Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Astra
The cold seeps into my bones first. That’s what pulls me from the darkness—this bitter, gnawing chill that makes my teeth chatter before I’m even fully conscious. My head throbs with a dull, persistent ache that pulses behind my eyes with each heartbeat.
Where am I?
The thought comes sluggishly, like swimming through thick honey. Everything feels wrong. The surface beneath me is hard, unforgiving stone. The air tastes stale and musty, carrying the metallic tang of old blood and something else I can’t identify.
My eyes flutter open to complete darkness.
No, not complete darkness. There’s a thin shaft of pale light filtering through what looks like iron bars across the room. Prison bars.
I try to remember what happened, but my memories are hazy, fragmented. I was in my inn room, waiting for Lucian to return. He had left to meet someone downstairs. Then there was a knock at my door—a man. And then...nothing. Everything goes black after that until this moment.
“Luna,” I whisper, my voice coming out as a hoarse croak.
I try to sit up and instantly discover the extent of my predicament. My wrists are bound tightly behind my back with ropes that cut into my skin with every small movement. My ankles are also tied together, so tightly that I can barely wiggle my toes.
Panic immediately flares in my chest. I tug at the ropes binding my wrists, but they hold firm. The rough fibers bite into my skin, and I feel wetness—probably blood—beginning to trickle down my hands.
Where is Luna? Is she safe? What about Lucian? Does he know what happened to me?
The questions bombard my mind in rapid succession, each one more frightening than the last. I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to calm the wild racing of my heart. Panicking won’t help me figure out where I am or how to get out of here.
I need to think.
I need to escape.
Alpha Gareth! It must be him. He probably sent someone to retrieve me, to drag me back and make me pay for running away. The thought makes my stomach clench with familiar dread.
After all those years of being treated like garbage, after finally finding something that makes me happy, he’s going to ruin it. He’s going to destroy the one good thing I have.
No.
The word blazes through my mind with surprising force. I am not going to lie here and let him win. I am not going back to that life of being treated like dirt, of collecting dangerous herbs while everyone else gets to live normally, of being invisible and unwanted.
I finally found happiness with Lucian. I finally found someone who wants me around. I’m not giving that up without a fight.
I wriggle myself up into a sitting position, ignoring the way the movement makes my head swim. The restraints at my wrists dig deeper, but I grit my teeth against the pain and force myself to focus on my surroundings.
The cell—because that’s definitely what this is—appears to be carved from rough stone.
The walls are uneven and jagged in places, with deep cracks running through the rock like spider webs.
Water drips steadily from somewhere above, the sound echoing in the confined space with maddening regularity.
The floor beneath me is damp and covered with what feels like decades of grime.
But those jagged edges in the walls...They could be exactly what I need.
I scoot backward until my bound hands brush against the stone wall behind me. The rock is rough and sharp in places, with several protruding edges that feel promising. If I can position myself correctly, I might be able to saw through the ropes.
It’s going to hurt. A lot.
But I’ve been hurt before. I’ve survived worse than this.
I maneuver myself so that the ropes binding my wrists are pressed against the sharpest edge of rock I can find. Then, I begin working my hands up and down, using the stone like a crude knife to cut through my restraints.
The rough rock immediately tears at my skin, sending sharp lines of fire up my arms. I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from crying out, tasting blood as I continue sawing at the ropes. Each movement sends fresh waves of pain through my abraded wrists, but I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
The minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness. My shoulders ache from the awkward position, and I can feel blood trickling down my hands in warm, sticky streams. But gradually—so gradually that I almost don’t dare to hope—I feel the ropes beginning to fray.
Just a little more. Just a little—
The sound of footsteps echoes from somewhere beyond my cell.
I freeze instantly, my heart slamming against my ribs. The paces are measured and deliberate, accompanied by the low murmur of voices. Someone is coming.
I let my body go limp, slumping forward as if I’m still unconscious. I close my eyes just as light begins to flicker beyond the bars. The ropes around my wrists are mostly cut through now—I can feel them hanging by just a few stubborn fibers—but I don’t dare move to complete the job.
The footsteps grow closer, and I can make out two distinct sets now. One heavy and unhurried, the other lighter but somehow more predatory. A woman and a man, from the sound of their voices.
“So, this is her?” The female voice is sweet and gentle, but there’s an undertone to it that gives me the creeps. “Are you sure? She’s rather unremarkable.”
I keep my breathing slow and steady, fighting every instinct that screams at me to open my eyes and see who’s speaking.
“I found her in the room,” comes the male’s response. His voice is coarser, with a slight accent I can’t place. “Just like our intel said.”
“She’s so…ordinary.”
The casual dismissal in her attitude makes anger flare in my chest, but I force myself to remain motionless. Let them think I’m ordinary. Let them underestimate me.
“Maybe she turned to whoring.”
The word hits me like a slap in the face. My jaw clenches involuntarily before I can stop it, but neither of them seems to notice. The offhanded cruelty in the woman’s voice, the way she discusses me like I’m not even human, makes my blood boil.
How dare she? How dare they?
“Why hasn’t she woken up yet?” the woman continues. I hear the soft whisper of fabric as she moves, perhaps closer to the bars.
“She’s a latent shifter,” the man explains. “They’re weaker than full shifters. The sleeping potion affects them more strongly. Takes longer to wear off.”
They know what I am. They know I can’t shift, that I’m essentially powerless compared to any normal shifter. The information chills me more than the cold, stone floor.
This wasn’t random. It was planned.
“She should be awake in time for the trial,” the man adds, and then I hear their footsteps beginning to retreat.
Trial? What trial?
Questions are blaring inside my head, but I manage to remain perfectly still. I wait until I can no longer hear anything beyond the steady drip of water before allowing myself to move.
My hands are shaking as I carefully work my wrists against the stone again.
The remaining fibers of rope give way with a soft snap, and suddenly, my arms are free.
I have to bite back a gasp of relief as I bring my hands around to my front, my shoulders screaming in protest after being held in that position for so long.
My wrists are a mess—torn skin and dried blood caked around deep rope burns—but I’m free.
I quickly untie the restraints around my ankles, my fingers clumsy but determined. The moment I’m completely unbound, I surge to my feet, swaying slightly as blood rushes back to my extremities.
I pace the small confines of my cell like a caged animal, my mind racing. Where am I? Who has imprisoned me? And why?
Who were those two people? And what do they even want with me? The woman spoke with the kind of authority I associate with pack leadership, but she isn’t from the Silver Stone Pack; I would have recognized her voice.
The casual way she mentioned my being a whore makes my stomach turn with anger. The insult burns through me, fueling the fire that has been building in my chest. Who was that woman? Why did she call me that?
A trial. They mentioned a trial. What kind of trial? For what crime?
I hear footsteps once again. I quickly gather the ropes into a pile and lie down in front of them in the same position I was in before.
“Guard the cell. The trial is in an hour. We don’t want him coming and ruining everything.”
“Understood.”
It’s the woman again. This time, she’s here with someone else. I don’t dare open my eyes in case they’re watching me.
A trial. But for what?
No matter what it’s for, I have a feeling I won’t be able to get out of here in time to avoid it.
Not unless Lucian finds me first.
My heart sinks.
Where are you, Lucian?
The bucket of icy water hits me out of the blue, stealing my breath and sending shock waves through my already aching body. I gasp and sputter, my eyes flying open as the freezing liquid soaks through my clothes and pools on the stone floor beneath me.
“Time to go, prisoner.”
The guard’s voice is harsh, unsympathetic. I blink the water from my eyes, trying to focus as two sets of hands grab my arms and haul me to my feet. My legs nearly buckle; I’ve been sitting in this cell for hours, and the cold has seeped deep into my bones.
Somebody is binding my wrists again. At least they’re not asking how I got out of my original restraints.
“Where—” I start to ask, but one of the guards shoves me forward before I can finish the question.
“Move.”
They drag me out of the cell, my bare feet slipping on the wet stone.
The corridor is dimly lit by torches mounted on the walls, casting eerie shadows that make everything look sinister and threatening.
We pass other cells, all of them empty, their iron bars like black teeth in the flickering light.