Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
A shley
“Are you certain that’s really her?”
The strangely profound male voice is the first I hear as I come awake, although my eyes remain closed. I don’t move an inch, my brain struggling to figure out where I am and what’s going on.
My cell.
Darkness.
Loud noises and shaking.
A man.
The memories are fuzzy and so mixed up with all of the ugly memories of my confinement that I can’t sort them out.
“The doctor already confirmed it,” a second, equally deep voice answers the first.
My wolf purrs inside of my chest, but it’s not a yearning purr, more of a warning. I still have trouble understanding what my wolf’s telling me. I’ve only ever shifted two or three times, and those shifts were limited in time and scope.
“She’s already on her way,” the other voice says.
Keeping one of my ears on the conversation happening while trying to assess where I am with the other isn’t an easy feat. Underneath my fingertips there’s soft, warm padding as if I’m in a bed.
I realize a second later that yes, I am in a real bed.
Therefore, I can’t still be in my cell. We were never given beds to sleep on. All we had was the unforgiving concrete floor.
Am I free?
Or is this another trick by our captors?
“You should’ve waited until I had a chance to speak with her,” the second man states. Awareness shoots through me as I realize that this isn’t the first time I’ve heard that voice.
“I didn’t want to do this.”
The last words I’d heard from him right before my world went black. He did this.
“I should’ve listened to Reese …” the first voice says, but I don’t give myself time to let the words sink in before I peel my eyes open.
Seconds tick by while my vision clears, and all around me I see white. White walls, white ceiling tiles, white blanket covering my body.
Sterilization.
My heartbeat begins to skyrocket.
They’ve brought me to some sort of sterilized experimentation room. Oh God!
“Who the hell are you?” I say as I shoot up from the bed, forcing myself to ignore the wooziness in my head that causes the room to spin.
Both men startle and turn in my direction.
My eyes widen in shock. They’re huge.
Much larger than I thought.
Both are around six-three or six-four at least, with copper brown skin that stretches across shocked expressions.
Their faces are on display. Never did our captors show us their faces.
This must mean they have no intention of ever letting us go, or worse, survive.
My heart sinks when I realize I couldn’t possibly defend myself against one, let alone both of them.
But that doesn’t mean I’m about to give up and willingly allow these motherfuckers to do whatever it is they want to me.
When neither man says anything, I search my vicinity for something—anything—to use as a weapon.
Spotting a lamp on the stand next to my hospital bed, I quickly grab it. I stumble out of the bed, ignoring the pinch and pull of something on my arm.
“Ashley, no!” the one who looks slightly younger out of the two men says. If I were in my right mind, I would’ve wondered how he knew my name.
None of the guards in the prison ever called any of us by our name. The guards always used some derogative of ‘dog’ or ‘bitch’. The highest insult one can say to a wolf shifter, according to Christophe. That wretched Dr. X referred to us as prisoner and some number. Mine was Prisoner 518911.
Christophe.
My heart softens. Is he in here, too? Where?
I look around the room, realizing that yes, I’m in a hospital room.
“You’ve pulled out your IV,” the larger one of the pair says, glancing down at my arm.
A stream of blood is flowing down from a tiny hole in my arm where …
I peer up to see there’s one of those IV poles by my bed with a loose wire hanging from it, dripping whatever concoction is in the bag onto the floor.
Briefly, I consider using the IV pole as a weapon to wield against these two, but I’m too weak. Just holding this lamp takes all of my energy.
“Ashley, please put the lamp down.” The younger one takes a step in my direction, his large hands held up.
“Stay back!” I order.
He freezes immediately.
“Just like her sister.”
Did I hear his muttering correctly?
My sister?
“Yes,” he answers, making me realize I’ve asked the question out loud.
“Emery.”
My heart quickens at the name.
“No.” Shaking my head, I narrow my eyes on him. “No. You won’t use my sister against me again.”
“Keep her memories close to you.”
Christophe’s words come to mind, encouraging me to cling to my positive thoughts of my sister. That way, they can’t take her from me. They can’t make me believe she hates me.
“I-I …” He stops as if he’s having a difficult time figuring out what to say.
My eyes narrow even more.
None of our captors ever had trouble discerning their words. Quite the opposite.
He glances over his shoulder at the other guy. That’s when I notice how much they look alike.
Even down to the long, dark braided ponytails they both wear. Yet, they’re not twins. There are differences in their looks and demeanors that distinguish them. They must be brothers.
“Your sister,” the younger one says, “she’s my mate.”
Mate.
Did he use the word mate and my sister in the same sentence?
It all happens so fast. One moment I’m processing his words, and the next, the door bursts open.
“Ashley!” an almost deranged scream sounds around the room.
The voice is familiar though. So much so it sends a shiver up my spine.
I blink, and when I open my eyes again, she’s standing in front of me.
My lips part to speak but nothing comes out.
Emery, my older sister, stands before me. But she’s different. Her usually straight, perfect hair is now curly and falls freely as if in its natural state. The grey streak she always dyed is now prominently displayed in the front of the curly hairstyle.
I look her up and down.
Emery, who never wore jeans, now wears them with an oversized T-shirt and sweater over it. I stare into her face. It’s the same dark brown skin, almond-shaped eyes, and same nose as mine.
The face I’ve always known, but different.
“She set you up.”
A voice penetrates my thoughts, making me grab my head in pain. The lamp falls from my hands as I grip my head.
The voices won’t stop.
“Emery never wanted you around.”
“She was sick of you.”
“How do you think you got here?”
“Stop it,” I murmur, smacking the sides of my head.
I open my eyes at the same time Emery reaches for me.
“Ashley, what’s wrong?” she asks through trembling lips.
“Don’t,” I say, moving back and away from her outstretched arms.
“Ash …” She trails off but doesn’t try to come closer.
I push out a breath, thankful for that.
“Hold on to the good memories,” Christophe told me.
“I think she’s in pain,” Emery says to the two men still in the room. “Get a doctor, please.”
“No.” I hold up a hand, stopping them.
The voices in my head begin to recede, leaving me with just the voice I want.
His.
“Remember the good times.”
Flashes of Emery letting me cuddle with her in her bed while we ate cake and watched movies on my birthday. How she always complimented my outfits when our adopted mother told me I looked like a clown.
“Em,” I mumble right before looking up at her. Our eyes connect.
Hers are watery from unshed tears.
It’s hard to maintain eye contact.
When my gaze falls lower, I go completely still. She’s wearing my steel wolf pendant. I clutch at my chest, at the same spot where the pendant I wore for years used to hang on me.
The pendant that belonged to our birth mother. The one I had to steal out of our adopted mother’s closet.
“Em,” I whisper her name.
She wouldn’t wear my pendant if she hated me, right?
“Yes,” she answers, softly.
I look her in the eyes again.
“Em?”
She nods as the first tear falls.
This time when she steps closer, I don’t protest. Quietly, I watch as she reaches out, taking my hand.
Emery runs a thumb over my palm, and my heart aches. She did that the night our birth parents died. She held me while we waited for them to return home, and it thundered and lightninged outside.
Emery consoled my worries by running her thumb across my palm. Over and over again.
“My sister,” I whisper, staring at my hand in hers.
“Yes, it’s me.”
My first tear falls, immediately followed by another. By the time I’m full-on crying, Emery’s wrapped me up in her arms, crying herself.
Her body trembles as she holds me.
Burying my face into the crook of her neck, I inhale.
Home , both my wolf and I think at the same time.
Then I realize why the man who carried me out of that cell smelled familiar. Mixed with his scent was Emery’s.
“Your sister … she’s my mate.”
That’s what one of them had said.
Does this mean I’ve been rescued?
Am I free?