead of him. He had his plan for it, and there was no sense tangling with mindless, ravening Shifters to get it done.

Catch as many Runners as possible. Put on a good show.

The cameras were watching.

The Producers were watching.

This is it, Killian thought. This is the year. I’ll meet their quota. I’ll earn my freedom.

No point tying back his hair, as he’d spend most of the day shifted.

Time to prepare, eat, limber up. It was going to be a long day.


Blythe ran until her lungs burned.

It felt like a dream. She was sprinting, but her legs could never take her fast enough. The pile of weaponry stood like a mirage ahead of her, the distance yawning. Until, suddenly, she was right on top of it.

As she skidded to a halt in front of the pile, her mind reeled. She didn’t know how to use any of these.

Quickly, Blythe, her mind urged, digging her haphazard survival plan from the anxiety-ridden wreckage of her scattered thoughts. Grab the spear. It was light enough to run with, long enough that she didn’t have to throw it or get in a shifter’s face.

Good. Now get out of there!

As she bolted away from the clearing, self-doubt crept under her skin.

Have I chosen correctly? Or will this be my downfall?

No. You’ve been over this.

A bow and arrow would be useless, thanks to her incredible lack of aim. But a dagger was too up close and personal. If she got that close to a shifter, she figured she would be dead or, at the very least, pinned before she could make any move to attack.

Rope seemed useless too. It could help her climb the trees, maybe, but Blythe didn’t know any knots above the ones to tie shoes, and even those came loose often enough to have her tripping over herself constantly.

Swords were too heavy.

Blythe would have neither the coordination nor the upper body strength to lug that around and still manage to get away from an assailant. The heaviest thing she’d ever wielded was a rolling pin, and those were only a few pounds at the heaviest.

She had to hide, and she had to hide now.

As she took off again, she heard a blood-chilling roar in the distance, and she swore her heart skipped several beats.

The shifters were out, and they were hungry for their prey. Even worse, that roar had been notably feline. If she were to climb, she’d have to do so quickly and go up quite high.

Blythe raced into the thick of the forest, teeth clenched. She knew climbing was a false hope. Even if she were to out-climb a shifter for a short time, there was no doubt they’d catch up and overtake her.

From somewhere else, she heard a howl. That meant the canines were part of the Running this year too. Canines and felines.

Her mind’s eye flashed with images of what was surely to come: razor-sharp teeth digging into flesh, claws ripping apart clothing and skin. Last year had been brutal to watch. Frail bodies lifted into the air, massive talons digging bloodily into shoulders and backs as they took the girls God-knew-where.

She kept running, the spear in her hand cutting through the air ahead of her.

More screams. Human this time.

Tearing sounds.

Wet, sickening noises.


Blythe’s eyes landed on a log—long, thin, and close to the ground.

She could probably slide into it; she was small enough. If she could just get to the middle of it, a shifter wouldn’t be able reach in and grab her.

Safety, her mind prayed.


A chill ran up Blythe’s spine as she stopped and whipped around. A stick had definitely just snapped.

Get in the log, her mind urged. But what if I try and whatever that is grabs me from behind?

Just then, a snarl cut through the air.

Blythe stumbled backward, her back hitting hard against the trunk of a tree as she gasped.

There, in front of her, leered a large tan wolf, amber eyes transfixed on her.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t speak.

Her eyes flicked to the left of the beast and noticed her spear on the ground there. She must have dropped it when she tripped—stupid!

Her mouth opened to scream, but before the sound could leave her throat, another creature leaped into view, its large frame tackling the wolf to the ground.

They rolled, a mess of tan and white mixing with a tornado of ginger fur. Then, suddenly, angry red spattered across the forest floor. Blood.

They were fighting—over her.

Blythe stood frozen, her fingers clinging to the bark behind her hard enough to nearly draw her own blood.

When the two animals finally stopped rolling, they scrambled to their feet. A wolf and some kind of big cat, maybe a mountain lion, both baring their teeth and glaring murderously.

Blythe’s heart seized in her chest.

I’m so screwed.

What the fuck?!
Get out of here. She’s mine.
Bullshit! I saw her first. Finders fucking keepers.
I said go, Milo. Now. Before I hurt you more than I already have.
Make me, pussycat.

The fur on the back of Milo’s neck stood up straight as he growled, his razor-sharp teeth dripping blood.

He lunged forward again, moving to bite the caracal, Jackson, in the neck. Milo had him on weight and height.

Finally, an opponent I can fight with and come out on top!

He struck, teeth just grazing Jackson’s torso.

Damn it; the cat has speed!

Jackson tried to get the jump on him, to slash at his snout, but Milo barreled over him, managing to bring him down.

The wolf snapped his jaws again, teeth sinking into Jackson’s shoulder.

The caracal’s hind legs pushed into his gut, kicking him clean off, knocking the wind out of him.

Forget the feline, his inner human snapped. I should get the girl. Get her and get the two of us out of here.

But Milo’s wolf refused to ignore the rage and frustration coursing through his veins.

Instead, he jumped forward again, his claws raking across the caracal’s face and making him hiss in pain


Blythe tried to crawl back.

She had to try to climb up the tree, but fear of turning her back on the fight gripped her heart.

The two beasts in front of her fought on tirelessly, seemingly to no end, their blood spurting out—punctuation of the violence.

Her eyes caught sight of her spear. She could reach it.

Now’s my chance!

Blythe bolted, reaching down mid-run to grab the weapon.

But once it was in hand, the weight of the spear, combined with her momentum, had her stumbling forward, forcing her to catch herself on her hands. She scraped them hard enough to make her hiss.

Still, she got it. She got it! She was armed again.

But then, she realized, finding her footing, why have the noises of their tussle stopped?

Blythe whipped around, her eyes the size of saucers, only to meet the gazes of the pointy-eared caracal and the wolf staring her down. Murderous. Hungry.

Swallowing into her paper-dry throat, she gripped the spear with both hands, widening her stance. That was what her father had told her to do.

Her gaze ping-ponged between the canine and the feline, watching as their muscles rippled under their fur.

She wondered, then, if it was now that the cameras were watching her. They always, in the years she stood to watch, managed to find the girls in the most dire situations.

Blythe could feel the weight of death looming over her shoulder.

She wanted the earth to swallow her up, save her from these lethal animals and the voyeuristic public. Coward.

Her hands shook, but she steeled herself. I will not die lying down.


Had he been in his human form, Milo would have laughed. Who are you kidding with that spear, princess? You think you’re fooling anybody?

He could sense Jackson still behind him, but he didn’t care. This one was his.

With his upper lip curled, he snarled in the girl’s direction. Don’t be fucking stupid. You don’t even know how to hold that thing. Come quietly.

But, of course, she didn’t listen.

Why the hell did I think she could hear me? Humans never learned how to reach out with their minds to the outside.

Instead, he made quick work of easily dodging as she thrust the point of the spear at him. It was almost cute how pathetically bad she was at this.

When she moved to strike again, Milo pounced, grabbing the wood of the spear just above the girl’s hand and pulling it hard from her grasp. Nice try, princess.

His jaw clamped down, snapping and shattering the spear in half, all the while watching his prey—no, his future mate—look down upon him in horror.

He spat out the splinters, his maw now wet with drool as he approached her, step by step.

She wants to do this the hard way? Fine.

There was one thing Milo knew for sure—whether it be for fuck or food…

He was starving.


Read the full uncensored books on the Galatea iOS app!


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Age Rating: 16+

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Age Rating: 18+

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Age Rating: 18+

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Age Rating: 18+


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Age Rating: 18+ (BDSM)

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Age Rating: 18+

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