Chapter 189

Chapter 189
Citlali's POV

Hours passed in the darkness.

I sat on the bed, trying to conserve my strength, trying to think of any possible escape route.

But the silver sapped my energy, making even thinking difficult.

My wrists throbbed where the manacles bit into my skin, the burns from the silver growing worse with each passing minute.

Then I heard footsteps approaching—heavy, deliberate, the sound of boots on stone.

Two guards appeared at my cell door, and my body tensed instinctively.

They carried whips and wooden clubs, and their expressions promised pain.

The door swung open, and they stepped inside.

I scrambled to my feet, backing against the far wall, my heart hammering.

"New arrivals always need to learn the rules," one of them said, his smile cruel.

The other cracked his knuckles.

"Lesson one: obedience."

"I won't obey anyone!" I spat, my voice shaking with fury and fear.

They rushed me before I could react.

Hands grabbed my arms, my hair, forcing me down.

I fought back with everything I had, kicking and clawing, but the silver had left me weak.

A fist slammed into my stomach, driving the air from my lungs.

I doubled over, gasping, and felt rough hands yank my head back by my hair.

"You'll learn," the guard hissed in my face.

"They all learn eventually."

What followed was systematic brutality.

Fists and feet, striking my sides, my back, my legs.

The whip cracked across my shoulders, each impact a line of fire.

But they were careful. They avoided my face, my stomach.

"Can't damage the merchandise," one of them muttered, and the other laughed.

As they beat me, they talked, their voices casual, as if discussing the weather.

"Who do you think you are? A princess?"

"You're just a breeding bitch. A tool."

I bit down on my screams, refusing to give them the satisfaction.

But tears streamed down my face unbidden, my body betraying the agony I tried to hide.

When they finally stopped, I lay curled on the floor, every breath an exercise in pain.

One of the guards crouched beside me, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at him.

"Listen carefully, wolf pup. The rules here are simple."

His breath was hot and foul against my face.

"You obey, and you get to live comfortably. You resist, and every night will be like this."

The other guard added, his voice casual, "And the more you fight, the harder we go on you."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"Do you want that?"

The words were like a knife to my chest.

The guards left, locking the door behind them, and I remained on the floor, unable to move.

Pain radiated from every part of my body, but worse was the helplessness.

The knowledge that I was completely at their mercy.

I don't know how long I lay there.

Eventually, I managed to drag myself onto the bed, my movements slow and agonizing.

I lay there in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the building.

Footsteps in the corridor. Doors opening and closing. Muffled voices.

Then, as the night deepened, new sounds began.

Lighter footsteps. More numerous. Men's voices, low and eager.

I heard a door open somewhere down the corridor.

A man's voice, smooth and cultured: "Good evening, my dear."

A woman's voice, trembling: "Please... not tonight... I'm not feeling well..."

"Nonsense. You look perfectly healthy to me."

The door closed, and for a moment there was silence.

Then I heard it.

The creak of a bed. A woman's gasp—not of pleasure, but of pain or fear.

A man's heavy breathing, growing faster.

I tried to block it out, pressing my hands over my ears.

But my wolf hearing, even weakened, caught every sound with horrible clarity.

The rhythmic squeaking of bed springs. The slap of flesh against flesh.

The woman's voice, trying to muffle her sobs.

The man's grunts of satisfaction.

My face burned with shame and horror as I realized what was happening in the cells around me.

This wasn't just imprisonment. This was systematic rape.

Another door opened. Another man's voice.

This one was rougher, cruder: "On your knees, bitch."

"Please, sir, I—"

The sound of a slap. A cry of pain.

"I said on your knees!"

I grabbed the thin pillow and pressed it over my ears, trying desperately to muffle the sounds.

But they penetrated anyway, relentless and inescapable.

Tears soaked the pillow as I lay there, trembling, more helpless than I'd ever been in my life.

Rowan, I thought desperately. Please be alive. Please don't let them have killed you.

The thought of him dead in that sewer, alone in the dark, was almost more than I could bear.

But the thought of him alive and captured, brought to a place like this, was equally horrifying.

The night stretched on forever, each minute an eternity of torment.

I lost track of how many doors opened, how many men came and went.

The sounds blurred together into a nightmare chorus of suffering.

At some point, I heard footsteps stop outside my cell.

My whole body went rigid with terror.

A man's voice, slurred with drink: "What about this one? The new girl?"

A guard's response: "Not tonight, my lord. She needs to be... prepared first."

"Pity. I like them fresh."

"She'll be ready soon enough. His Highness has first claim, but after that..."

The footsteps moved on, and I released a breath I hadn't known I was holding.

A temporary reprieve. But only temporary.

Eventually, the sounds began to fade.

Men leaving, their business concluded.

Doors closing. Footsteps receding.

When dawn finally came, the corridor fell silent except for occasional soft sobbing from various cells.

The women, left alone with their pain and shame.

I forced myself to look through the bars, and saw several well-dressed men walking down the corridor toward the exit.

They were laughing, talking about their plans for the day, completely unconcerned with the suffering they'd just inflicted.

One of them was adjusting his expensive coat, complaining about a stain.

Another was discussing a business deal, his voice animated and cheerful.

A third was making plans to return next week, already looking forward to it.

They passed my cell without even glancing in, as if the women here were furniture, not people.

My rage crystallized into something cold and sharp.

If I ever got out of here, I would make them pay.

---

Morning brought a young girl with a tray of food.

She was wolf, like me, but her eyes were dead, empty of any spark.

She couldn't have been more than fourteen, but she moved like someone three times her age.

Worn down. Broken.

She slid the tray through a small opening at the base of the bars without looking at me.

I stared at the meal in disbelief.

Fresh bread, still warm. Roasted chicken with herbs. Fruit that looked ripe and perfect. A small cake with honey glaze.