Chapter 28 Unexpected Visitor (Rowan POV)
The cell was never truly dark, even at 1:38 a.m. The emergency strip above the door leaked a thin, sickly yellow line across the floor. I hadn’t slept—not really. I’d drifted in half-hour snatches, jolted awake each time by the same dream: running beside that black-furred wolf, tasting blood, feeling the pack bond hum between us like a second heartbeat. Every time I woke, the silver marks on my arms and chest burned hotter, brighter, as if my body was counting down the hours until the full moon rose tomorrow night.
I sat on the cot with my back to the wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. The steel felt colder tonight, or maybe I was running hotter. My skin prickled; every sound arrived amplified—the distant drip of a faucet three corridors away, the soft creak of the building settling, Jackson’s slow breathing outside the door. He’d been on shift since midnight. I could tell by the rhythm of his steps: four paces left, four right, pause, repeat.
Then the rhythm changed.
Footsteps—two sets. One was Jackson’s familiar shuffle. The other was quicker, heavier, angrier.
The lock clicked.
I stood fast. The silver marks flared in response, lighting my forearms like veins of molten metal.
The door swung inward.
Jackson stepped aside. Wesley Morrison filled the doorway—shoulders squared, fists clenched, eyes red-rimmed and burning. He wore the same Ironwood hoodie he’d had on yesterday when he tried to fight his way past the guards. The hood was down now; his hair stood up in angry spikes.
“Five minutes,” Jackson muttered to him. “That’s it. Touch her, I’ll tranq you myself.”
Wesley didn’t answer. Just stepped inside. Jackson pulled the door shut behind him but didn’t lock it. I heard him stay right outside—boots planted, radio crackling softly.
Wesley and I stared at each other across the narrow cell.
He spoke first. Voice rough, scraped raw. “I bribed him. Fifty bucks and my last pack of cigarettes. Figured it was worth it to look you in the eyes before you die.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t sit. Just held his gaze. “Then look.”
He took one step forward. Then another. Stopped when there were only four feet between us. Close enough that I could smell the grief rolling off him—acrid, salty, like sweat and tears that hadn’t quite dried.
“I want to see it,” he said. “Remorse. Guilt. Anything. I want to see if there’s anything human left in you.”
I lifted my chin. “I didn’t kill your brother.”
His laugh was short, ugly. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”
“That’s the truth.”
He stepped closer. Three feet now. I could see the tremor in his jaw, the way his hands flexed and unflexed at his sides.
“You tore his throat out,” he said. “You wrote in his blood. THE HUMAN KNOWS. And then you did it again to Hendricks. Same marks. Same hair. Same smell. And you stand there and tell me you didn’t do it?”
“I didn’t.”
His eyes dropped to my arms. The silver marks glowed brighter under his stare—intricate, living patterns that shifted when I breathed.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “You’re already gone. Those eyes—they’re not human anymore. They reflect the light like a wolf’s. You’re a monster.”
I stepped forward—one deliberate step. Now only two feet separated us.
“Maybe,” I said quietly. “Maybe I am. But I’m not a killer.”
He flinched. Just a tiny recoil, but I saw it.
“You don’t feel anything,” he said. “You stand there in your cage, glowing like some kind of freak, and you don’t even blink when I say your name next to my brother’s corpse.”
“I feel plenty,” I told him. “I feel sorry for you. I feel angry that someone used me to hurt you. I feel terrified that tomorrow three Alphas are going to decide my life based on lies I can’t disprove. But I don’t feel guilt. Because I didn’t do it.”
He stared at me—long, searching. Looking for the lie. Looking for the crack.
“You’re so sure,” he said finally. Almost a whisper.
“I am.”
He took another step. One foot left between us. I could hear his heartbeat now—fast, erratic, grief and rage and something else. Something new.
Doubt.
“Why should I believe you?” he asked. “Why should I believe the girl who woke up in Declan Hale’s jersey with no memory and a dead kid at her feet?”
“Because someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look like me,” I said. “Someone who can copy my scent. My hair. My DNA. Perfectly. Someone who killed again last night while I was locked in here with guards watching. Someone who wants me dead before I remember what really happened.”
His breath hitched.
“You’re saying there’s someone else.”
“I’m saying there is.”
He looked down at the silver marks again. They pulsed—slow, steady, like breathing.
“You’re changing,” he said. “Tomorrow night’s the full moon. You’ll shift. And if you’re guilty...”
“If I’m guilty, I’ll deserve whatever happens,” I finished. “But I’m not.”
He swallowed hard. Looked back at my face.
For a long moment neither of us spoke.
Then he stepped back. One step. Two.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he said. His voice cracked on the last word.
“You don’t have to believe me,” I told him. “Just… don’t stop asking questions. Someone killed your brother. Someone killed Hendricks. And it wasn’t me.”
He stared at me another second.
Then he turned. Walked to the door. Knocked once.
Jackson opened it.
Wesley paused in the threshold. Looked back.
“If you’re telling the truth,” he said quietly, “then someone’s playing a very sick game.”
I nodded once.
He stepped through.
The door closed.
I listened to his footsteps retreat down the corridor—heavy, uncertain.
I sank onto the cot.
The silver marks dimmed slightly, as if the wolf inside me had decided the immediate threat was gone.
I pressed my palms to my eyes.
One day left.