Chapter Twenty-Three #2
As Julius examines me, I eat the food he smuggled in.
It’s all cold, of course, and bland—plain bread, cheese, fruit.
No meat, which would leave a more noticeable smell.
I devour the meal and try not to think of when I’ll eat next.
Then, before Julius summons Silas, I make a suggestion. He sees the wisdom and agrees.
When Silas arrives, I’m bound and gagged. Julius explains that I’m obviously upset about my aunt, and he doesn’t want me lashing out in anger. I am a woman, after all. Even after being physically reprimanded, I might get hysterical and attack my captor in grief-stricken rage.
In reality, the gag keeps me from needing to communicate with Silas. Stifling my spells—mouth covered and hands bound—means he won’t think it’s suspicious that I don’t try to attack.
I need to decide how to act in front of Silas, but I don’t have the mental capacity to consider it now. My bonds, ironically, free me.
Julius shows Silas my bruises, also claiming that the ones from Henry were inflicted by Bishop.
He says nothing specific about the ones on my thighs or buttocks, but the glint in Silas’s eyes tells me he suspects how I got them.
Julius also murmurs about “chafing on her nether regions” and the look in Silas’s eyes is pure malicious glee.
Not for what happened to me, but at Bishop giving in to his “baser” self.
Perfectly controlled Bishop Daniels slipped and fell from his pedestal, and Silas couldn’t be happier.
If my beating seems less severe than Silas intended, he either doesn’t notice or care. Punishing me is far less important than seeing Bishop tumble.
After the demonstration, Julius escorts Silas out, and then re turns long enough to free my bonds and whisper, “You’ll be out of here tomorrow.
” He sneaks me an apple and a chunk of bread, promises to have my guard bring blankets to “aid in healing,” and I declare him an absolute angel before he slips away, leaving me to my snack.
I don’t recognize the wolf who brings the blankets. He keeps his gaze averted, as if I’m naked. Maybe I should have hidden my discarded corset. Of course, that would require having someplace to hide it.
Before leaving, the wolf—a middle-aged man with light brown skin—mumbles that he will be on watch tonight, and if I’m in medical distress, I can shout for him.
I’ve no idea whether my guard is on Bishop’s side.
He isn’t one of his “boys,” who all seem young.
I know some of Bishop’s allies. Are there more?
Are there wolves he expects will back him, even if they don’t dare openly support him?
Are there some who might support Silas now, but would transfer their loyalty to Bishop if he wins his challenge?
It’s all very complicated, and I’m not sure how much I can ask, no matter how curious I am.
Once I have my blankets, I’m left in the dark. I don’t bother casting a light spell. I don’t bother trying to escape either. The lock is too complicated for my unlock spell, and even if it worked, I wouldn’t get far.
All I can do with my time is mull over a coup I know nothing about beyond “my father is a monster and Bishop can’t do worse.”
Fine. I’m sure Bishop will make a fine Alpha. Julius certainly thinks so, as does Oliver, and both seem good men.
I think of how Bishop treats his Pack brothers. Firmly when they are out of line, as when they insulted me on my arrival. Respectfully when they are his elders, like Claude and Reginald. And gently when they’re young and uncertain, like Felix.
Bishop will be a good Alpha. And from what I’ve seen of my father, this coup is justified and beneficial to all.
Beneficial to all including me? Yes. If I get out of here but Silas remains Alpha, I’d need to flee, like my mother did. I don’t want to flee. I want…
I want to go home to my aunt. To Lenora and our life together.
That isn’t going to happen. That is never going to happen. My aunt is dead. Dead.
With nothing else to distract me, I plummet headfirst into the pit of grief.
It takes a while for the tears to come, but when they do, they rip from me with sobs loud enough to pierce those thick walls and bring my guard running.
When he sees I’m crying, he shoves something through the bars of my cage and then flees.
I cry until my throat is raw. Then, when I finally can, I look to see what my guard dropped.
It’s something wrapped in a linen napkin.
I crawl over, too sob-weakened to stand, too grief-stricken to bother.
I slowly unwrap the object and find a few bars of shortcake.
A snack taken for his nighttime shift, hastily shoved in for me.
Fresh tears flow as I sit in the corner and nibble the shortbread, sweet and crumbly and reminding me of home, of the Scottish neighbor in Cornwall who always paid my mother in shortbread.
I’ve found something here, in this strange place. In Trevelyan. In the Pack. Something terrible but also something wonderful, wrapped up in this shortbread snack given to me by a stranger because I was grieving.