Chapter 78: The Alpha of Hollow
The light coming through the slit in the cell door had shifted—no longer flickering torchlight, but a paler gray-blue. Morning, maybe. Or something like it. I hadn't slept, not really. I'd drifted. Half-woken. Nursed Talon. Watched the ceiling and listened to the sounds of the Hollow breathing around me—distant footsteps, the echo of voices, the clatter of steel.
Now, there were footsteps again.
Closer.
Measured.
Then the lock clicked.
The door opened.
It was the same guard from before—the one with the heavy beard and eyes like flint. His gaze landed on me, then flicked to Talon in my arms. He said nothing.
Just stepped inside.
“Up,” he grunted.
I didn’t move.
He stared at me a moment longer, then strode forward, grabbed the chain at my ankle, and yanked. My body jolted. Talon whimpered against my chest.
“I said up,” he repeated, more flatly this time. “Alpha wants a word.”
I wrapped Talon tighter in the cloak. “I’m not leaving him.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
He stepped aside, motioned to the hallway. “Bring him. But move.”
My body ached from the night on stone. My wound had crusted over, half-healed in the brutal way wolves mended when we had no time to do it right. I rose slowly, keeping Talon bundled in one arm, using the wall for support.
The guard didn’t offer help. He just watched.
Once I was steady, he turned and started down the corridor.
I followed.
We walked through winding stone passages—narrow halls carved directly from mountain rock. The walls were rough but worn smooth by generations of bodies brushing past them. Iron Hollow wasn’t new. It was old. Deep. A den built by survivors who intended never to be prey again.
Guards passed us. Some glanced at me, some didn’t. A few slowed, eyes narrowing when they caught the scent of Talon. But no one said anything. Just stiffened and stepped aside.
We reached a heavy door reinforced with black iron and thick hinges.
The guard knocked twice, then shoved it open.
Inside was a cold, windowless chamber. One table. Two chairs. Chains bolted into the floor.
“Sit,” the guard said, motioning toward the nearer chair.
I did.
He took the cuff from the wall and clipped it to my ankle—just one—but tight enough to feel the message. I was dangerous. I was still being decided.
He left without another word.
The door closed.
Silence settled like fog.
I took a slow breath. Talon stirred. I touched his cheek, rocked him softly.
Then I heard the other door open.
And he walked in.
Roran Vale.
He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to.
He was tall—broader than I expected, but not bulky. Everything about him was lean, sharp. Controlled. He wore black from neck to boots, with a long coat that swayed behind him like a second shadow. His hair was dark brown and cut close to the scalp. His jaw was angular, dusted with a rough beard that looked more like practicality than style.
But it was his eyes that held me.
Silver. Like forged steel. Unblinking.
Not glowing.
Not threatening.
Just—watching.
He closed the door behind him. Walked to the far chair. Sat.
He didn’t speak right away.
He looked at me. Then at Talon.
Then back to me.
I didn’t drop my gaze.
He folded his hands on the table. His fingers were long, scarred across the knuckles. Not fresh. Not old. Just… worn.
“They said you were dead,” he said calmly.
I said nothing.
“They said you’d bled out before you hit the border.”
Still nothing.
“I suppose they’ll be disappointed.”
My lip twitched. “I tend to disappoint.”
He tilted his head slightly. “You’re not rogue.”
“No.”
“You’re not Hollow.”
“No.”
“You’re not pack.”
A pause.
“No,” I said.
“So what are you?”
I let the silence stretch.
He didn’t fidget. He didn’t press. He simply waited. As if my words would eventually rise like steam.
When they didn’t, he leaned forward slightly.
“You were found on Hollow territory, half-dead, carrying a pup.” His tone didn’t change. Still calm. Still controlled. “That means you’re either desperate, stupid, or dangerous.”
“Which do you think I am?”
His mouth almost quirked at the corner. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”
He glanced down at the bundle in my arms.
Then leaned back.
“And who is the child?”
I said nothing.
“You’ve bled a lot for him,” he said. “So he must matter.”
I stroked Talon’s back with my thumb. He didn’t stir.
“His name?” Roran asked.
“No.”
That got a reaction.
Not surprise. Just a slight narrowing of his eyes.
“You refuse to answer.”
“I refuse to offer anything you haven’t earned.”
He was silent again.
Then: “You’re strong.”
It wasn’t a compliment. More like an observation. Something he was confirming in real time.
“Strong wolves don’t walk into another Alpha’s territory unless they have no other option.”
I didn’t respond.
He shifted, but only barely. “So tell me what option you ran out of.”
I held his gaze. “You want answers.”
“I want truth.”
“Truth has a price.”
That earned a flicker of something in his expression. Interest. Approval, maybe.
“You’re wounded. You’re tired. You’re alone.” He said it not with pity, but precision. “But you still speak like a wolf with teeth.”
“I still have them.”
He leaned forward again, slow and deliberate.
“I want to see your son.”
My heart kicked hard.
I kept my face still.
“You can’t want that,” I said evenly.
“I do.”
“No.”
His voice didn’t rise. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t trust you.”
“Good.”
His reply was so quiet it almost didn’t register.
I blinked. “What?”
“You shouldn’t trust me.”
A strange quiet stretched between us.
He stood.
Walked around the table.
I tensed, shifting my body to shield Talon. I was ready to fight, cuffed or not.
But he stopped just shy of reaching range.
“I'm not here to hurt him,” Roran said. “Or you.”
I didn’t move.
He studied me again.
Then nodded, once.
He turned, walked back around the table, and sat.
“You’re right,” he said. “Truth has a price. But so does silence.”
I watched him.
“I’m giving you until tomorrow,” he said simply. “To decide which you’d rather pay.”
Then he stood again. This time, for good.
The door opened.
He left.
And I was alone again—with my silence.
And my son.
And the weight of every eye in this place waiting for me to fall.