“Hard to say for certain.” Dylan furrows his brow as he considers the question. “We killed seven and injured maybe a dozen more. Before tonight, our intelligence suggested he had somewhere between thirty and forty wolves under his command. So we’re probably looking at twenty to twenty-five still combat-ready.”
“That’s enough to hold a fortified position, but not enough to fight a prolonged battle.” I do the math in my head asI force myself to think tactically. “He’ll be counting on speed and surprise. Not brute force.”
Thomas nods. “Which means he’ll want to make his move quickly. Whatever he’s planning, he won’t wait long.”
“Then we can’t wait either.” I look at Nic. “Every hour we spend here is another hour Skylar spends in their hands. Another hour for Rafe to—” I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t put into words what he might be doing to her right now.
“Luna will be here soon,” Nic assures me. “Once we have a direction, we’ll put together a strike team and bring your mate home.”
I nod, but my hands still won’t stop shaking.
Skylar is out there somewhere, scared and probably hurt and definitely in danger. The only thing standing between her and whatever Rafe has planned is a group of wolves who haven’t even started putting together a rescue plan yet.
I’ll get her back. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs, I will find her and bring her home.
I just have to survive the waiting first.
Chapter 18 - Skylar
The first thing I notice is the burning.
A searing pain that pulls me from unconsciousness like a hand dragging me up from deep water that starts in my throat and radiates outward. I try to swallow, but something metal presses against my skin, and the movement only makes the burning worse.
Silver. There’s silver around my neck.
My eyes fly open, and I immediately regret it. The room spins in sickening circles, and my stomach lurches in response to whatever drug they used to knock me out. I squeeze my eyes shut again and focus on breathing until the nausea passes. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The same rhythm I teach my patients when they’re overwhelmed with pain.
When I open them a second time, the world has stabilized enough for me to take in my surroundings. Concrete walls stained with moisture. The concrete floor cracked in places and cold against my legs. A single bare bulb hangs from the ceiling and flickers every few seconds like it might give out at any moment. No windows. One metal door with a small slot near the bottom, probably for sliding food through.
A cell. I’m in a cell.
I try to reach for my wolf, but the silver collar blocks the connection like a wall of static. She’s there—I can feel her pacing somewhere deep inside me—but I can’t access her strength, her senses, her instincts. The collar has cut me off from half of myself, and the loss leaves me feeling hollow and exposed.
My hands are bound behind my back. I test the ropes and find them tight but not impossibly so. Whoever tied themknew what they were doing, but they weren’t trying to cut off my circulation. The knots dig into my wrists when I twist my arms, though I can feel the slightest give in the fibers. Not enough to slip free, but maybe enough to work with if I’m patient.
Small mercies.
“Hey.” The voice comes from somewhere to my left, soft and raspy like the speaker hasn’t had water in too long. “You’re awake.”
I turn my head too fast, and the room wobbles again. When it settles, I find myself looking through a set of iron bars into an adjacent cell. A woman is slumped against the far wall. She’s thin—too thin, like she hasn’t eaten properly in weeks—and bruises dot her pale skin in various stages of healing. Yellow and green ones that are almost gone sit alongside fresh purple marks that look only days old. A silver collar identical to mine circles her throat, and the skin beneath it is red and blistered.
“Who are you?” My voice comes out as a croak with my throat raw from the chloroform.
She unfolds herself slowly as she inches closer to the bars between us, and I notice that she favors her right leg when she walks. “Dina Marchetti. You’re from Silvercreek, right? I heard them talking about you when they brought you in.”
“Skylar.” I push myself into a sitting position, though my bound hands make the process awkward and painful. The concrete scrapes against my palms as I lever myself up, and I have to lean against the wall behind me for support once I’m upright. “What is this place?”
“No idea. Somewhere in the mountains, I think, based on how cold it gets at night.” Dina wraps her arms around herself as if the mention of cold has reminded her body to feel it. “They brought me here about three weeks ago. Maybe four. It’s hardto keep track without windows or any way to tell day from night except for the guard rotations.”
Three weeks? This woman has been trapped here for three weeks with a silver collar burning her skin and no contact with the outside world. No way to know if anyone is looking for her or if she’s been written off as dead. The thought makes my stomach turn.
“What pack are you from?” I ask.
“Ridgewood. It’s a small pack about sixty miles east of here.” Dina’s voice catches on the name, and she has to swallow hard before she can continue. “The Cheslem wolves hit us without warning in the middle of the night. They killed most of our fighters in the first wave and scattered the rest. I don’t know how many survived.” Her voice drops to barely a whisper. “I don’t know if anyone survived.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words feel inadequate, but Dina nods anyway. I’m sure she’s heard empty condolences before, probably from the guards who mock her with false sympathy. At least mine are genuine.
