Heather's POV
☆☆☆☆☆
The silver bite of chains was the first thing Heather felt when she woke. Not the bruises blooming like flowers across her ribs. Not the split lip or the raw skin on her back. No—just cold metal against fevered skin, a reminder that she was owned, caged, and forgotten.
Again.
The cell was damp. The air, stale. Her wolf whimpered deep inside her, but Heather didn't bother to soothe it. That part of her—the wild, beautiful piece that once dreamed of running free—was barely breathing now. Every time she fought back, Alpha Marcus took another piece.
And he had taken too much.
A single torch flickered beyond the bars. The orange light cast her shadow along the stone floor, and for a moment, she didn't recognize it. Too thin. Too still. A ghost.
Footsteps echoed above.
She stiffened, heart hammering. They always came before the pain.
Her fingers curled into trembling fists. Not again. Not tonight. But hope was a cruel thing, and it died a little more with every second that passed. She could hear them now—two voices, both male. Laughing.
The lock turned.
Her wolf surged in protest, but Heather shoved her back. It didn't help to scream. It didn't help to shift. Marcus made sure shifting was impossible in here. The silver woven into the chains around her ankles sizzled faintly, a subtle reminder that even her magic was leashed.
The door groaned open.
Beta Krey entered first, smug as ever. His eyes skimmed her torn clothes, the bruises, the dried blood on her neck. He said nothing. He never did. He just watched.
Behind him came Marcus.
Alpha Marcus.
Heather's body recoiled before she even saw his face. Her stomach twisted. Her skin crawled. She hated how her muscles remembered him—how they shrunk before he even spoke.
"You've been quiet," he said, his tone smooth and false. "Are we finally learning obedience?"
Heather didn't answer. Her mouth was too dry, her throat too raw.
He stepped closer, crouched beside her like he was greeting a pet. Fingers reached out and lifted her chin with cruel gentleness. "I asked you a question, omega."
"I'm not an omega," she whispered hoarsely.
Wrong answer.
The slap snapped her head to the side. Her cheek stung, but she didn't flinch. Not anymore.
Marcus smiled. "Still some fight left in you. I admire that. I really do."
He stood, turned to Krey. "Unchain her. I want her walking this time."
Heather's breath hitched. That meant they were taking her upstairs. Not for punishment. For show.
She tried to retreat into her mind—her last sanctuary. She thought of the moon, full and bright above a forest she hadn't seen in months. She thought of her mother's voice, soft and melodic, long before death stole it away. She thought of a mate, faceless but kind.
Someone who would stop them. Someone who would see her.
The chains were removed.
Two hands grabbed her arms and hauled her to her feet. Her legs wobbled, and she nearly collapsed, but Krey shoved her forward. She stumbled toward the door, away from the cold, away from her cell, but not toward safety.
There was no safety here. Only pain with better lighting.
As she passed the rows of other cells, she kept her eyes down. Some of the other women didn't. Some stared. Some wept. One whispered her name like a prayer.
Heather wished she could answer. Wished she could be strong for them.
But tonight, she could barely breathe.
They dragged her through the halls of the packhouse, through stone corridors and polished floors, until they reached the banquet room. Laughter rang from within. Glass clinked. Wolves in silk and gold feasted like kings while blood still dried beneath their boots.
Marcus shoved her forward and stepped inside.
Heather followed, bare feet cold against marble.
The room stilled.
She felt every eye land on her. The bruises. The blood. The shame.
"Behold," Marcus said, spreading his arms. "My most disobedient little bitch."
Laughter erupted. Crude comments followed.
Heather stood there, spine stiff, refusing to let her tears fall.
Because if she cried, they won.
She didn't know how long she stood there as the crowd jeered and the alpha preened. She didn't know when the world began to blur or when the rage in her chest began to burn hotter than her fear.
But she did know one thing:
This wouldn't be forever.
One day, she would leave this place.
One day, she would burn it to the ground.
Heather stood frozen in the center of the room, every fiber of her being screaming to flee, to vanish, to be anywhere but here. But she had learned the cost of running. Her feet bore the scars from her last attempt. They had made sure she'd never try again.
A drunken wolf approached, cup in hand, leering. "Alpha, mind if I take a turn breaking her in?"
Marcus didn't answer. He never had to. His silence gave permission.
Heather flinched as the man reached for her, but Marcus snapped his fingers. "Not tonight. She still has value."
The man grunted and moved off, muttering something filthy. Heather exhaled slowly, the relief bitter. It wasn't mercy. It was strategy. Marcus never gave more than he could take back later.
She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. The anger was growing now—slow, smoldering. For too long she'd buried it beneath fear and survival, but it was there, fierce and untamed.
They wanted her to break.
But she wasn't broken yet.
Her gaze drifted upward, past the chandeliers and silk-draped walls, toward the window that framed the night sky. The moon hung low and round, casting pale light on her bruised skin.
She imagined the wind brushing her face, imagined the scent of pine and rain and freedom.
One day.
One day, someone would look at her and see more than weakness. More than the trembling girl forced to stand like a trophy of violence. Someone would see the fire buried beneath the silence.
And when that day came, when fate finally turned its gaze on her—
She would not kneel.
She would not shatter.
She would rise.
Even if she had to crawl through the ashes of everything that hurt her to do it.