Page 5

No one has asked my name since I arrived at Ravenscroft.

I've been "Subject 496" for so long that the syllables of my actual identity feel foreign on my tongue.

"J-Jinx," I stammer, the admission feeling dangerously intimate. "Jinx Blackwood."

Something flickers across his face – recognition, perhaps, though I can't imagine how he would know my family name.

"Riot," he offers in return, the single word sounding like both introduction and warning.

"Is that your real name?" The question slips out before I can stop it, curiosity momentarily overriding fear.

A smile touches his bloodied lips, transforming his battle-hardened features into something unexpectedly gentle.

"It's who I am in here," he answers, gesturing vaguely at our surroundings. "The name they gave me when I refused to respond to numbers anymore."

His gaze drifts upward to where observers document our interaction with clinical precision, and something dangerous flashes across his expression.

"I need to touch you," he says, attention returning to me with laser focus. "They'll punish us both if I don't. But I won't hurt you. I swear it."

The promise hangs between us, fragile and precious in this place where vows mean nothing and cruelty is standard procedure. I should doubt him – this man called "Riot" who's left nineteen others broken and bleeding on the concrete beneath my cage.

Yet something in his eyes speaks to a part of me that understands survival, that recognizes the difference between those who hurt because they enjoy it and those who hurt because they must.

I nod once, the movement barely perceptible, but his enhanced alpha senses catch it immediately.

He steps into the cage, his massive frame making the space seem even smaller. I press myself harder against the bars, instinctively flinching as he crouches before me, bringing himself to my eye level.

"They expect me to scent-mark you," he explains softly, hands resting on his knees rather than reaching for me. "To establish preliminary bonding. The alpha in me...wants that too."

The admission carries surprising honesty, acknowledging the biological imperatives without surrendering to them.

"But you're young," he continues, voice dropping even lower. "No matter what they've done to trigger your heat prematurely…or what my instincts are screaming right now."

My eyes widen as understanding dawns.

He's not just resisting his alpha nature – he's actively defying it, fighting biological imperatives that must be screaming at him to claim, mark, possess.

"They'll hurt you if you don't," I whisper, the reality of Ravenscroft's punishment protocols all too familiar.

Something dark and dangerous flashes across his features.

"They've been hurting me for years," he says simply. "One more round of discipline won't break me."

But it will break me to watch, I realize.

Another weight of guilt to carry – another person suffering because of my existence.

"Just... do what you need to," I offer, arms wrapping tighter around my knees. "I understand."

His expression softens, and something like respect enters his gaze.

"Brave little bird," he murmurs, slowly reaching forward.

I can't help flinching when his hand enters my personal space, memories of clinical examinations and invasive tests making my body tense with anticipated pain.

Instead, his fingers are impossibly gentle as they brush against my cheek, the callused skin warm against my overheated flesh. His touch carries none of the clinical detachment I've grown accustomed to, nor the violent possession I expected from an alpha who fought through nineteen others to reach me.

It feels... safe.