Chapter 5
MARY
Icount every stone in the wall across from me. Twice.
The ones at the bottom are older, cracked with lines that run like veins, some mortar chipped away from age or claws.
The middle ones are cleaner, newer. Probably replaced during renovations when the Syndicate turned this compound into their own little underworld.
The top row is stained a deep rust color near the vent, and I know that’s not all iron.
That’s blood. Human, maybe. Or shifter. Doesn't matter. The stains speak the same language.
My chains rattle faintly every time I shift my weight. The sound grates on my ears like nails across bone, but I make the noise on purpose. If I don’t, the silence thickens until it starts to crawl under my skin.
I’m cold, but not from the air. The cell is climate controlled—Roman's brand of cruelty always likes its presentation clean. What chills me is the stillness. Not the lack of movement. The lack of life. There’s nothing in this room but stone and restraint and the slow drag of time.
He hasn’t come back yet. Silas.
The fox.
He’s watching though. I know that in my bones. I can smell his proximity even when the corridor stays empty. Sometimes I hear the subtle shift of a boot sole on concrete, a pause in the vent’s rhythm, that split-second disruption that tells me someone is listening.
So I give him something to hear.
The cuffs bite into my skin when I twist hard against them, trying to test the angle of the anchor bolt.
I’ve already tried shifting; the silver woven through the chain flares hot every time my skin tries to ripple.
It doesn’t stop me from trying again. There’s satisfaction in defiance, even when it’s pointless.
I grit my teeth and slam my foot against the wall hard enough that the thud reverberates through my bones.
The door doesn’t open. I try again.
Nothing.
Fine.
I settle back on my heels and breathe out slowly, forcing my pulse to calm, forcing my wolf to retreat far enough that the burning in my shoulders fades into a dull ache.
Then the door opens.
And he walks in like he owns the world.
Roman Vexley is taller than I remember, though that may be because he’s filled out since the last time I saw him in person. Broad shoulders, sleek suit, no tie, hair swept back from his face with military precision. He looks clean. Controlled. That’s the first lie.
The second is the way he smiles.
Like he’s happy to see me.
“Mary,” he says, like it’s a greeting between old friends and not the prelude to something awful.
I don’t answer.
He waits a beat. Maybe two. When I keep my eyes on the wall and not on him, he steps forward and crouches just inside my reach. He doesn’t get too close. He knows better.
“You look tired,” he says.
I don’t blink.
“I imagine you’re wondering why you’re here. Why your brother isn’t.”
Still nothing.
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose. It sounds disappointed.
“Silas didn’t hurt you too badly, did he?” he asks.
I give him one thing. I turn my head, slow, deliberate. Our eyes lock. I keep my face still, every muscle under control, even though my mouth tastes like copper and my jaw aches from how hard I’ve been holding it clenched.
And then I spit.
Right on his polished boot.
He stares at it for a moment. Not with rage. Not even annoyance. Just that same cold interest a cat shows a broken toy. He straightens, brushing invisible dust from his thigh, and takes a step back.
“I see the stories about you weren’t exaggerated,” he says, voice smooth as glass.
I sit there and breathe, slow and steady, eyes fixed on him like I’m memorizing where to put the knife.
He smiles once more. Then turns to leave.
“Enjoy the accommodations,” he says without looking back. “We’ll talk again. When you’re more reasonable.”
The door seals with a quiet click. My fingers curl into fists.
It’s a long time before it opens again.
When it does, the scent that drifts in is the same one that’s been hovering just beyond the reach of breath since I got here.
Fox.
Silas steps into the cell and closes the door behind him. No guards. Just him, a satchel, and the expression of a man who’s convinced himself he’s still in control.
He kneels beside me, slow and careful, opening the satchel and pulling out a small med kit. I don’t move.
“You’re bleeding again,” he says without looking at my face.
“I’ll live.”
“Could be infected.”
“Won’t be.”
He sighs, not dramatically, just quiet and tired. He reaches for my forearm, fingers brushing the raw line of skin just above the chain’s edge.
I jerk it back.
He doesn’t react.
“Let me clean it,” he says, softer now.
I stare at him. At the way the light catches the edges of his jaw, at the faint smear of something red under his collarbone. Training blood, probably. He doesn’t smell hurt. Just… worn.
When I don’t stop him this time, he takes it as permission and dabs the edge of the wound with disinfectant. It stings. I don’t flinch.
“Roman’s not going to get what he wants,” I say eventually.
He pauses. Just for a second.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“You brought me here.”
“I kept you alive.”
I look down at our hands, at the way his thumb brushes too close to my palm. There’s heat there, but not warmth. Not anymore.
“You should’ve let me die on that mountain,” I say.
He looks up at that, eyes searching mine, jaw tightening.
“I couldn’t.”
I pull my arm back once the bandage is secure, flexing my fingers even though the burn hasn’t faded.
“You think patching me up makes you less of a coward?”
“No,” he says quietly. “I think it makes me human.”
The wolf inside me snarls, low and deep. I don’t let it show.
“You were never human,” I whisper.
“Maybe not,” he replies. “But I’m trying.”
Something in his voice flickers then. Not hope. Not guilt. Something older. Something like recognition.
And for the briefest second, before I bury it under rage, I feel something shift too.
Just slightly.