🦋ALTHEA
The cell had no windows. Dampness clung to every surface, and the air was almost too stale to breathe. I felt claws rake through the lining of my lungs—uncertain if it was the stagnant air or the aftermath of the beating that caused the sensation.
I could not heal myself the way others did because I had no wolf. So, I lay on the damp floor, budgeting every inhale and exhale as if it were my last. I swallowed hard; my mouth tasted of copper, and my tongue felt heavy and useless. If I could reach out, I knew I would find the teeth my mother had pulled out.
I cradled my still-flat belly, hoping to feel my pup. I needed a sign that, just like me, it had survived the first phase of this ordeal. But as quickly as the hope came, regret washed over me. I should have wanted it to go back to wherever souls came from rather than suffer along with me.
Yet, in the suffocating tragedy my life had cataclysmed into, I still clung to the one person I had left to share my cell with. Even if they were inside me, had no name, and were nothing but a heartbeat.
I rubbed my stomach, trying not to grimace as I moved my broken fingers. The baby didn't move. But it was there. It had to be there. I had nothing else.
The door groaned open, metal scraping against stone. I flinched. My body screamed in protest as I tried to curl tighter, trying to disappear into the floor. I heard footsteps, but I didn't look up.
"Still breathing, I see."
Elias.
His voice was cold and amused, the tone of a man who had stumbled upon a wounded animal and was deciding whether to finish it off or let it suffer. I said nothing.
"Draven will be back in three days," he continued, his boots stopping just in front of me. "He's been informed. About Circe. About the heir. About you."
My chest tightened.
"He wanted to come back immediately, of course. But the High Alpha wouldn't allow it. Matters of the Allied Packs, you understand." He crouched down, and I could feel his eyes boring into me. "You deserve this, you know? Even if we both know you didn't do it."
I forced my swollen eyes open just enough to see him through the slits. He smiled.
"Wha—" I tried to force the question out. How did he know? I needed to know. But I couldn't speak.
He stood, brushing off his pants as though I'd contaminated him just by existing. "Three days, Althea. Then he'll decide what to do with you." He paused at the door. "My vote? Public execution. The pack deserves a show. You deserve that after what you took from me."
The door slammed shut.
Time lost all meaning in the dark. By the time the door opened again, I was drifting.
Different footsteps this time. I knew them before I saw him.
Draven.
My body went rigid, every instinct screaming at me to run, but I couldn't even twitch without falling into a world of pain. He stepped into the cell, followed by Vargans carrying covered platters. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread hit me like a physical blow.
My stomach clenched violently.
Draven's eyes found me on the floor, broken and bloodied. His expression was unreadable, merely assessing, and somehow that was worse than rage. He gestured to the Vargans, who set the platters on a small table. With a wave, he dismissed them, and they filed out silently, leaving us alone.
He sat in the chair they'd brought, crossing one leg over the other. "Come here," he said softly.
My jaw was too swollen to speak; my body too shattered to obey. He waited a moment, then stood. My heart lurched as he approached, and I pressed myself harder against the damp stone.
But he didn't strike me.
Instead, he knelt beside me, close enough that I could smell him—leather, pine, and citrus. After everything, the familiar scent still felt like home. He reached for a platter, revealing bread, meat, and fruit. My mouth flooded with saliva.
"Eat," he said, tearing off a piece of bread and holding it to my lips.
I stared at him, confused.
"Eat," he repeated, his voice firmer.
I opened my mouth, even as my jaw screamed in protest, and he placed the bread on my tongue. I chewed slowly, every movement pure agony. I hope it is poisoned, I thought bitterly.
He fed me another piece. Then another. His hand was steady, his expression calm—as if this were normal. As if he wasn't the reason I was here. I flinched every time he moved, but he didn't react. He was patient and methodical until the plate was empty. Then, he brought water to my lips. I drank greedily, the cool liquid washing away the taste of blood.
When I was finished, he leaned back, studying me. "I knew you were possessive of me," he said quietly. "But this—this was unprecedented. Especially for you."
I blinked, trying to comprehend the words.
"You can't even whip a Vargan," he continued, his tone almost conversational. "But to harm my wife because of jealousy?" He tilted his head. "I didn't think you had it in you."
No, that wasn't—
I tried to force the words past my swollen gums, but only a strangled sound emerged. I shook my head frantically.
His expression darkened. "Don't lie to me," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous chill. "Not after I just fed you. I showed you mercy."
I kept shaking my head, tears streaming down my face. Please. Please believe me.
"You're being disobedient," he said softly. "Even now. Even after everything."
He stood abruptly. Before I could register the movement, his hand came down. The blow caught me across the face, snapping my head to the side. Pain exploded through my jaw, and I tasted fresh blood. I collapsed, gasping and choking on the copper flooding my throat.
"You didn't just toe the line, Althea," he said, looming over me. "You crossed it by committing the most egregious act. The Hellhound could learn from you." He gave a short, dark laugh at his own joke.
Through the haze of pain, I heard more footsteps. Male Vargans this time. They carried heavy equipment, and my stomach dropped.
"Don't worry about your pup," Draven said, his voice almost gentle again. "We'll keep it alive. For as long as possible." He turned to a female Vargan. "It's alive, isn't it?"
She nodded.
He crouched beside me one last time, his hand resting on my belly. I wanted to scream, to claw his eyes out, but I was paralyzed.
"Our blood saved this pack once," he continued. "It can do it again. And again. And again." He stood and gestured to the Vargans. "Harvest it. Carefully. She needs to last."
Cold, sinking horror settled in my bones. He was going to bleed me. He would keep me alive just long enough to drain every drop of value from my veins. And the baby—he was going to keep it alive inside me while he did it.
A living incubator. A blood bank.
I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I could only sink into the nightmare. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. "Just submit and agree. Wren will be safe. Or else—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. The sinister light in his eyes said it all. "And when you are done, I have the perfect place for you; your mother brought the suggestion."