Chapter 3
Violet
The call button sticks under my thumb, the sound of the buzzer echoing down the quiet street. Chicago is never completely silent, but there’s a certain hush that falls over everything between bar close and the morning commute; a brief pause before the city’s steady pulse resumes.
It’s been a while since I’ve been awake at this hour to witness it. Even longer since I’ve had to use the buzzer to gain access to my own apartment building. I press it again, then lean my forehead against the cold metal of the entry door, exhaling slowly.
Losing my keys is just the cherry on top of the shit sundae that tonight turned out to be. I have a feeling they accidentally got tossed aside when the guards were checking my pockets during intake, but I wasn’t exactly looking for a reason to stick around after being told I was free to go.
Well, not free. I’ll never be free again, given my sentence, but I’ve been released from enforcer custody, which is more than I expected after they hauled me in.
They acted like I should be grateful for it, but honestly, I’m not sure which is worse– actual confinement, or the illusion of freedom I’m being given.
At least imprisonment is candid in its cruelty.
Being shoved back into my normal life while a countdown to my future Pairing ticks in the back of my head feels like a whole other kind of torture.
For a split second, I actually consider just bolting into the night and disappearing.
I doubt anyone would come looking for me.
I could start fresh somewhere far away, with a new name and life…
but if it were that easy, they wouldn't have released me in the first place. They know I’ll come back because I have no other choice.
Shifters are hard-wired for pack life. That delicate, knife-edge balance between human logic and animal instinct only holds when we’re surrounded by our own kind.
Strip that away long enough, and the wolf starts to fray at the seams. Rational thought dissolves, instinct takes over, and eventually, the feral creeps in and never lets go.
So here I am, caught between two impossible realities.
If I stay, I lose my freedom.
If I run, I lose myself.
Hard to tell which fate is worse.
I startle at the crackle of the intercom, nearly jumping out of my skin when Char’s voice comes through.
“Violet, is that you?”
“Yeah,” I manage, voice hoarse with exhaustion. “Lost my keys.”
She makes a choked sound– half sob, half relief– like she’s been holding her breath for hours. “Oh my god, are you… did you…?”
“Can you just buzz me up?” I grumble, not wanting to do this here or now.
“Yes, of course! I didn’t–”
The lock buzzes, and I’m through the door before she can finish that thought, diving into the elevator and punching the button for the seventh floor.
The ride up feels like it lasts for an eternity.
When the doors finally slide open, Charlotte’s waiting for me in the hall outside our apartment, looking wrecked.
Her golden hair’s in a snarl, mascara smeared in jagged tracks down her cheeks.
The second she sees me, her expression twists and she chokes on a sob.
“Oh, Vi!” she wails, launching herself at me.
The impact sends a ripple of pain through my injured shoulder, the wolfsbane still stifling my supernatural healing. I grit my teeth through the throb and wrap my good arm around Char, halfheartedly returning the embrace.
“I’m so sorry,” she cries, voice breaking with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry, Vi…”
“It’s fine,” I say, even though it really isn’t.
She releases me with another choked sob, quickly herding me inside our apartment. “What happened?” she asks after flipping the deadbolt to seal us in. “You’ve been gone for hours, I thought–”
I can’t bring myself to say it, so I just reach into my pocket and pull out the folded slip of paper the guards shoved at me on my way out, handing it over to her.
She smooths it open. I watch her eyes track the text, clocking the moment she hits the line that matters: an appointment date for my serum extraction.
Her whole body goes rigid, because every member of the Chicago pack knows exactly what that means.
When shifters mate, it's supposed to be sacred; a soul-deep bond sealed through the exchange of our wolves’ mating serum. Traditionally, that would mean a bite, but if both parties aren’t willing, things can get messy. Alpha Gage hates messy.
So, he championed a workaround– a ‘scientific breakthrough’ to streamline mate bonds through serum extraction.
No unruly wolves, no messy emotions, no risk of refusal.
You undergo a procedure to get your mating serum extracted in advance, and during the quarterly Pairing ceremony, it’s injected into your assigned mate.
Two needles, two injections, one bond sealed by science instead of instinct. Clean, efficient, and oh so romantic.
Char’s breath catches sharply, eyes flying up to mine. “The Pairing?” she gasps.
I nod once.
Her cry is soft but gutted, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks as she covers her mouth with trembling fingers, like she’s the one who’s been sentenced.
“My mom’s gonna be thrilled,” I mutter, snatching the paper back and shoving it into my pocket.
Mom always said my rebellious streak would catch up with me someday.
I might be her only child, but I’ve never been the daughter she wanted– always too mouthy, too opinionated, too unwilling to be molded into the perfect little doll she envisioned.
The woman nearly had an aneurysm when I came home with my first tattoo, so naturally, I proceeded to get dozens more.
She’s spent years trying to talk me into the Pairing, insisting a mate might ‘settle me down’ and ‘give my life direction’.
I always refused, but I guess now she’s finally getting her wish.
“I’m so sorry,” Char whispers, sniffling. “I didn’t think–”
“Yeah,” I grit out. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Fuck, now I even sound like my mother.
Charlotte’s eyes widen, chin wobbling. “I never would’ve brought you to that meeting if I knew…”
Anger simmers in my veins, and I turn away before it erupts into something I can’t take back, heading into the kitchen.
I need something to take the edge off, something to dull the pain in my shoulder and drown out the noise in my head.
Grabbing a bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet, I twist off the cap and tip it back.
It burns like a punch to the throat, but that’s sort of the point.
I can feel Char watching me from the doorway, hovering like a skittish animal afraid to get too close.
Probably smart, considering how this night turned out.
If she hadn’t dragged me to that stupid meeting, I never would’ve crossed paths with the rebels or their half-baked plans to defy our Alpha. Now, my entire future is fucked.
I yank open the kitchen drawer, fishing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I quit a while back, but this seems like the perfect night to relapse. Grabbing the whiskey, I head for the balcony, desperately needing air and distance from the guilt radiating off Char.
It’d be easy to blame her for all of this– the warehouse, the raid, the Pairing– but it’s not entirely on her, is it? I could’ve refused to go, could’ve turned back at any time. I didn’t.
The Chicago wind slices through the fabric of my hoodie as I light my cigarette with shaking fingers.
I inhale deeply, the smoke scratching a path into my lungs, then chase it with another swig of whiskey.
Slowly, the pain in my shoulder dulls. The world softens at the edges, blurring slightly as the alcohol kicks hard without my wolf to burn it off.
After a few minutes, the balcony door slides open again. Charlotte steps out, rubbing her sleeves between her hands. “Violet… there has to be a way out of this.”
“There isn’t,” I reply flatly, eyes pinned to the horizon.
“What about your ex, the one who moved back to Colorado?” she suggests. “Maybe he’d help, let you stay with him until we figure something out.”
I exhale smoke toward the skyline, watching it unravel against the dark.
Colorado is a healthy distance from here. I’d be a stranger there, but still among wolves. It’s unlikely that another pack would risk a rift with Alpha Gage by taking me in, but not entirely impossible…
“Maybe,” I say slowly.
Char brightens with desperate hope. “Then we’ll do it! We’ll find a way. You’re not gonna get stuck with some asshole for a mate, Vi. We’ve got time to fix this.”
“Sure,” I mutter, mostly so she’ll drop it before that reckless hope can take hold and crack me wide open.
Silence settles between us as I take another long pull of whiskey.
It scorches down my throat, the balcony tilting slightly beneath my feet.
I finish my cigarette and crush it out in the ashtray, but my fingers won’t stop trembling, like my body hasn’t caught up to the numbness I’m trying to force on it.
When we head back inside, Char hovers restlessly while I return the cigarettes to the drawer and stuff the whiskey back into the cabinet.
“What do you need?” she asks, eyes wide and earnest. “Anything. Just tell me.”
I slide her a sideways glance, pressing my lips into a tight line. Unless she has a time machine, there’s nothing she can offer. “I just need to pass out,” I mumble.
She nods, giving me that pitying look I can’t stand– like she’s bracing for me to crack apart in front of her so she can help pick up the pieces.
That’s not my style. Nobody will ever see me break.
So, I turn on a heel and head for my room, slipping inside and closing the door behind me. My reflection in the mirror across from the bed stares back mercilessly as I peel off my dirty clothes and drop them in a heap on the floor.
Dark circles bruise the skin under my eyes, making them look hollow.
My shoulder’s still swollen, an ugly blotch of purple blooming beneath the ink.
My mom hates my tattoos, but I love them in a way I’ve never loved anything else.
My sleeve, the pieces on my ribs, hips, thighs…
each was chosen with care, every line committed to skin like a promise I made to myself.
Sometimes, I’m not even sure which part I love more– the sting of the needle or the finished art. Pain has always grounded me in a way nothing else can. Made me feel alive.
And danger… god, I inhale that like oxygen. The thrill, the knife’s edge, the spark that catches in my blood and makes everything come screaming into focus. It’s gotten me into trouble more times than I can count, but I’ve always found a way to claw myself back out.
Until now.
Stepping into the en-suite, I turn on the shower and crank it all the way hot. Steam fogs the glass within seconds, curling thick around me as I step under the spray and let the water scald my raw skin. It feels good. Punishing. Honest in a way nothing else has been tonight.
But the second I close my eyes and try to let the heat burn the world away, the bunker’s fluorescent glare crashes back into my mind. Alpha’s cold expression, his enforcers’ hands shoving me forward to make a useless plea for my case…
Not a plea to Alpha, even. To his fucking lapdog, Commander Kane.
I’ve heard stories about Kane– everyone has– but I’d never seen the man up close before tonight.
I guess I expected him to be meaner. Uglier, to fit the shadowy reputation that clings to his name.
The ruthless efficiency, the unwavering obedience, the trail of broken wolves he’s dragged in for sentencing.
Instead, he’s a six-foot-six red flag that has absolutely no business looking as good as he does. Older, sure– old enough to be my father, technically– but with major daddy vibes. The inappropriate, infuriatingly sexy kind.
I bite back a groan, disgusted with myself for even letting the thought exist. Commander Kane is an asshole of the highest degree. A loyal enforcer; a weapon with a pulse. Exactly the kind of man who should repulse me.
And yet my body remembers the heat of him leaning in, the rough command in his voice that lit up every reckless, broken part of me.
The darkness in his eyes and the absolute certainty in his hands when he popped my joint back into place.
It sparks something low and dangerous inside me, heat tangling with shame.
My hand drifts down almost on instinct, fingers slipping between my thighs. A furious, helpless sound claws its way out of my throat.
Dammit, what the hell is wrong with me?
I press harder, chasing something– release, distraction, oblivion– anything to drown out the wreckage of thought. The coil in my belly winds tighter, pressure building until it finally snaps in a wave of relief.
It’s over fast. Empty. Wrong.
I sag against the tile, water beating down on me as guilt and regret creep in like a slow, cold tide, filling the hollow places I keep trying to outrun.
This is all I’ve got.
This pointless high.
This desperate, stupid ache.
My knees buckle, and I slide down to the shower floor. The tile bites at my skin, the water scalds, but it all feels distant, like I’m watching someone else fall apart. I bury my face in my hands, fingers digging into my scalp as if pressure alone can keep me from splitting open entirely.
I should’ve stayed home.
Should’ve run faster.
The bottom hasn’t completely dropped out yet, but I can feel it coming. And maybe I can’t stop it, but I sure as hell won’t let it rewrite me.
I’m a fighter. They can force a bond, but they can’t force obedience. They can pair me, but I won’t be owned.
Whoever gets me as a mate is going to bleed for their mistake.