Chapter 16 - Dina
It’s strange how a kidnapping is never as cinematic as you’d imagine.
In the movies, it’s all black hoods and chloroform, but in real life, it’s a muddy truck, the baby shrieking in my arms, and some asshole with blood running down his neck hissing at me to “shut up, shut up, shut up” as if that’s ever worked on a child or a woman, for that matter.
I hold Alora so tight my arms ache. When they yank us from the cab, she screams, and I bite down on the urge to bare my teeth.
I will not give them the satisfaction. I will not let them see me rattle, because that’s what idiots like this usually want.
They want to see cracks. Weakness. The wolf inside me is pacing, ears pinned, ready to kill, but right now, survival is the only thing that matters.
But then I see the wards. There are rows of them, barely visible, woven of hair and bone and some kind of oily thread that smells like the specific kind of rotten dark magic that I remember from Cheslem.
Whoever set these was a witch, and a good one.
The wards crawl up the trees, shimmer in a way that could be easily missed, designed by people with real power.
Cloaking, I realize. That’s how they got into Silvercreek without anyone noticing.
That’s how they’re going to keep us hidden. That’s how they’ll strike again.
Alora has gone rigid, hiccuping against my chest. I whisper her name as softly as I can, but my own voice is shaking.
I try to memorize the pattern of the wards, the way they spiral and knot, because when I get out of here, and I will get out of here, I’ll need to tell Luna or the security team exactly what we’re dealing with.
They shove us toward a cabin, and I glance at the rogue still holding a dirty rag to his throat. He should be healing, but the blood just won’t stop. I watch him, trying to gauge how bad it is; I only wish I’d been able to do more damage when he grabbed us.
The fact that even a beta wolf takes less than an hour to close a wound like that, but his is still dripping, still blooming red through the cloth.
The magic in the air is working against him, slowing the process, corrupting his body’s natural drive to fix itself.
That’s the thing about black magic; it doesn’t care about its host.
But they haven’t killed us, and that tells me something important but very simple: they want us alive.
The biggest one, who I think is the leader, grabs me by the arm and shoves us both inside.
The air in the cabin is already hot, stuffy, heavy, and heavy with a lingering sense of fear.
I hear the door slam and the scrape of metal as they bar it from the outside.
I let myself breathe, shallow and trying to regain some calm, scanning the small space for weapons, exits, or anything I can turn into leverage.
There’s nothing but the two cots, a pile of wood near the stove, but nothing to light it with, and a couple of half-empty water bottles.
Alora has stopped crying, but she’s gone limp, her little head pressed so hard against my collarbone I worry she’s going into shock.
I whisper, “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” like maybe if I say it enough times, one of us will believe it.
She buries her face in my jacket and whimpers.
I want to kill everyone responsible for this.
I sit down on the nearest cot, Alora still tucked into my lap, and listen.
The men are arguing just outside, voices muffled but the venom clear.
I hear the bleeding one say, “Shoulda killed her. Shoulda killed the kid. Getting soft, all of you.” The others answer, but the voices are muffled, and I catch the gist about orders and bait, and something that sounds like “let them come.”
It’s not about us. We’re not the endgame. We’re currency.
I check the window. Sealed, painted, but not reinforced.
If I could get my hands on something hard enough, I could break it.
But the room looks empty, and we’re surrounded by wards I don’t understand.
I start pacing the room, Alora in my arms, and do what my father taught me when the world goes to shit: get your bearings, take inventory, and figure out the odds.
It’s the only ritual I have for moments like this, and it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
I whisper the steps out loud, a mantra for both of us.
“First, get your bearings,” I say, and walk the perimeter of our cell.
The windows are nailed shut, painted to blend with the rest of the wall, but still visible.
The only door is barred from the outside, but the hinges look old, and the wood is splintering at the bottom.
The air is thick with some kind of chemical and whatever dark magic they laced the wards with.
There’s a dusty vent high in one wall, but it’s too small for me.
Still, it’s a weakness. Every cage has one.
Alora fusses, small fists drumming my chest. I set her down on the cot, squat to her level, and try to look calm.
“Second, take inventory,” I tell her, opening the diaper bag they tossed at my feet when they hauled us in.
It’s been emptied except for a couple of essentials, just a few diapers, a half-used pack of wipes, and the two bottles I’d packed for our walk.
The formula is still slightly warm, and she’s long overdue for a feed, so I quickly pop the bottle in her mouth. She latches instantly, desperate.
“Third, listen,” I murmur, and I do, straining for any clue.
The men outside are still bickering, but their voices are lower now, urgent and mean.
I still can’t make out every word, but I catch the words, Alpha, and the witch, and I know they’re talking about Luna and Nick, about Silvercreek, about the old war.
Finally, they talk about Caleb, his betrayal, and the revenge they want.
The cadence of the threats is familiar; it has echoes of the last time Cheslem imprisoned me, the same situation that led me to Silvercreek. And Caleb.
I sit back against the wall, Alora cradled to my chest, and let the weight of the moment settle. This is bad, but it’s not unwinnable. The wolves want something, and that means they’ll keep us alive at least for a while. I just have to buy time, keep Alora safe, and wait for the opening.
The thought of waiting to be rescued again makes my skin crawl.
I remember how my father tried to prepare me for moments like these, almost knowing he wouldn’t be there to save me one day.
And that day is now. The memory of how much I loved him hits me so hard I nearly drop the bottle.
I want to smash something, or scream, or shift and tear the door off its hinges, but I don’t. I hold Alora and breathe.
She finishes the bottle, sighs, and burrows her face into my chest, making a sound that’s almost a laugh.
She doesn’t know where we are, and she doesn’t care; she’s just happy to be with me.
She grabs one of her own curls and tugs, hard, then erupts in a startled little cackle.
The sound is so defiant, so full of resilience, that I have to bite my lip to keep from letting the tears win.
Instead, I pull her into my neck and kiss her hair, over and over, until she squirms and giggles again.
“We’re going to be okay,” I whisper, and I mean it, if only because the alternative is unthinkable.
I rock her, swaying her gently as her eyes begin to grow heavy.
My mind cycles through every possible scenario, every angle.
I know that if they wanted me dead, I’d be dead already.
I know that if they wanted the baby dead, she’d be gone, too.
So I focus on that, on how to use it. I run the inventory again, this time with the cold, tactical clarity my father drilled into me, looking at how to use the weakness, use the enemy, use whatever is left.
Alora winds down and falls asleep, her breath hitching at every exhale before finally smoothing out. I lay her on the cot and watch her for a long time, fingers tracing the outline of her fat little fist. I realize I’d do anything to keep her safe. Anything.
And for the first time in months, I find myself really thinking about Caleb without the filter of self-disgust or betrayal.
I turn the memory of his face over in my mind, remembering how he held Alora, how his arms felt around me, how he has only ever shown me kindness.
How he let me rage and didn’t flinch. I hate him for what Cheslem did to my world, but somewhere in the last few weeks, I stopped hating him.
I started hating the old ghosts, the ones that cling to us both, the ones that built this mental cage we’re now living in.
I think about the way it felt to belong to something again, even if it was just for a moment in his kitchen, in his bed, my hands in his hair, his mouth at my neck.
How good it felt, and how much I tried to ruin it, to repel it, to prove I didn’t need or want it.
But I did. I do. My wolf yearns for him, for the safety of his body, for the certainty of his voice.
She wants to tell him that he’s still worth loving after everything we both survived.
It’s almost a relief, the honesty of my thoughts.
There’s no comfort in the memories themselves, but there’s a clarity in acknowledging my feelings that I haven’t felt since I lost my father, since I was imprisoned.
Love doesn’t care about history or logic; it’s chemical, and it feels slightly stupid, and it feels absolute.
I can’t hate myself for loving him, not when he and Alora are the only things that make sense right now.
Alora stirs, a soft mewl, and I tuck her back in, smoothing her hair. I whisper, “Your dad is going to find us. I know it,” and the words settle in the air, heavy with hope.
I pace the cell again, fingers running over every inch of the wall, knowing that Caleb will be absolutely out there looking for us, but if the wards remain, he won’t find us.
I kneel at the first window and test the frame with my thumb.
It doesn’t budge. I push harder, then let my wolf rise just beneath the skin, flexing claws into my fingers until they ache.
I scrape at the paint, gouging a line through the thick white.
The wood underneath is easier than I expected; it’s dry, old, and potentially unstable.
They painted over rot. I glance at the other window; it’s the same story, neat and solid from a distance, but the actual pane of glass feels looser than it should.
I keep my body between Alora and the window as I work, one eye on the door and one on the yard outside.
I can see the men moving, two of them pacing the perimeter, their breaths fogging the glass.
The third, the one I injured, sits hunched on the steps, head in his hands.
Maybe he’ll pass out. Maybe he’ll die if he doesn’t heal.
I don’t care. I focus on the window, using each second to loosen the frame.
My claws aren’t strong enough to pry the nails, but they are strong enough to chip away at the wood.
Quietly, slowly, I dig a groove along the bottom edge, pausing every few seconds to listen for the sound of boots outside.
The groove deepens, the wood gives, and I start to see the heads of the nails, black and rusty.
With a little more effort, I can get my fingers behind them.
I picture my father’s hands, callused and patient, showing me how to break down a door with nothing but leverage and willpower.
I can hear his voice telling me not to waste energy on a show of strength.
Find the weak point. Make the whole thing collapse.
The window is half-covered by a faded blue curtain, which will be useful if anyone checks on us; hopefully, they won’t notice the damage.
It’s big enough for me to climb out, but if Alora started screaming, our escape would be over before it begins.
I can’t think about that right now. I keep working on the frame, careful to keep the curtain in place as cover, and dig my claws into the grain.
The pain is sharp, but I welcome it. I want to feel something concrete, something that isn’t fear.
The wood crumbles, the paint flakes, and the frame begins to loosen.
I wedge my shoulder underneath and push, just enough to flex the glass, not enough to make a noise. It’s going to work because it has to.
I pause and look at the wards outside. They’re more than just a tangle; they’re a web, each one feeding the others, amplifying the power.
I watch the shimmer in the air, the way the strands pulse every time the wind kicks up.
I’m no witch, but I know a circuit when I see one.
If I can break that, even for a second, the whole spell might collapse, and someone, Caleb, will have a chance of seeing through the cloaking.
I know he’ll be out there looking.