The world tilted when Christian stood. The ground felt unsteady, the air too thin. His skin stuck to the damp floor, cold seeping through every bruise. He braced a hand against the wall and waited for the room to stop spinning.
The basement was silent. Concrete walls, a broken chair, a single light flickering overhead. The air smelled of rust and decay. His own blood had dried to a dark sheen on his shirt. He pulled at the fabric until it tore free from his back.
The door was locked, but the metal had aged. He found a bent pipe near the corner and jammed it into the latch. The first push failed. The second tore the lock apart with a sharp crack that rang through the empty space. Before this he thought that his strength as an alpha was barbaric, but for once he was glad to have it.
