Broken Kidnapped Mate (Badlands Wolves #6)

Chapter 1 - Sera

I’m staring at the same sentence for the third time when I realize I haven’t absorbed a single word.

The ancient text sits open on my desk, its pages yellowed with age and threatening to crumble if I’m not careful.

I should be cataloging this thing—making notes about which sections need preservation work and documenting the territorial agreements it contains.

Instead, my brain keeps replaying last night’s nightmare on an endless loop.

Except it wasn’t a nightmare. Not really.

I don’t know what to call it.

My tea has gone cold in its cup. I reach for it anyway and take a sip before grimacing at the bitter taste.

The archive room is freezing today, which is saying something considering I grew up in a tundra.

I pull my fur-lined coat tighter around my shoulders and try to focus on the work in front of me.

It’s useless. All I can see are those women standing in a circle.

Their faces were blank, completely empty of anything that makes a person a person.

And wrapped around each of their hearts was this dark, coiling thing that looked like chains made from shadow and ice.

I could feel the cold coming off those bindings even though I was asleep.

Could sense how they squeezed until nothing was left but hollow shells.

Then the vision changed.

The circle of women faded, and I was standing alone in darkness so complete I couldn’t see my own hands. A voice echoed through the void, neither male nor female, ancient and layered like hundreds of people speaking at once. “Tell no one within these walls.”

The words reverberated through my bones, making my teeth ache. “Someone among them will stop you. Will keep you from the truth. Speak of what you’ve seen to anyone in Llewelyn, and you will never break free.”

The voice faded, but the warning remained, burning itself into my memory with the kind of certainty that comes from prophecy rather than dream.

I woke up drenched in sweat despite my bedroom being cold enough to see my breath.

That was twelve hours ago. I still feel sick.

The worst part is, I have no idea if what I saw was real or if I’m losing my mind. The Llewelyn pack doesn’t have psychics. We’ve got strength, independence, and enough emotional control to make ice look warm by comparison. But supernatural visions? That’s not our thing.

So either I’m experiencing something completely unprecedented, or I’ve finally cracked under the pressure of being a Llewelyn woman in a pack that’s more closed off than ever.

Neither option is great.

I’ve been digging through historical texts all morning, searching for anything about curses or magical bindings. The Llewelyn archives go back three centuries; there should be some clue that explains why I saw what I did.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I flip through another volume. This one documents pack rituals and ceremonies from two hundred years ago.

The handwriting is cramped and difficult to read, faded in places where time and handling have worn away the ink.

Most of it is mundane stuff—seasonal celebrations, coming-of-age ceremonies, and territorial blessings.

Nothing about curses or magical imprisonment.

Maybe I’m looking in the wrong place. Or maybe there’s nothing to find because what I experienced was just my stressed-out brain making things up.

Except it felt real. Realer than any dream I’ve ever had.

The women in the circle looked like us—Llewelyn women—with our pale skin and characteristic reserve.

But something fundamental was missing from their eyes.

Some spark that should have been there but wasn’t.

And those dark chains wrapped so tight around their hearts that I could barely breathe just watching it.

What if that’s us? What if we’re all walking around with those chains and we don’t even know it?

The thought makes me want to throw up.

I close the ritual volume and return it to its shelf, then pull down another one. This text focuses on the founding of the Llewelyn pack, documenting how our ancestors established territory in the harsh tundra and built a society based on female leadership.

But still nothing about curses or supernatural bindings.

The door opens, and Thora Silvermane walks in like she owns the place.

Which, to be fair, she kind of does. Senior council member, decades of leadership experience, and silver-blonde hair pulled back so tight it probably gives her a headache.

She’s wearing the traditional furs and royal blue that mark her status, and she looks at me the way everyone here looks at everyone—politely distant.

She nods in my direction and says, “I need the eastern border treaty documents. The ones from fifteen years ago.”

“Third shelf, section seven. Blue leather with gold embossing.” I don’t look up from my book.

She retrieves the volume and flips through it to check the contents. I watch her from the corner of my eye, debating whether I should say something. Thora’s been around forever. If anyone knows about weird supernatural stuff happening to Llewelyn women, it’s her.

“I had the strangest dream last night,” I muse, trying to sound as casual as I can.

She glances at me. “Oh?”

“It felt different than my normal dreams. Realer.” I pause, trying to gauge her reaction. “There were women in a circle, and something was wrapped around them. Like they were bound or trapped somehow.”

“Dreams often reflect our anxieties.” Her tone is pleasant but completely uninterested. “Given everything that’s happened recently, your subconscious is probably processing stress.”

“Right. Makes sense.”

She tucks the documents under her arm and heads for the door. Before she leaves, she looks back at me with what one might call concern, if Llewelyn women did concern. “Don’t stay too late. You’ve been spending too much time in here.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

Great. That went exactly nowhere.

I slump back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. This is the problem with being Llewelyn. Nobody connects with anyone about anything real. We’re all just politely existing in the same space, acknowledging each other’s presence without actually caring.

Thora didn’t even ask what the dream was about. Didn’t wonder why I bothered mentioning it. She just offered a practical explanation and moved on with her day like I’d commented on the weather.

And maybe that’s what the vision was trying to show me.

What if we’re not supposed to be like this? What if something made us this way?

I need to talk to someone who actually understands psychic abilities. Someone who won’t just pat me on the head and tell me I’m stressed.

Raegan would know what to do.

My best friend has psychic gifts of her own. She dealt with visions that actually came true, warnings about real dangers. If I could just talk to her, she could tell me whether I’m experiencing something supernatural or having a mental breakdown.

But she’s in Grayhide territory now. And reaching out to Grayhide right now is basically asking to be labeled a traitor.

The Bastian incident destroyed whatever trust we’d managed to build with outsiders. He came here through our exchange program, pretended to be interested in our matriarchal structure, and spent months gathering intelligence. The whole time, he was plotting with an enemy pack to exploit us.

When the truth came out, it broke something in our leadership.

My aunt—Matriarch Lydia—barely speaks in council meetings anymore.

She just sits there with this blank expression that reminds me way too much of the woman from my vision.

The other council members have followed her lead, and over the last year or so, we’ve retreated into emotional lockdown.

My pack trusts outsiders even less than before.

I get it. The betrayal hurt.

But Raegan isn’t Bastian. She’s my friend.

We spent hours talking when she was here as an exchange student, sharing things that most Llewelyn women would never share with anyone.

She understood my frustration with our pack’s emotional distance without judging me for it.

And I understood her complicated relationship with her own family and territory.

She told me about growing up as Oren Blacklock’s sister and about the pressure of being connected to Grayhide’s former brutal leadership. We talked about feeling trapped by expectations, about wanting more than what our roles allowed us to have.

When she left to go back to Grayhide, it felt like losing a limb.

Going to see her without telling anyone feels wrong. Like I’m doing exactly what Bastian did. But who else can I turn to? Nobody here has psychic abilities. Nobody here would even take me seriously if I tried to explain what I saw.

I’m on my own.

My mind drifts to the last time I was in Grayhide territory.

Raegan’s wedding to Wyn was a massive event that brought together wolves from multiple packs in Badlands.

The ceremony was supposed to break some kind of curse, and watching it happen was like nothing I’d ever experienced.

People were laughing, hugging, and showing emotion without any filter.

It made me uncomfortable. But also fascinated.

There was this guy there who caught my attention.

Tall, with dark blond hair that stuck up in weird directions like he’s never known a comb.

His eyes were green and observant, taking everything in like he was constantly analyzing his surroundings.

He had a crooked nose—definitely broken before—and this lean, strong build that gave me the impression that he could handle himself in a fight but didn’t rely solely on physical strength.

I caught him staring at me a few times during the ceremony. Not in a creepy way, more like he was trying to figure something out. Every time our eyes met, something pulled in my chest. This weird recognition made zero sense since we’ve never even spoken.