Chapter 2
Kane
I hate the bunker.
Nothing good ever happens down here. It’s reserved for imprisonment, interrogation, and the fast-track sentencing of pack criminals whose fates are already decided the moment they’re brought in.
I walk the main corridor with Frazier, a rookie whose only redeeming quality is that he usually keeps his head down and his mouth shut. Unfortunately, he’s doing neither right now, the sound of his voice grating on my nerves as he struggles to keep pace with me.
“Thirty-two detained,” he rattles off, scrolling through the report on his tablet to bring me up to speed on the rebel raid. “Eight with priors, headed straight for the Reaper Block, and four minors have been released to their parents’ custody. The remaining twenty are awaiting sentencing.”
I just grunt in response, not breaking stride. The bunker hums around us with buzzing fluorescents, sweating concrete, and recycled air that tastes like metal and mold. Alpha Gage likes everything about the pack immaculate and presentable, which is why things like this are kept underground.
He doesn’t want to make examples of these types of offenders. He wants to pretend they don’t exist.
We round the corner into the holding area, my boots hitting the scuffed concrete with the measured, unhurried cadence of someone who’s walked this path too many times to count.
I’ve been at this for twenty years– started as an entry-level grunt when I was eighteen, gradually working my way up until I became Commander.
I now outrank everyone in this godforsaken building except Alpha himself, though I’m not sure whether it’s an honor or a curse.
A row of detainees lines the right-hand wall of the corridor, heads down and shoulders hunched. A few dare to look up at me with hollow defiance. Most don’t.
Toward the front of the line, a raven-haired girl brazenly glares in my direction.
Her face is half-shadowed by the hood of her sweatshirt, but her eyes– ice blue and gleaming with mirth– punch through the dim.
When our gazes lock, she doesn’t look away.
On the contrary, hers sharpens as if she’s sighting down a barrel.
Like she’s daring me to be the one to back down and break eye contact.
No chance of that.
I catalog her automatically. Early twenties, about five-foot-nine, slender build, striking features.
She’s not merely attractive; she’s stunning in a way that’s impossible to look away from.
Something about that stare of hers gives rise to an unfamiliar prickle beneath my skin, my wolf stirring restlessly.
Still, I don’t break stride or eye contact, those sharp baby blues tracking me until I turn into the next corridor.
“She’s trouble,” Frazier mutters, flicking me a sideways glance.
I keep walking, my face remaining a practiced, blank mask. “They all are. Why else would they be here?”
“Right,” he murmurs, tucking his tablet under his arm before rushing ahead to open the door to the reckoning room.
I breeze through, and he follows at my heels. The room itself isn’t anything special– white walls, concrete floor, and an elevated platform at the rear that holds Alpha’s seat. Stark and impersonal, designed to strip every wolf who enters down to nothing but their mistakes.
Alpha Gage stands at the base of the platform, one boot propped on the lowest step as he holds court with two of his enforcers. He glances up when I enter, gaze sharp and calculating.
“Kane,” he greets with a dip of his chin. “About time.”
“Apologies,” I say flatly. “Traffic was a nightmare.”
The other enforcers back away as I approach and slap my hand into his, shaking firmly.
“Wouldn’t be an issue if you stayed at the Tower full time,” Alpha reminds me.
I smile without warmth. “Good thing the rebels will be reluctant to regroup for a while after this raid, then.”
He frowns– subtle, but unmistakably displeased.
The man can’t stand things he can’t control.
When I was promoted to Commander, I insisted on keeping a private residence outside the city limits so I’d have somewhere to go to escape the noise.
He’s regretted agreeing to it ever since.
I regret not pushing for more time off, so I guess we’re even.
“Let’s not waste any more time,” he mutters, turning to mount the platform and take his seat. He pops open the button of his suit coat and reclines back like a king on a throne, swiping a hand over his chin and signaling toward the guard at the door. “Bring in the first.”
I take my position in front of the platform, Frazier at my side. He pulls up the file for the first detainee on his tablet and hands it over, my gaze dropping to skim the text.
Patrick Higgins, twenty-nine years old. No rank, no mate. Accountant by day, and evidently a rebel by night.
The door opens, and two guards drag the man in. There’s blood on his shirt from a split lip, the wolfsbane in his system stifling his shifter healing. Nasty stuff, but it subdues the threat of violence. They march him forward, release him, and step back.
I skim the rest of his file before looking up. “The floor is yours, Mr. Higgins. You know why you’re here. Anything to say for yourself?”
He slowly lifts his head and snarls, “Fuck you.”
Alpha leans back with a low chuckle, entertained.
“You’ve been charged with conspiracy to commit sedition,” I continue, getting straight to the point rather than indulging Alpha’s tendency for theatrics. “How do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” he barks, spitting a glob of blood onto the concrete. “Last I checked, meeting up with friends wasn’t a punishable offense.”
“It is if you’re meeting to plan an insurrection,” I reply bluntly. “If you were smart, you’d give up your co-conspirators in exchange for leniency.”
“Go to hell,” he growls.
“Reaper Block it is,” Alpha murmurs, already bored. “Next.”
The guards haul him out, less gently than before. Alpha watches on, eyes bright with that unsettling hunger for violence he tries to mask as authority.
The next three cases are much like the first. They refuse to talk, sentences are handed down, and they’re dragged away.
Justice by assembly line.
Then it’s the blue-eyed girl. Violet Slayter, according to her file.
Her beauty is arresting– it almost feels wrong in a place like this.
Dewy olive skin, long midnight hair, full lips.
Cheekbones that could cut glass. She walks in with the same level of insolence she flaunted in the hall, her chin lifted, gaze sharp and unyielding.
If she’s scared, it doesn’t show– which means she’s either infuriatingly fearless or just plain stupid.
Her bravado splinters the second the guards shove her forward. A pained whimper slips out, and she bites her lip hard to muffle the sound.
She’s injured.
My eyes skim her frame, instantly clocking the tilt to her stance.
Left shoulder. Dislocated, judging by the angle.
“What’s wrong with your arm?” I demand, breaking protocol before the thought fully forms.
Her eyes snap to mine. “One of your goons manhandled me,” she grits out, forcing her posture straighter. “I’d like to file a formal complaint.”
Alpha snorts behind me, clearly amused. “Is that so?”
She lifts her chin higher, staring him down. “Yeah. It is.”
“You’ve been charged with conspiracy to commit sedition,” I cut in before she can make things worse for herself. “How do you plead?”
Her gaze pings back to me and she flashes a smile that’s all teeth. “Not guilty, obviously.”
Shocker.
“Care to explain why you were apprehended at a meeting for rebels, then?” I arch a brow.
“Look, that was all just a big misunderstanding,” she purrs, batting her lashes. “Wrong place, wrong time kinda thing.”
“Uh huh,” I grumble, not buying her sweet and innocent act for a second. I know a wild thing when I see it.
“It’s the truth,” she insists. “So, am I free to go, or…?”
“Depends on your sentence,” I say, flicking a glance up at Alpha.
He considers her for a moment, grey eyes narrowing. “I’ll give you a choice,” he declares. “The Pairing or the Reapers.”
For the first time, something breaks in her expression. Not fear, exactly, but the shock of someone realizing they’ve run out of road. It’s just a micro-reaction, but I catch it. She knows exactly what those options mean.
The Reaper Block isn’t a prison, it’s a death funnel; Alpha Gage’s very own suicide squad to send out on missions few return from. Barbaric, but efficient to remove those who offend him without getting his hands dirty.
The Pairing isn’t much better. It’s a quarterly ceremony where Alpha pairs people up, assigning them as mates.
Many willingly apply to be Paired, either for security or to advance their position within the pack, but those who are forced into it become nothing more than commodities for trade, subjected to Alpha’s delegation of their future however he sees fit.
“Is there a third option?” she asks, voice clipped.
“Name your co-conspirators for a reduced sentence,” I say, giving her a pointed look.
She winces, shaking her head. “Like I said, wrong place, wrong time. I didn’t know anyone, I was just there for the free booze.”
“Make your choice, then,” Alpha barks, rapidly nearing the limits of his patience.
I watch her carefully.
This is the part when most break. Cry, beg, bargain. Violet Slayter doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, she tilts her head with a kind of reckless grace.
“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” she fires at Alpha, dropping all pretense of sweetness.
“You were there,” he replies gruffly. “That’s proof enough. Refuse to give names, and suffer the consequences.”
She purses her lips. “Can I think about it?”
“No,” I say immediately, sharper than intended.
Her eyes dart to me again, quick and cutting. Like she can’t decide whether I’m trying to help her survive, or guaranteeing she won’t.
Alpha sighs boredly. “Reapers, then.”
“No, wait!” she blurts, panic cracking through the veneer. “The Pairing, I’ll take the Pairing!”
“Fine.” Alpha waves a dismissive hand. “Next.”
The guards step forward, and her whole body tenses. I see the fight coiled under her skin, the way she shifts her stance to resist, even with one arm useless.
I raise a hand in silent commend, stopping them in their tracks before they reach her. Then I advance instead, slipping a knife from my pocket as I step toward her.
Her breath stutters when I move into her space, pupils flaring. She smells like lemon, florals, and adrenaline– bright, alive, and far too intoxicating.
“What are you doing?” she demands, voice strained as I circle behind her and sever the zip-ties binding her wrists with a single flick of the blade. They fall away and she grunts, swallowing her agony as her left arm flops uselessly to her side.
“Brace yourself,” I murmur, moving in front of her. One of my hands finds her forearm, the other pressing firmly against her shoulder. When I yank, the joint pops back into its socket with a hard, sickening snap.
She cries out in pain, slapping her good hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Her knees wobble, but somehow she manages to keep herself upright, jaw clenched so tight the muscle ticks.
Strong girl. Too strong for her own good.
I step back, giving her a quick once-over as she drops her hand from her mouth.
“Asshole,” she hisses, nostrils flaring.
“You’re welcome,” I growl, turning away and pacing back toward the platform. I hear the guards step up again to escort her out, but I don’t turn around again until the door closes behind them. Looking at her too long feels like playing with an open flame.
The next detainee is brought in, then the next. More sentences are handed down, the whole thing moving like clockwork, but the rest of the night, her face keeps sliding back into my mind.
The blue-eyed stare that never blinked.
The way she swallowed her pain like she’d been doing it her whole life.
The way she fought even with the odds stacked against her.
Some are just born with that spark– the kind that either burns them out quick or grows until it scorches everything around them.
I’m not sure which she is yet.
Either way, here in the Windy City Wolfpack, it always ends the same.