Chapter 50

Chapter 50
The man paused, needle hovering inches from my skin. His eyes narrowed as he studied me more intently, head tilting slightly as if seeing something for the first time.

"Wait," he said, pulling back the syringe. "Your wolf... it's different from the others."

I stared at him uncomprehendingly, pain and drugs clouding my thoughts. "What?"

"Your wolf," he repeated impatiently. "The coloring, the size, the resistance to the sedative. Why is it different from other wolves we've captured?"

Understanding dawned dimly. He had noticed something unusual about my wolf form—perhaps the rare silver-white coloring or the fact that I was larger than typical female wolves. Whatever it was, his sudden interest had temporarily postponed whatever fate that amber-filled syringe would have brought.

I mustered what defiance I could, curling my lip in a sneer despite my vulnerable position. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The lie was deliberate. My wolf was different—had always been different, which was partly why I'd struggled to fit into any pack. But I wasn't about to give this monster information he could use against me or other werewolves.

His face darkened with rage. "Bitch," he spat, lashing out with his boot again. The impact against my already bruised ribs drove the air from my lungs in an agonized gasp. "You'll talk eventually. They all do."

He delivered several more vicious kicks before stepping back, breathing heavily from the exertion of the beating. "Get her to the cabin," he ordered the men standing nearby. "Lock her up tight. I'll deal with her later."

Rough hands seized my arms and legs, lifting me from the ground. I tried to struggle, but my muscles refused to cooperate, still paralyzed by the drug. The hunters carried me through the forest, my battered body jostling painfully with each step.

After what seemed like an eternity, we reached a small clearing where a dilapidated wooden structure stood—more shack than cabin, with boarded windows and a door reinforced with metal bands. One of the men produced a key and unlocked a heavy padlock, swinging the door open to reveal a dim interior that smelled of damp wood and old blood.

They threw me unceremoniously onto a filthy mattress in the corner. Before I could even attempt to move, they had retreated, slamming the door behind them. The lock clicked into place with grim finality.

Left alone, I took stock of my injuries. The bites from the rogue wolves were already beginning to heal—one benefit of werewolf physiology—but the damage from the man's beating remained raw and painful. More concerning was the lingering effect of the drug, which still left my limbs feeling leaden and unresponsive.

The cabin was bare except for the mattress and a bucket in the opposite corner. A single barred window high on one wall let in meager light. I could see no immediate means of escape, even if I had possessed the strength to attempt it.

I lost track of time as I drifted in and out of consciousness, the combined effects of pain, drugs, and exhaustion pulling me under repeatedly. When the door creaked open again, I tensed, expecting the return of my tormentor.

Instead, a different figure slipped inside—younger, slimmer, with movements that suggested hesitation rather than threat. I blinked, trying to bring him into focus through my blurred vision.

He was perhaps twenty, with a shock of dark hair falling across his forehead and eyes that darted nervously toward the door and back to me. In his hands, he carried a small tray with what appeared to be food and water.

"Who are you?" I rasped, startled by this unexpected visitor. "What do you want?"

The young man approached cautiously, setting the tray on the floor near enough that I could reach it without having to move much. "Don't be afraid," he said, his voice quiet and surprisingly gentle. "I'm not going to hurt you."

I laughed bitterly, the sound emerging as a pained wheeze. "That's a change."

"I'm Edward," he continued, ignoring my sarcasm. "Matthew 's son." He nodded toward the door, presumably indicating the man who had beaten me. "But I'm not like him. I'm not... I don't agree with what they do."

I studied him skeptically, searching for any resemblance to the cruel-eyed man who had kicked me repeatedly. There was something in the shape of the jaw, perhaps, but Edward's eyes held a softness entirely absent from his father's.

"If you're not like him," I challenged, "then let me go."

Edward's gaze dropped to the floor. "I can't," he whispered. "I wish I could, but I can't. He would know it was me, and then..." He trailed off, swallowing hard. "He'd hurt my mother. He always takes it out on her when something goes wrong. I brought you food, though. Real food, not the slop they usually give prisoners."

I glanced at the tray. A simple sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of water—hardly a feast, but significantly better than nothing. My stomach cramped with sudden hunger, reminding me that I hadn't eaten since yesterday's interrupted breakfast.

"Please," I said, abandoning pride in favor of survival. "You have to help me. I need to get out of here before your father comes back."

Edward shook his head miserably. "I told you, I can't. He's a bastard, but he's dangerous. You have no idea what he's capable of—what he's done to others who crossed him."

"And what do you think he's going to do to me?" I demanded, desperation edging my voice. "He'll kill me, or worse."

"I—"

Whatever Edward might have said was cut short by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching outside. His eyes widened in alarm.

"I have to go," he whispered urgently, backing toward the door. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He slipped out just as the footsteps reached the cabin. A moment later, the door swung open again, revealing Matthew 's imposing figure silhouetted against the fading daylight.

In his hands, he carried a wooden case, which he set on the floor with disturbing care. When he opened it, I could see several vials and syringes nestled in foam padding.

"This drug," he muttered, seemingly talking to himself as he selected a vial, "is enough to knock out a strong male Alpha wolf." He filled a syringe with practiced movements, tapping it to remove air bubbles. "So why doesn't it work on you?"

His gaze shifted to me, and I felt a chill run through my body despite the fever of estrus that still burned beneath my skin. I remained silent, watching in horror as he prepared the injection.

"Nothing to say?" he asked, advancing toward me with the needle. "No clever lies about not belonging to a pack? No explanation for why you're still conscious when you should be comatose?"

I stared at him and the syringe in his hand, terror rising in my throat. Despite my fear, I managed to keep my expression impassive, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"Your indifference is starting to piss me off," he growled, lunging forward suddenly.

With strength born of desperation, I knocked his hand aside, sending the syringe flying across the room where it shattered against the wall. The clear liquid ran down the rough boards in glistening rivulets.

For a moment, Matthew stared at the broken syringe in shock. Then his face contorted with fury, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple.

"You're looking for death," he snarled, reaching to his waist and drawing a handgun from a concealed holster. He pressed the cold metal barrel against my forehead, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Is that it? You want to die?"

I closed my eyes, a strange calm descending over me as I accepted the inevitability of my death.