Chapter 22
Mark’s growl was pure wolf, low and wild, the sound of dominance made flesh. It shook the air, thick with the scrape of shifting bones, a wolf’s fury straining against skin. His boot drove into my ribs, not wild but deliberate, a lesson in pack order.
The next strike split my cheekbone, copper flooding my tongue. Not meant to kill. Just to mark
tore at the gag, fangs ripping cloth until blood touched my teeth.
And then she entered.
Marga.
She slithered in, draped in my red silk, the gown I’d worn for the Milan gathering of Alphas. I :new the stitch at the hip; I’d sewn it under wolf’s moonlight. That dress was meant for power or blood-right. On her, it was counterfeit.
She circled me like a predator over a wounded doe, though she had never once earned her fangs. Her smile was all sneering.
Oh, look,” she purred, her voice syrupy and venomous. “The runaway maid. Back on her knees vhere she belongs.”
She twirled, silk whispering.
This gown clings to me like it remembers the true heir. Not you. You wrapped yourself in silks ind thought it made you queen. But silk can’t hide the servant underneath.”
She leaned close. I caught the faint, stunted scent of her wolf.
You were always pretending. Alpha’s daughter? Heir? No. Just a maid trying to wear fangs.”
met her gaze. Silent. Blood down my jaw, fire in my eyes. If I left this den alive, she would not.
ime blurred. Hunger gnawed, pain became the second skin. No howls left in me, but I wasn’t
rey.
Mark dragged a chair across the floor, straddling it, phone glow painting his face. He showed me hree things.
First: Magnus Vale. My father. Tubes down his throat, chest rising to borrowed rhythm. Even
alf-dead, his aura clung, Alpha blood refusing surrender.
Second: my funeral. A false burial, crimson veils, enemies pretending grief while circling like ‘ultures. I watched my own death on their screen.
Third: the ambush. Damien’s car in flames. My wolves slaughtered like trapped pups. Damien imself crumpled under silver rounds, gasping for breath that would not come. My bondmate, my shield, taken.
Mark’s grin stretched too wide, lips pulled over fangs.
‘You chose the old wolf over your son,” he hissed. “Rosinni blood mattered more than your own. That throne mattered more than me.”
My silence was sharp, honed. Slowly, I lifted my head. Blood crusted, lips split. My voice rasped but cut like a fang to the throat.
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“You’re just like Alpha Shawn. A coward dressed in fur. A pup who needs a pack to pretend he has teeth. You talk of wolves, but you’re nothing but carrion birds.”
The slap came swiftly. Marga’s palm cracked against my face, blood blooming anew.
“You filthy servant,” she spat, wolf-eyes flashing. “You were nothing until us.”
Then Lydia came, claws half-shifted as she wrenched my hair back. Her voice slithered in Serbian, sharp as talons.
“You’ll speak when spoken to, Mother. Or I’ll cut your tongue for the twins.”
They beat me. Not in frenzy, but ritual. Wolves stripping flesh from fallen prey. Mark filmed it steadily, as though chronicling scripture.
‘The twins will love this,” he murmured, zooming in on my bloodied lips. “Grandma in her true
skin. Weak. Broken. Human.”
let them. Patience was the weapon they could not smell.
For months, I’d carried steel in my heel-three inches of curved titanium, trained into silence with every step. Wolves are born to bleed.
When Alpha Shawn, Marga, Mark, and Lydia finally left, drunk on their victory, only a skeletor crew remained. Half-shifted wolves. Careless.
Enough.
A twist of my foot, a muted snap, and the blade slid free into my palm. The ropes burned fire into ny wrists as I sawed through them, flesh tearing, blood slickening the cords until they gave way.
Freedom.
t came not as a whisper, but as a snarl in my chest, the wolf in me pacing, waiting.
The first guard never heard me move. His heartbeat thudded steadily, unsuspecting, right until steel kissed his throat. One slice, and his blood sprayed hot and dark, gurgling before his wolf could rise to fight me. He died human, unshifted, unready. The second turned too slow. My stee Irove through his temple, and I twisted, felt bone shatter, felt the beast inside him still.
The tunnels became mine. Mine, as though I had carved them from the stone with fang and
law.
Bodies lay rotting in heaps, wolves strung like carcasses in a slaughterhouse, their fur matted vith dried gore. The air reeked of decay and smoke, of loss thick enough to choke. My stomach wisted with rage, but grief would have to wait.
One man still breathed, ribs jutting sharp like knives against his wasted skin. His eyes fluttered >pen, pale, clouded, yet burning with defiance. His trembling hand gripped my wrist with surprising strength.
‘Kill me…” he rasped, voice shredded. “…or save me.”
gave him neither. Not yet. Instead, I tore his phone from his pocket, thumbed the screen until
he map
lit up. One ping. Coordinates sent. To the only ones who would still answer me.
Ram. Edrick. My last loyal wolves.
I sent only one word:
Risen.
212
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6:52 pm Risen.
The tunnels opened at last, yielding a wound of light. Moonlight spilled in, silver and merciless, rain pouring through glistening ribbons. I clawed my way upward, mud sucking at my boots, blood caking my hands. My lungs burned as I broke free into the storm.
I fell onto the earth, spread out beneath the sky, mouth open wide. Rain struck my tongue, cool and wild. It tasted of freedom, of promise, of the moon’s own blessing. Blood and silver minglec in my throat, and a laugh tore from me, raw and feral.
Even half-dead, I had made the first move.
Now, I only had to survive the night and remind the world that wolves do not die quietly.
Chapter 22
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Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.