Chapter 11 Breaking Point (Rowan POV)
The second night in the holding cell felt longer than the first. The fluorescent bulb overhead had developed a stutter, on-off-on-off, like it was mocking me. I’d tried counting the flickers again, but somewhere around four hundred my vision started swimming and the numbers dissolved into static. My skin burned where the silver marks touched it, hotter than before, like someone had poured liquid fire into my veins and let it settle there.
I paced the narrow space between cot and sink. Three steps. Turn. Three steps back. My bare feet slapped the concrete, louder than they should have been. Every impact sent tiny shocks up my legs, like my bones were tuning forks. I stopped, pressed both palms to the wall, forehead against the cold stone. Breathe. Just breathe.
The wolf answered with a low thrum in my chest, patient, insistent, like a hand tapping on glass. Let me out. Let me stretch.
“No,” I whispered. “Not yet.”
My voice sounded wrong, rougher, lower. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Not yet.”
The tapping grew louder.
I slid down the wall until I sat on the floor, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them. The silver marks glowed brighter in the dim light, intricate whorls that shifted when I moved, almost like breathing. I traced one on my forearm with a trembling finger. The skin underneath felt too tight, like it didn’t belong to me anymore.
Sleep came in fits, shallow, jagged. I’d drift off and jerk awake, convinced I’d heard claws on stone. My own nails, maybe. They looked longer tonight. Sharper.
I don’t know when the blackout started.
One moment I was staring at the ceiling, counting cracks. The next...
Darkness.
A surge of heat, bone-deep. Muscles spasming. Something inside me uncoiling, stretching, pushing against the cage of my ribs. I tried to scream but my throat closed. Then...
Nothing.
When awareness returned, I was on my knees. Hands wrapped around the steel bars of the cell door. Not gripping. Crushing.
The metal had bent inward in four places, deep, finger-shaped dents. The bars groaned under the pressure of my palms. I stared at them, uncomprehending. My knuckles were white, veins standing out like cords. I let go. The bars stayed warped.
Footsteps pounded down the corridor, heavy, running. Shouts.
“She’s out! She’s breaking the bars!”
“Tranq team, now!”
I scrambled backward until my spine hit the cot. My heart slammed so hard I tasted copper. The wolf surged again, a wave of heat and hunger and fury. I clenched my jaw, nails digging into my palms until blood welled.
The outer door burst open. Four guards, Jackson and three others I didn’t recognize, filled the doorway. Two held rifles loaded with thick darts. The third carried a metal case stamped with a red cross and a crescent moon. Jackson’s face was pale, eyes wide.
“Stay back, Ashford,” he barked. His voice cracked on my name.
I lifted my hands, slowly. “I didn’t... I don’t know how...”
“Hands where we can see them!” one of the others yelled. The tranq rifle came up, laser dot dancing on my chest.
I froze.
The wolf snarled inside me, loud enough that I thought they could hear it. My vision sharpened; I could see the tremor in the guard’s trigger finger, smell the acrid bite of adrenaline rolling off all four of them.
“Don’t,” I said. My voice came out gravel-rough. “Please.”
The guard with the case stepped forward, flipping the lid. Glass vials glinted inside, thick, syrupy liquid the color of old honey. Werewolf-strength tranquilizer. Enough to drop a full-grown alpha for hours.
He uncapped a syringe. Needle flashed.
I took one step back. The wolf lunged, hard. My vision tunneled. Muscles twitched, ready to spring.
“Hold her!” Jackson shouted.
They moved.
I didn’t think, I reacted.
My hand shot out, faster than I meant. I caught the syringe wrist mid-air. The needle snapped against my palm and bent. The guard yelped, stumbled back. The vial shattered on the floor; sedative spread in a slow amber pool.
The other rifle came up.
“Enough!”
The voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
Headmaster Vance stood in the doorway, coat billowing, eyes blazing gold. The guards froze. Even the wolf inside me paused.
“Stand down,” she ordered. “All of you. Now.”
Jackson lowered his weapon first. The others followed.
Vance stepped past them, shoes clicking on concrete. She looked at the bent bars, then at me. Her expression didn’t change, calm, almost bored, but her eyes held something deeper. Recognition, maybe. Regret.
“Out,” she told the guards. “All of you. Wait in the corridor.”
They hesitated.
“Now,” she snapped.
They filed out. The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Silence stretched.
Vance walked to the cot, sat on the edge like we were in her office discussing college applications. She gestured to the floor in front of her.
“Sit.”
I hesitated, then folded myself down cross-legged. My hands shook. I hid them between my knees.
She studied the bent bars again. “Impressive. And terrifying, I imagine.”
I swallowed. “I don’t remember doing it.”
“You wouldn’t. Not yet.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “The wolf is rising. It’s fighting the last of the suppression. When it breaks through completely, you won’t have blackouts anymore. You’ll remember every second.”
I stared at her. “How do you know?”
She didn’t answer right away. Just watched me with those steady gold eyes.
“Your mother asked me to protect you,” she said quietly.
The words landed like stones in still water.
“My mother died when I was two,” I said. My voice sounded small.
Vance tilted her head. “Did she?”
My breath caught. “What?”
She didn’t elaborate. Just reached out, slowly, and placed one hand on my forearm, right over the brightest silver mark. Her palm was warm. Steady.
“Breathe with me,” she said.
I tried to pull away. She didn’t let go.
“In through the nose, four counts. Hold, four counts. Out through the mouth, six counts. Again.”
I stared at her.
“Do it,” she said. Not an order. A request.
I inhaled. One. Two. Three. Four.
Held.
The wolf stilled, just a fraction.
Exhaled, slow, six counts.
Again.
In.
Hold.
Out.
The heat in my veins cooled slightly. The pressure behind my ribs eased.
Vance kept breathing with me. Steady. Unhurried.
After the fifth cycle, she spoke. “When the surge comes, and it will, do this. Anchor yourself to the count. The wolf isn’t your enemy. It’s part of you. Starve it of fear, and it will listen.”
I opened my eyes. “Why are you helping me?”
She withdrew her hand. “I made a promise.”
“To who?”
She stood, smoothing her coat. “Someone who loved you very much.”
I pushed to my feet. “You’re not going to tell me anything else, are you?”
“Not tonight.” She glanced at the bent bars. “But I will make sure no one shoots you full of tranquilizers while you sleep.”
She walked to the door, paused with her hand on the handle.
“Breathe, Rowan,” she said. “Every time you feel it rising. Breathe.”
The door opened. She stepped through.
“Headmaster…” I started.
She looked back. “Yes?”
I swallowed. “Thank you.”
Her expression softened, just for a second.
“Get some rest,” she said. “You’ll need it.”
The door closed.
I stood in the middle of the cell, listening to her footsteps fade down the corridor. The guards outside were whispering furiously. Someone mentioned “reporting this to the Alphas.” Another voice, Jackson’s, muttered something about “not our call.”
I sank back onto the cot.
My hands still shook, but less violently.
I closed my eyes.
In, four.
Hold, four.
Out, six.
The wolf settled, curling tighter inside my chest.
Not gone.
Just… waiting.
I breathed again.
And again.