Chapter 23-Rosalind
I wake to the sound of my own breathing—too loud, too shallow—and the first thing I register is texture.
Rough. Scratchy.
A tarp.
It’s wrapped around me like a poor excuse for modesty, and even through the haze clogging my head, I’m grateful for it.
Grateful I’m not exposed.
Not completely naked and helpless in a place that already feels wrong in every possible way.
Where the hell am I?
I blink, my vision swimming, my thoughts thick like I’m pushing through syrup.
Then memory crashes in all at once, merciless and sharp.
Honor’s hands.
His mouth.
The way my body had sung when he touched me.
Claiming him.
His shift.
The roar.
The way he turned his back on me.
Rejection hits so hard it knocks the breath from my lungs.
My stomach clenches, a sound tearing out of me before I can stop it.
I clap a hand over my mouth immediately, forcing it down, forcing the pain back where it belongs.
Not now. Not here.
I listen.
Outside the tent—because that’s what this is, a tent—I hear voices.
Male. Coarse.
Laughing in that ugly, careless way that makes my Bear snarl low in my chest.
Men. Bears.
Not Clan.
Not Barvale.
The ground beneath me is uneven, the blanket I’m lying on stiff with dried sweat and fur.
It reeks—old Bear, unwashed bodies, oil, blood. My wrists ache. My ankles too.
Bound.
My heart starts racing, but I force myself to slow it down. I remember what I’ve been taught.
Panic won’t help me.
Panic gets you killed.
I don’t know how long I’ve been unconscious, but my mouth is dry as dust.
My tongue sticks when I swallow. My bladder aches, sharp and insistent.
Oh fuck. Is this how I die?
No. Don’t go there.
What if no one finds me?
The thought tries to take root, cold and poisonous.
I crush it.
No.
I’m an Enforcer. Or I was. I’ve been trained for this.
Worst-case scenarios.
Containment.
Survival.
I just have to get out.
A shadow crosses the thin fabric of the tent.
Then the flap jerks open.
Cold night air rushes in, along with the stench of unwashed flesh and rot. A man crouches there, broad and ugly, eyes glittering with something cruel as they rake over me.
“Thought I heard you moving,” he sneers, lips curling. “She’s awake!”
He shouts it like it’s a prize.
Like I’m a thing.
More footsteps approach, heavy and unhurried. My Bear slams against my ribs, furious, but she’s sluggish—drugged, weak, still fighting whatever they pumped into me.
I lift my chin anyway.
Bare my teeth.
Because even bound, even terrified, even aching with loss—I am not broken.
And somewhere deep in my chest, beneath the fear and the filth and the pain, one truth burns steady and sure.
I have a mate out there, and we have unfinished business.
And if—no—when I survive this?
These motherfuckers will regret ever touching me.