Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
The slamming of a door jolts me from a restless sleep. I tense, listening to multiple sets of boots shuffle down the stone corridor. They stop outside my cell.
Damn.
This is it. My first real interrogation.
My mouth is cotton-dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. When did I last have water? Yesterday? The day before? Time blurs in this windowless hell. My stomach clenches with a hunger so sharp it’s become a constant companion, gnawing at my insides like a living thing.
“They’re coming for you,” Kier whisper-hisses through the hole. There’s something different in his voice—an urgency with a hint of panic that makes my skin prickle with unease.
“I know,” I mutter, dragging myself into a seat.
“Don’t be a hero. Give them your name if they ask, maybe your rank.”
Let them come, I think, settling my shoulders back. Let them do their worst. They have no idea what they’re dealing with.
My heart hammers against my ribs, adrenaline flooding my system as footsteps approach my door. Fear tries to claw its way up my throat, but I swallow it down, transforming it into something sharper, more useful.
You want to play? Let’s fucking play.
I force myself to sit up straighter, ignoring the way my vision wavers from the movement. My body trembles—not from fear, but from the effort of holding myself together when every muscle screams for rest, for food, for relief from the silver’s constant burn.
Control, I remind myself, taking a slow, deliberate breath. Always control.
But beneath the surface, rage builds like a pressure cooker. White-hot fury at Zella’s betrayal, at my own failure to see it coming, at these bastards who think they can break me. The anger is good—it’s fuel, something to burn when the pain gets too much to bear.
I flex my fingers, testing the mobility in my hands despite the silver cuffs. My wolf stirs weakly, adding her snarl to mine. We might be trapped, poisoned, starving—but we’re Shadowmist. We don’t break.
“The important thing is to remember who you are,” Kier tells me. “You are Shadowmist. You are Lithia. When they try to convince you otherwise, hold true to that.”
“What do you—?”
The slot in my door scrapes open with a metallic shriek, cutting off my question. “Morning, sunshine.”
The door swings open and three guards enter. The one in front is older, maybe late-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped military-short and a face mapped with lines—some scars, some deeply cut wrinkles. His eyes are cold, calculating, assessing me.
He’s a threat, but it’s the man to his right that worries me.
The second guard is the younger one from yesterday. He watches me with an eagerness that makes my skin crawl. His uniform is impeccable, his posture perfect, but there’s something feral in his eyes.
Smells bad, my wolf tells me. Rotten. Corrupt.
I agree. He has the look of someone who enjoys causing pain, who gets a sick thrill from watching people break. The way his hands flex tells me he’s itching to start, already imagining the sounds I’ll make.
He’s looking at me like I’m prey. Like he expects me to cower, to beg, to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
Wrong fucking wolf, asshole.
Despite the unease swirling in my gut—and the knowledge this man could do anything he wished to me—I meet his gaze head-on, letting him see the promise of violence burning in my eyes. Let him get his kicks elsewhere, I won’t be feeding his sick appetite today.
But it’s the third figure who catches me off guard.
A small woman, barely five feet tall, with pale skin and eyes so light blue they’re almost white.
She hangs back in the shadows, trembling visibly, her gaze darting around the cell as if seeing things I can’t.
Her hands are wrapped in what appear to be silk gloves, and she flinches whenever the younger guard moves too close to her.
For some reason, she reminds me of a little sparrow, fluttering its little tail nervously.
I inhale, catching her scent. Not a wolf. Some other type of were or fae or witch then. Impossible to tell without getting closer.
The older man crouches in front of me, his lips peeled into what could be called a grin if you were a satanist.
“You ready for a chat?”
“Fuck off.” I turn away from him. “I’m in the middle of a facial, can’t you tell?”
The punch catches my cheek. It’s brutal, cracking against my cheek and tossing me to the ground. I taste blood.
From the cell next door comes a harsh, bitten-out curse, followed by the sharp rattle of chains. Like someone just lunged forward against their restraints.
Grunting, I force myself to sit up straight, glaring at the young guard who shakes out his hand with a smile.
Fucking sadist.
“I’m Jim,” says the older one, staying just out of reach. “This is Bob”—he gestures to the young guard—”and that’s Prudence.”
I hide my confusion behind mockery. “Jim, Bob, and Prudence? What is this, a church social committee? Couldn’t spring for some intimidating code names?”
Another punch comes from Bob, catching me in the gut. I let out a pained grunt, doubling over.
The sound of metal scraping stone echoes through the wall—like someone’s pacing frantically in tight quarters, chains dragging across the floor with each agitated step.
He steps back, and I force myself to stare up at him, refusing to show pain.
“You sure you want to keep doing that? It might mess up your manicure.” I nod at his hand. “Those cuticles look freshly polished.”
Bob’s face flushes crimson. “You won’t find it so funny when I’m done with you, bitch.”
“Easy, Bob,” Jim cautions. “We need her coherent.” He turns to me with a practiced smile. “Let’s start simple. What’s your position in the Shadowmist Pack?”
“I’m the one who gets to rip your throats out.”
Jim sighs. “This’ll go easier if you cooperate.”
I spit blood onto his polished boots. “Bite me, bitch.”
This time I’d ready for the sharp kick Bob delivers to my ribs. His boot slams into my side, and I hear the crack-pop of a rib giving way. Pain flares white-hot, stealing my breath. I fold over, choking on the scream I won’t let them hear.
Fuck. That hurt.
A low growl filters through the stone—barely audible but unmistakably furious. The guards don’t seem to notice, too focused on me.
“Ready to answer our questions?”
I drag my head up, blood on my lips and fire in my lungs.
“I’m going to count every mark you put on me,” I rasp, voice low and steady. “Every single one. And when I get free, I’m going to return them tenfold.”
Jim nods to Bob, who produces a small silver blade. The metal gleams with an unnatural light, clearly old silver.
This doesn’t look good.
Bob presses the blade against my forearm. The metal burns, searing flesh.
I don’t flinch. Don’t blink. Just stare directly into Jim’s eyes, letting him see the promise of death I’m making.
You’re dead wolves walking.
“We know about the safe room beneath the main den,” Jim says, watching my face closely. “But there are safe houses, aren’t there? Locations only the alpha and his most inner circle know about. Tell us where they are.”
The safe room’s existence wasn’t widely known even within the pack. The depth of Zella’s betrayal hits me anew.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say through gritted teeth as Bob digs the blade deeper. “I’m just the muscle. They don’t tell me the important stuff.”
“We both know that’s not true,” Jim replies. “Ryker trusts you. You’re his Beta. So I’ll ask again—where are the safe houses?”
Bob twists the blade, and I can’t stop the hiss of pain that escapes me.
“Look at Bobby go,” I manage, forcing a smile. “Someone’s eager to impress Daddy Jim. Got a performance review coming up?”
Bob’s face contorts with rage. He moves the blade to my neck, just below my jaw.
“I’m going to enjoy breaking you,” he whispers.
“Careful,” Jim cautions. He turns toward the shadows. “Prudence. Come forward.”
There’s a howl from next door, but the guards ignore it as the small woman takes a hesitant step into the light. Her trembling is pronounced now, and up close I can see the hollows beneath her eyes, the unnatural thinness of her frame. She looks terrified.
“No,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Please. Not yet. I need—I need to prepare.”
“You’ve had enough time,” Jim says coldly. “Do your job.”
Bob grabs my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. “Look at her, Prudence. Do what you do best.”
Prudence’s strange, colorless eyes meet mine reluctantly. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
Then her eyes begin to change. Her pupils expand until they swallow the irises entirely, turning her gaze into bottomless black pits. “She fears loss,” Prudence says, her voice resonating oddly in the small cell. “She’s lost before. Parents. Friends.” A pause. “She fears it will happen again.”
A chill races up my spine. What magic is this?
I force a laugh. “Nah, babe. My only fear is missing my hair appointment next week. Gotta keep the split ends at bay.”
They all ignore me.
“Show her,” Jim commands.
“Please don’t make me,” Prudence pleads, her black eyes never leaving mine. “It’s too cruel.”
“Show her,” Jim repeats, his tone brooking no argument.
Prudence removes one silk glove, revealing a hand covered in strange, swirling patterns that seem to shift and move of their own accord. She reaches toward me, stopping inches from my face.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. Then she touches my forehead.
The cell vanishes.
I’m nine years old again, hiding in a hollowed tree trunk with Dane. Above us, hunters move through the forest, silver weapons gleaming in moonlight. Below us, on the forest floor, our parents lie motionless, silver arrows protruding from their backs.
I clamp my hand over Dane’s mouth to silence his sobs. “Be quiet,” I whisper. “Or they’ll find us too.”
But the hunters turn toward our hiding place anyway. They’ve caught our scent. They’re coming closer, silver blades drawn.