Page 51

E rik Wild

Of all the things I expected to come across during my surveillance patrol, a young wolf wasn’t one of them, one with wild eyes that are filled with fire and the desperate desire to live.

Shifters don’t kill humans. We have our laws, our agreements in place with those in the human government who are aware of our existence.

But there are always those of my kind who disobey, who like to hunt for sport.

As the commander of the army of the Human Wolf Kingdom, it is up to me to hunt those rogues down.

Which is why when I heard the sound of screaming and the smell of blood, I rushed to the source.

What I hadn’t expected was to find this small wolf.

It’s very rare find feral wolves. I was sure I had come across one.

But the link that slammed into me, the formation of a bond that I never thought I would have shared with anybody shocked me to the very core.

I was going to kill her because she killed the humans.

I was going to kill her because I had to kill the remaining witness and one of the victims. How was I to know that she was going to end up being my fated mate?

The girl is unconscious as I carry the bowl of warm water over to her. Crouching beside the bed, I dip in the sponge and squeeze it till most of the water is out. My touch is gentle as I lift her arm and begin cleaning the blood off of her. Most of the blood is hers.

How many people has she killed? How long has she been wandering around for? And what am I supposed to do with her?

Her blonde hair, matted with blood, is short as if somebody just chopped it off for convenience. She doesn’t look like she’s been starved, but the bruises of needle pricks all over her arms makes me wonder whether she was given food or fed through an IV line.

I need to report back to Griffin, my older brother and the King of the Human Wolf Kingdom.

I have no doubt in my mind that the people I ran into, trying to drag this girl back, were members of the Silver Ring organization, an organization of shifters and humans which has been determined to bring down the royal families across both sides of the magical Veil.

However, I’m not ready to make this particular report yet.

Her skin is warmer now, the heat returning to her limbs slowly, and I continue to clean the streaks of grime and dried blood that coat her arms and chest. Beneath the filth, she looks startlingly young.

Not just small, but young. Once the blood is gone from her face, I can see the softness of her features, the hint of youth still clinging to the roundness of her cheeks and the shape of her lips. She doesn’t look a day over seventeen.

My hands still.

No one that young should carry scars like the ones I’m seeing.

My stomach knots as I lower the sponge and gently tug back the fabric clinging to her stomach.

The wounds there aren’t healing. Deep lacerations cross her skin, some raw, others sealed in rough, jagged scar tissue that speaks of violence done over and over again, without the mercy of time or proper treatment.

I know what a healing shifter looks like.

This isn’t it. These are wounds carved to last.

She shifts slightly, a flicker of sound escaping her lips. I freeze, but her eyes don’t open. Her brow twitches. Her breathing quickens.

Then, slowly, she stirs.

When her eyes flutter open, the first thing I notice is their color.

Grey. A pale, storm-swept grey that hits me harder than I expect.

But the moment she sees me, she recoils, her hands jerking up in a defensive motion that speaks of habit, not thought.

"Hey," I say softly, lifting my hands to show her I mean no harm. "It’s alright. You’re safe now. I won’t hurt you. I promise."

She doesn’t answer. Her breath comes fast, sharp. Her fingers tremble, arms raised to guard her chest, but I notice how raw her palms are—as though she’s fought through stone with nothing but her bare hands.

I take a step back, keeping my movements slow. She watches me the whole time.

"What’s your name?" I ask, kneeling again, this time farther from her, the sponge resting in the basin now forgotten.

She doesn’t speak.

Not a word. Not a sound.

There’s no confusion in her eyes, no fear of language. Just silence. An iron wall built by years of survival.

I don’t press her.

Instead, I walk across the small, warm room of the safe house—just a cabin tucked into the northern hills, one I keep for emergencies like this—and ladle hot soup into a wooden bowl.

She watches me, but doesn’t move.

When I return, she stares at the bowl like she doesn’t know what it is. And maybe she doesn’t.

She reaches for it with both hands and immediately pulls back with a small, pained hiss as the heat burns her palms.

I set the bowl aside quickly, crouch beside her, and take her hands gently in mine.

"You need to let me do it," I say quietly. "Let me help."

She doesn’t respond.

But she doesn’t pull away.

And so, I lift the spoon, blow on it until the steam fades, and bring it to her lips.

She hesitates.

Then, slowly, she drinks.

And something inside me breaks a little more.

She eats in slow, careful sips, as if unsure of how to swallow, as if the act of accepting food from someone else feels foreign and wrong.

I keep my voice low and my movements gentler still, every action measured so she doesn’t think this is a trick or some new test she has to pass.

I don’t know what she’s endured, not in the way I need to.

But I know enough to recognize someone who flinches without being touched.

She finishes less than half the bowl before her eyes grow heavy again, the weight of exhaustion pulling her down like a tide. Her head leans slightly to the side. I catch it before it hits the headboard and ease her back down onto the pillow.

I sit there a while, watching her sleep.

Watching the way her breathing stays shallow even in rest, like her lungs have forgotten what peace feels like.

My fingers curl around the edge of the basin I used to clean her, and my mind churns with everything I’ve seen and everything I’ve failed to understand.

What kind of people would keep a shifter locked away like this? What kind of purpose could justify the mutilation of someone so young? What kind of monster does it take to call this suffering a project?

I think about what that man said to her.

"Do you want another skinning?"

The words make my stomach twist, but it’s the second part that turns my blood cold.

"I’ll make sure your skin doesn’t grow back so quickly this time."

That isn’t something you say as a threat.

That’s something you say when you’ve already done it.

I rise slowly and cross the room. I need to send word to Griffin, need to give some form of report, but not yet. Not until I can give him a name. Not until I understand what she is and how someone so broken is still alive.

I glance back.

Her eyes open again. Just barely.

They meet mine, uncertain. Suspicious. Curious.

I give her a soft nod and say, just above a whisper, "You’re safe here. I swear it. No one is going to hurt you again."

For the first time, she doesn’t flinch at the sound of my voice.

But as I watch the rise and fall of her chest, the slow drop of her lashes, and the way sleep reclaims her like a tide pulling away from shore, I know with gut-level certainty that she’s nowhere near strong enough to be moved.

Not yet. Not for a journey back to the palace, not by foot at least. I need a witch. I need a portal.

Whatever hell this girl has escaped from, it has drained her of everything but the instinct to survive. She needs time. She needs healing.

She needs safety.

I sit by her bed, watching her.

I touch the limp hand curled into the bedsheet.

She’s wearing my shirt. I have another one on but I like the idea of my scent surrounded. I feel it comforts her as well because her nose is buried in the fabric of the collar.

Griffin very rarely talks about his time in captivity but from the haunted look in his eyes that I sometimes glimpse, I know there are tortures he must have born that he cannot talk about. Is this girl the same? How long has she been held captive for? Why did that man call her a failed experiment?

Two years ago, my older brother Griffin had returned from captivity. He had been held by the Silver Ring organization for ten years, all the while that I had searched for him. In his absence, I had been forced to wear his crown because the throne could only remain empty for so long.

I never wanted the crown. I just wanted my brother back, and the moment he returned, with the assistance of human scientist, Maya Sorin, I had handed back the kingdom to him.

My brother has spent the past two years regaining control of his kingdom.

He’s mated to the woman who saved his life, the same woman who entered our palace as a human and due to the mechanisms of the Silver Ring Organization, ended up becoming a shifter herself.

I know I’m putting off calling my brother but the wounds on this girl’s stomach need to be tended. They’re not healing.

I wait until I’m sure she’s asleep, her breathing even and deep, the tremor in her hands stilled by exhaustion.

Then I leave the room and step into the next, grabbing the secure satellite phone from the drawer tucked beneath the old stone hearth.

The signal here is always weak, but it’s shielded.

Off-grid. Only one line connects out—to Griffin.

I dial the number from memory. It doesn’t ring long.

"Erik," comes my brother’s voice, sharp with surprise. "I thought you were running recon on the northern border. What’s wrong?"

I exhale slowly. "I need to speak to you in private."

There’s a pause, the subtle sound of movement in the background, and then Griffin’s voice again, quieter this time. "You have it."