Forty-Three Minutes
Flashback (I)– The Night After the Purge
The room smelled of expensive cigar smoke and old blood.
“How many did you kill?” the figure asked, broad back turned to them as he stared out the floor-to-ceiling window at the glittering lights of the city below.
Kane arched a brow, arms crossed over his massive chest. “We already fucking said it. Six.”
The man chuckled, low and amused, and finally turned.
He took a slow puff of the thick cigar, the ember glowing like a demon’s eye.
Smoke curled around his sharp, cruel face, Ryker, the man who owned the Triumvirate the way a handler owns prized fighting dogs.
He stepped forward, polished shoes clicking on marble.
Then his hand cracked across Kane’s face so hard the sound echoed like a gunshot.
Kane’s head whipped to the side, and blood sprayed from his split lip.
Saint growled instantly, a deep, warning rumble that shook the air. Kane turned back slowly, black eyes blazing, lips peeled back from bloody teeth.
Rhys’s hand shot out like a blade, clamping down on both their shoulders before either could lunge.
Ryker laughed again, wiping a speck of Kane’s blood from his knuckles onto a silk handkerchief. “Hold your pups, Rhys. Good boys don’t bite the hand that feeds them.”
He turned back toward the massive mahogany desk, cigar clenched between his teeth. “How embarrassing,” he mused, “that I had to hear it from that prick Marcella. My boys, my Triumvirate were too busy chasing cunt instead of spilling blood.”
He spun, eyes cold. “I didn’t send you to Silvercrest to play house with some pathetic little Omega. You can fuck whoever you want. Hell, you could’ve fucked any omega during the Purge if you’d wanted, you never do, and that’s what I always liked about you three. Cold. Efficient. Unstoppable.”
His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “Instead of coming out on top with the highest kill count, you crawled out with six. Six. Because you were busy defending a filthy wolfless bitch who’s beneath you.”
Saint’s growl turned feral. His shoulders bunched, eyes flickering red at the edges.
Rhys’s voice was ice. “Behave.”
Ryker’s smile sharpened. “It seems that Omega is becoming quite the distraction.”
Rhys stepped forward smoothly, golden eyes calm, voice soft and deadly. “She is no one to us. Just a pathetic plaything that caught our fancy for a moment. We have seen she isn’t worth it.”
Ryker studied him for a long second, cigar smoke drifting between them. “She is nothing?”
“Yes,” Rhys said without hesitation. “And it will not repeat itself.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, then he smiled, slow, satisfied, and utterly chilling. “Nevertheless… you will be punished. I will not have this weakness repeating itself. You are my Hunters. You will uphold that name at Silvercrest, or I will remind you who made you what you are.”
No one spoke.
Ryker snapped his fingers.
The double doors opened. Fifteen armed men in black tactical gear filed in silently, silver batons gripped in gloved hands. The batons were etched with runes, pure silver laced with wolfsbane extract and enchanted to burn shifter flesh like acid. One strike could drop even the strongest wolf.
Rhys inclined his head once. “Lead the way.”
They followed without resistance.
The punishment room was deep underground, concrete walls, drains in the floor, chains hanging from the ceiling. The air smelled of old fear and dried blood.
The moment the heavy door sealed behind them, the men moved.
They forced Saint to shift first.
“Wolf,” Ryker ordered from the observation window above.
Saint’s jaw clenched, but he obeyed. Bones cracked and popped as his massive wolf exploded outward, clothes shredding. He stood there, eight feet of muscle, fur, and barely contained rage, eyes glowing red.
The first baton cracked across his snout.
Silver met fur and burned. Saint roared in agony as the wolfsbane seared through his nerves. Another strike to his ribs. Then his hind leg. The men circled him like hunters, batons whistling through the air, each hit leaving smoking, blistering welts that wouldn’t heal fast because of the silver.
Saint’s wolf thrashed, snapping at the air, but he didn’t fight back.
Through the pack bond, Rhys’s voice was steady, calm, the only anchor.
Baby, it’s fine. Breathe. Just breathe for me.
Saint roared in pain, the sound echoing with old trauma, the same kind of silver chains and beatings his birth pack had used on him for years.
Kane’s voice joined, rough but gentle.
You’re safe, puppy. We’re right here. They can’t touch what matters.
The men turned on Rhys and Kane next.
They stayed human. Ryker’s orders.
Two men grabbed Rhys, slamming him against the wall. Batons rained down across his back, his shoulders, his thighs. Each strike burned like liquid fire, silver eating into his skin. He didn’t scream, he barely flinched. Golden eyes stayed locked on Saint through the bond.
Stay with us, Saint. Don’t let him win.
Kane took the worst of it. They knew he was the loud one, the one who would break first if they pushed. Fists and batons hammered his ribs, his face, his stomach. Blood poured from his mouth. A baton cracked across his jaw and he laughed through the pain, wild, unhinged, bloody.
Kane spat blood onto the floor. “That all you got, you pathetic fucks?”
A baton cracked across his face and his head snapped back.
Rhys endured in silence, golden eyes never leaving his two mates. Every time a blow landed on him, he absorbed it like it was nothing but through the bond he poured calm and control into both of them.
Puppy, listen to me. I’ve got you. We’ve always got you.
Saint’s wolf howled, a broken, grief-filled sound as another baton struck the sensitive spot behind his ear, the same place his old pack used to chain him. His legs buckled and collapsed to the concrete, chest heaving, fur singed and smoking.
Rhys’s voice never wavered in the bond.
You are not there anymore. You are ours. Breathe, baby. In and out. We’re almost done.
Kane, coughing blood, still managed a grin in the bond.
When this is over I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget their names, puppy.
The punishment lasted forty-three minutes.
When Ryker finally called it off, the three of them were on the floor, Rhys and Kane bleeding heavily in human form, Saint’s wolf curled protectively around them, whimpering softly.
Ryker's voice crackled over the speaker. “Let this be your reminder. The next time that Omega distracts you… the punishment will be on her and it will be public.”
The doors opened and the armed men filed out.
Rhys dragged himself up first, blood dripping from his split lip, and knelt beside Saint’s wolf. He buried his fingers in singed fur.
“You did so well,” he whispered aloud, voice soft. “My good boy.”
Kane crawled over, pressing his bloody forehead to Saint’s massive shoulder. “Soon baby, soon.”
Saint shifted back slowly, naked and trembling, curling into their arms like a broken child.
Through the bond, his voice was small.
She’s worth it… isn’t she?
Rhys smiled, something chilling beneath the beauty of it, blood streaking down his face as he kissed the top of Saint’s head.
“She’s everything.”