44. Annabella
Chapter forty-four
Annabella
The first thing I registered was that someone had put me on fur.
Real fur. Thick and luxurious, radiating a warmth that had no business being anywhere near me. After days of cold prison floors and then the back of a sled-crate bouncing over Quebec wilderness, warmth felt wrong.
My wrists were more like it. Silver-threaded cuffs bit into the skin, the burn immediate and constant.
My wolf flinched back from it, retreating to somewhere small and muted inside my chest. My magic tried to respond, a weak flicker behind my sternum that sputtered and died.
The sedation had knocked the magic out of me for the moment.
I kept my breathing even. Eyes shut. Body loose.
Assess. Then act.
Voices around me. Low and tense. At least four distinct speakers, male and female, overlapping in a way that said argument rather than briefing.
“— Webster will punish us for losing the facility —”
My stomach clenched. Of course. There was no escaping my father.
“We bring him the prisoner.” An older male voice, heavy with authority. “He can interrogate her and find out who fucked with his operation.”
“Are you out of your mind?” A woman, this time. “It doesn’t matter if we bring him a hundred prisoners. This voids our agreement, and without the dose, the Alpha —”
“Don’t say it.” The authoritative voice again, cutting clean. “We find a way to keep the doses coming.”
“She’s awake.”
Hex it all.
I must have tensed. Some involuntary reaction my body made before my brain could stop it.
I opened my eyes.
The room assembled itself around me in pieces.
Massive log beams overhead, a vaulted ceiling that belonged in a hunting lodge.
Stone fireplace dominating one wall, fire going strong—heat rolling off it, completely at odds with the tension in here.
Thick fur rugs on hardwood floors. Wolf pelts. My stomach turned.
Panoramic windows along the far wall showed nothing but pine forest. Mountains in the distance, peaks lost in cloud. No roads. No buildings. No chance of stumbling onto a passing hiker. We were in deep backcountry.
Weapons hung on the walls between mounted antlers. Not decorative; these looked functional. Axes, compound bows, blades with edges that caught the firelight. The central table was covered in topographical maps marked with patrol routes and territory lines.
Around me in a loose perimeter were five wolves, blocking exits without being obvious about it.
I sat up. The world lurched sideways. My ribs screamed.
My calf—where that gray wolf had locked its jaws during the ambush—throbbed with every heartbeat.
My back burned where claws had torn through my jacket.
The sedative clung to my thoughts like wet gauze, and my magic was still guttering at best.
I swallowed the nausea and forced my spine straight.
I wouldn’t be small. I wouldn’t show them my fear.
A man stepped forward. Early thirties. Broad-shouldered, square jaw covered in a thick goatee. Tactical pants, worn boots, fleece that had seen too many winters.
He watched me. Waited.
I watched him back.
“Welcome back to the world of the living,” he said finally. “For now, anyway.”
I managed something that might have been a smile. Probably looked more like a grimace. “Is there a continental breakfast with this kidnapping, or should I speak to management about the disappointing service?”
Nothing. No rise, no twitch. He just filed my response away like data.
The door to the adjoining room opened.
A female Shifter walked in; late twenties, maybe thirty. Dark hair pulled back in a braid, sharp cheekbones, oval eyes that looked slightly too big for her face.
She stopped a few feet from me. “You metabolized the sedative faster than any wolf I’ve seen.
” Her voice was clipped with a French-Canadian accent.
“My name is Marise Laroche.” She said it like I should recognize the name.
“You destroyed property under my Pack’s protection.
Killed two of our wolves. Injured six more. ”
“Your wolves were guarding a facility that was manufacturing ripple.” The anger was right there, close to the surface, and I let it sharpen my voice. “So, if you’re waiting for an apology, find a chair. You’ll be waiting a while.”
“Ripple,” she repeated the word like she was turning it over. Testing the shape of it.
She crouched, bringing herself level with me. Close enough that I could smell the spruce on her jacket.
“Tell me. How many of you were at the facility?”
I held her eyes.
“Who supplied your intel?” she continued. “What were you looking for? Were you hired? Who’s paying?”
Rapid-fire. Designed to overwhelm. Push through defenses. Get something before the subject could construct a coherent lie.
I let the silence stretch. Then asked, “Why were you guarding it?” My voice came out quiet. “What does Webster give your Alpha every month? How many doses? And what happens when he stops?”
Marise went still.
The guy with the goatee dropped his hand to a blade at his belt. Two wolves near the door stepped forward. The room contracted around me, all of them suddenly very alert.
There it is.
Whatever Webster was giving them, it was life and death.
“You know nothing about our situation,” Marise said.
“I know Webster better than you think.” I held her stare. “And I know his deals always cost more than the asking price. Whatever he promised your Pack—whatever he’s giving you in exchange for guarding that facility—it comes with a leash. And he will yank it.”
Marise’s jaw worked. A tiny movement, barely visible. She was rattled.
“You’re very confident for someone in silver cuffs,” she said.
“And you’re very defensive for someone who thinks she’s on the winning side.”
One of the wolves near the door let out a low, involuntary growl…not at me. At the tension. The whole room was wound too tight, and I was pulling the string.
Marise studied me for another long moment. Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it.
“Take her upstairs.”
Goatee guy and two others hauled me to my feet.
Firm hands, no unnecessary cruelty. They walked me through the house—high ceilings, family photos on the walls, generations of wolves documented in wooden frames.
The hallway smelled like cedar and old wool, and something my wolf caught even through the silver suppression; a faint, bitter wrongness underneath the Pack-scent that I couldn’t place.
They brought me to a room on the second floor. Sparse. Clean. Single bed, dresser, window overlooking endless forest. A bedroom, not a cell.
I stood in the silence for a moment after the lock clicked.
Then I started working.
First: the cuffs. Silver-threaded, designed for wolves.
I pressed my fingers against the silver.
Pain lanced up my arms, bright and merciless.
My vision whited out for a second. But underneath the burn—deep, like finding a pulse in a limb you thought was dead—I felt my witch magic push back. A thread. A crack in the wall.
The cuffs couldn’t hold me when my magic came back.
Second: the room. The window was too small to climb through. The dresser was bolted to the wall. The bed frame was metal but light gauge, nothing I could weaponize without making enough noise to bring every wolf in the house. The door hinges were on the outside. No screws to work loose.
Third: what I knew. The Mountain Pack—Meute des Montagnes—was getting something from Webster.
Doses. Medicine. Whatever it was, it had them scared enough to guard his facility in exchange.
They didn’t know who I was. To them, I was just the Shifter who’d blown up their patron’s investment. A bargaining chip.
That anonymity was the only card I had. And the clock was ticking.