The handcuffs click into place.
The burn is immediate. Silver against bare wolf shifter skin, searing into my wrists. I grit my teeth and groan.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Ethan says calmly.
I test the cuffs anyway, straining against them even though the pain makes me hiss.
The guards haul me to my feet, their grip on my arms tight enough to bruise. My ribs and back ache where I was hit. My wrists are on fire from the silver. And the poison is spreading through my system unchecked now, feeding off my exertion.
“Move,” one of the guards orders, shoving me toward the door.
They march me out of my office and into the hallway. People have gathered in other doorways, drawn by the noise. Shocked expressions all around.
I’m glad Anne doesn’t work on the same floor as me.
Everyone’s eyes are on me, and I can already see the gossip mill turning. It won’t take long before news of my arrest reaches Anne. She’ll probably try to call me, then rush over to see Violet to find out what happened.
Fuck! How did I get caught?
The elevator ride down is silent except for the guards’ breathing. Ethan stands in front of me, his back rigid.
When we reach the parking lot, they lead me to a reinforced transport van, the kind used for dangerous prisoners. The back doors are already open, waiting.
One of the guards pushes me inside. I stumble, barely catching myself before hitting the metal floor. The handcuffs make it impossible to balance properly.
They chain my cuffed wrists to a bolt in the floor. More silver. More burning.
The doors slam shut, plunging me into darkness.
The van starts moving. I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the cold, metal wall.
Where did I mess up? I thought I was careful. Did I get sloppy because I was distracted by Anne?
No one has said anything to me. What are the chances I’m being arrested for some other reason?
I get no answers until I’m in the dungeons, in my cell. It’s small. Concrete walls, concrete floor, with a single, barred window high up near the ceiling. Silver-reinforced chains hang from the wall. The guards remove my handcuffs, but my relief lasts exactly two seconds before the chains are locked in their place.
These are worse than the cuffs. Heavier. My natural healing tries to fight the burn of the silver, but my wrists will be permanently raw as long as I’m here.
The guards leave, and the cell door closes. The lock engages with a heavy thunk.
I’m alone.
I pull at the chains experimentally, testing their give. They’re anchored deep into the concrete wall, professionally installed. Even at full strength, I’d struggle to break free.
And I am not at full strength.
The poison is getting worse without my painkillers. There’s a grinding ache in my bones that never stops, a fire in my chest that makes every breath hurt.
I have maybe two weeks left. Three if I’m lucky.
I run through everything in my mind. The phone call with Rick in the parking lot. Going back to my office. Sending that text to Anne about being busy.
Anne.
The thought of her finding out the truth—that I used her, lied to her, manipulated her feelings—makes my insides ache in a way that has nothing to do with the poison.
But there’s no time to dwell on it. The cell door opens with a heavy, metallic groan.
