Because right now, I’m not sure which choice would destroy me more.
Chapter 2
Nova
Idon’t sleep in cages.
Never have. Never will. But I can lie perfectly still for hours, cataloging every sound that drifts through concrete walls, every scent that seeps through ventilation grates, and every vibration that travels through steel and stone.
This pack breathes wrong.
I’ve been tracking pack dynamics for fifteen years, and healthy packs have rhythms—natural ebbs and flows of tension that resolve themselves. Ash Hollow doesn’t flow. It fractures.
Three arguments in the last four hours. Not the normal kind—territorial disputes, resource allocation, typical pack friction. These are personal. Vicious. The kind that leaves wounds.
The first fight started around two AM. Male voices, one I recognize as Callum from earlier. Something about patrol assignments escalating into accusations about loyalty. It ended with footsteps storming away and a door slamming hard enough to rattle my cell bars.
The second was quieter but more vicious. Two females, their voices carrying the particular edge that comes from old wounds being reopened. Trust issues. Betrayal. The kind of baggage I’d expect from wolves who fled failed packs—and my research before coming here confirmed Ash Hollow took in Storm Ridge survivors alongside Shadow Peak exiles.
The third was the worst—a male voice I don’t recognize yet, steady and calm, trying to mediate between two wolves whose scents were spiking with rage and fear. Someone called him Ben. The Beta, if I had to guess, given how he positioned himself between the combatants.
Classic manipulation pressure points.
Someone’s been playing these wolves like instruments, finding exactly the right notes to make them shatter.
I shift on the narrow bench, letting my enhanced senses map the compound above. Twelve distinct heartbeats scattered across the cabins—one of them spiking faster now, breathing shifting from sleep rhythm to waking. Stress dreams, probably. The pack’s collective anxiety is thick enough to taste.
Dane’s scent is everywhere, but he’s not in the building. Still patrolling, most likely. Still running himself ragged trying to hold together wolves who’ve been programmed to self-destruct.
He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s fighting a war he can’t win. Not alone.
The door at the top of the basement stairs opens with a soft click. Footsteps descend—measured, controlled, but carrying tension in the slight drag of the left foot. Dane.
He appears at the cell bars like a shadow given form, all sharp edges and barely contained violence. His scent hits me immediately—ash and earth and something darker. Exhaustion. Frustration. And underneath it all, that same wild heat that made my wolf sit up and pay attention last night.
“Enjoying the show?” His voice is rough, like he’s been breathing smoke.
I don’t move from my position on the bench, back against the wall, one knee drawn up. Casual. Unbothered. “Your pack’s being torn apart from the inside, and you’re asking if I’m entertained?”
His jaw tightens. “My pack is fine.”
“Three fights since midnight. Callum and another male—couldn’t catch the name. Two females going at each other over old betrayals. Then your Beta stepping in before things got bloody.” I tilt my head, studying his reaction. “That sound fine to you, Alpha?”
The muscle in his cheek twitches. He heard them too. Of course he did.
“Packs fight. It’s natural.”
“Not like this.” I stand slowly, moving to the bars but staying just out of reach. Close enough to see the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the way his shoulders carry more weight than they should. “Natural pack conflicts resolve. These are designed to escalate.”
“Designed?” The word comes out flat, skeptical.
“Someone’s been feeding your wolves exactly the right triggers. Old wounds, specific fears, trust issues that should have healed by now.” I wrap my fingers around the cold titanium bars, meeting his stare directly. “How long have the fights been getting worse?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, but his scent shifts. Recognition. Fear. He’s been wondering the same thing.
“Two weeks,” he finally admits.
“And before that?”
