I step out into the corridor and let the door seal behind me. The guards stationed at the far end glance up but don’t speak. I move past them and up the narrow stairwell to the old command office that Roman hasn’t bothered to renovate yet. It’s empty this time of night except for the old filing cabinets and the cracked map of Europe still pinned to the wall from the compound’s military days.
I sink into the chair behind the desk, elbows on the scarred wood, staring at my hands. They’re shaking just enough to notice if you look closely. I curl them into fists until the tremor stops.
Maybe this time I won’t let him use me as the blade he never has to bloody himself.
The thought sits there like a live wire, humming, dangerous. It doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel alive.
Downstairs, the air shifts, the hum of the vents changes, and I know she’s still awake. Waiting. Measuring.
And for the very first time in years, I feel like someone’s watching me not because they fear me, but because they’re waiting to see what I’ll do next.
5
MARY
Icount every stone in the wall across from me. Twice.
The ones at the bottom are older, cracked with lines that run like veins, some mortar chipped away from age or claws. The middle ones are cleaner, newer. Probably replaced during renovations when the Syndicate turned this compound into their own little underworld. The top row is stained a deep rust color near the vent, and I know that’s not all iron. That’s blood. Human, maybe. Or shifter. Doesn't matter. The stains speak the same language.
My chains rattle faintly every time I shift my weight. The sound grates on my ears like nails across bone, but I make the noise on purpose. If I don’t, the silence thickens until it starts to crawl under my skin.
I’m cold, but not from the air. The cell is climate controlled—Roman's brand of cruelty always likes its presentation clean. What chills me is the stillness. Not the lack of movement. The lack of life. There’s nothing in this room but stone and restraint and the slow drag of time.
He hasn’t come back yet. Silas.
The fox.
He’s watching though. I know that in my bones. I can smell his proximity even when the corridor stays empty. Sometimes I hear the subtle shift of a boot sole on concrete, a pause in the vent’s rhythm, that split-second disruption that tells me someone is listening.
So I give him something to hear.
The cuffs bite into my skin when I twist hard against them, trying to test the angle of the anchor bolt. I’ve already tried shifting; the silver woven through the chain flares hot every time my skin tries to ripple. It doesn’t stop me from trying again. There’s satisfaction in defiance, even when it’s pointless.
I grit my teeth and slam my foot against the wall hard enough that the thud reverberates through my bones.
The door doesn’t open. I try again.
Nothing.
Fine.
I settle back on my heels and breathe out slowly, forcing my pulse to calm, forcing my wolf to retreat far enough that the burning in my shoulders fades into a dull ache.
Then the door opens.
And he walks in like he owns the world.
Roman Vexley is taller than I remember, though that may be because he’s filled out since the last time I saw him in person. Broad shoulders, sleek suit, no tie, hair swept back from his face with military precision. He looks clean. Controlled. That’s the first lie.
The second is the way he smiles.
Like he’s happy to see me.
“Mary,” he says, like it’s a greeting between old friends and not the prelude to something awful.
I don’t answer.
He waits a beat. Maybe two. When I keep my eyes on the wall and not on him, he steps forward and crouches just inside my reach. He doesn’t get too close. He knows better.
