Chapter 15 The First Memory (Rowan POV)
The cell felt smaller tonight. The walls pressed closer, the air thicker, like the room itself was breathing with me. I’d flushed the last of those blue pills three days ago, and whatever had been chaining the thing inside me was finally gone. Completely gone. My skin buzzed, electric, every nerve singing. The silver marks had spread across my chest now, delicate filigree patterns that glowed brighter whenever my heart raced. I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t lie down. I paced, three steps, turn, three steps, until the concrete blurred under my feet.
Then it hit.
Not pain. Not fear. Just… a door opening inside my skull.
I staggered, caught myself against the sink. The room tilted. Colors sharpened, too bright, too vivid. The fluorescent light overhead flared white-gold, then softened into something warmer, softer. A different light. A different room.
White walls. Too clean. Too bright.
I was small. Tiny hands reaching up. A woman leaned over me, dark hair falling like a curtain, framing a face I almost knew. She smiled, soft, sad. Her lips moved. Words came out in a lilting cadence, a language I didn’t recognize, liquid vowels, rolling consonants. She sang. The melody wrapped around me like a blanket. I felt safe. Loved. Held.
Then hands, larger, gloved, lifted me from her arms. The song cut off mid-note.
White walls again. Cold metal table under my back. Straps across my wrists, my ankles. People in masks loomed above me, faceless, only eyes visible behind plastic shields. One of them adjusted a needle. Another held a clipboard.
A man’s voice, calm, clinical, spoke from somewhere above my head.
“The suppression is holding. She won’t remember.”
Pain flared, sharp, burning, spreading from the crook of my elbow up my arm. I screamed. The sound was small, babyish, helpless. The woman’s song echoed in my ears, fainter now, like it was being pulled away. I reached for it, reached for her, but my arms wouldn’t move. The straps bit into my skin.
Another needle. Another burn.
Then nothing.
Black.
I gasped, back in the cell. My knees hit the floor hard. I clutched the edge of the cot, breathing in short, ragged bursts. Sweat slicked my forehead, my neck. The memory clung to me, sticky, real, undeniable.
I’d been there.
I’d been experimented on.
And someone had made sure I forgot.
Footsteps in the corridor.
Professor Winters stepped inside, alone. No guards. He carried a small paper bag, the kind the cafeteria used for sandwiches. He closed the door behind him, leaned against it.
“Rowan,” he said quietly.
I pushed myself up. My legs shook, but I forced them steady.
“You were there,” I said. My voice came out raw. “In the lab. With the masks. You were one of them.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look surprised. Just… tired.
“Sit down,” he said.
“No.” I took a step toward him. “You experimented on me. Project Chimera. You drugged me. You made me forget who I was.”
He exhaled slowly. Set the paper bag on the sink.
“I was part of it,” he admitted. “Early days. Before I understood the cost.”
I stared at him. “You don’t deny it.”
“How could I?” He met my eyes. “The records are there. The files. You’ve started remembering. I knew you would once the suppressants cleared your system.”
I laughed, harsh, broken. “You knew. And you kept giving me those pills. For years. You watched me think I was human. You watched me think I was alone.”
“I kept you alive,” he said.
“Alive?” I stepped closer. “You stole my childhood. You stole my mother.”
His face changed then, something cracked behind his calm. Grief, maybe. Guilt.
“Your mother made me promise to keep you safe,” he said softly. “This was the only way.”
I froze.
“My mother…” My throat closed. “She was dead. Car accident. I was two.”
Winters looked away. “The accident was staged. To hide you. To get you out.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Yes.” He turned back to me. “She knew what was coming. She knew they’d use you, use what you are, if they found out. She begged me to get you clear. To keep you suppressed. To keep you human long enough to grow up without being hunted.”
“Safe from what?” I demanded. My voice cracked. “From who?”
“From people who would use what you are,” he said. “You’re not just any wolf, Rowan. You’re something they tried to engineer. Something stronger. Something without the usual pack bonds. A weapon, if they could control it. Your mother knew. She chose to run instead of let them take you.”
I backed up until my spine hit the wall. The concrete was cold against my shoulder blades.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small photograph, creased, faded. He held it out.
I didn’t want to take it.
I took it anyway.
A woman, dark hair, sharp eyes, stubborn jaw. Holding a baby. Me. She was smiling, but her eyes were afraid.
I touched her face with a trembling finger.
“She sang to me,” I whispered. “In a language I didn’t understand.”
Winters nodded. “She sang to you every night. Even in the lab. Even when they tried to stop her.”
I looked up at him. Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
“Why tell me now?”
“Because you’re remembering anyway,” he said. “Because the Turning is finishing. Because if I don’t tell you the truth, someone else will, someone who wants to use you instead of protect you.”
I clutched the photograph tighter. “Who?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“People who never stopped Project Chimera,” he said finally. “People who still believe in it. People who think the packs need weapons more than they need unity.”
I slid down the wall until I sat on the floor. The picture trembled in my hand.
Winters crouched in front of me, slow, careful.
“I failed her,” he said quietly. “I failed your mother. I won’t fail you again. Not if I can help it.”
I met his eyes. “Then help me.”
He nodded once. “I will.”
He stood, walked to the door.
“Professor,” I said.
He paused.
“What language was she singing in?”
He looked back at me. Something soft crossed his face, memory, maybe.
“An old dialect,” he said. “One the packs don’t teach anymore. She learned it from her own mother.”
I swallowed. “What did it mean?”
He hesitated.
“She was telling you she loved you,” he said. “Over and over. That she’d find you again. That you’d be free.”
The door opened.
He stepped through.
“Rest, Rowan,” he said. “You’ll need your strength.”