Page 53

F reya

Light filters through my eyelids, strange and soft.

I wake without pain. Without the bite of metal against my wrists or the cold slab beneath my back. There's something under me that gives way, that cradles instead of bruises. My fingers curl into it—fabric, thick and clean, nothing like the soiled scraps they sometimes tossed at me.

I don't move. Not yet.

Years of waking to pain have taught me to assess before I open my eyes. I breathe deep, testing the air. No chemical burn. No bleach or blood or the sour reek of unwashed bodies. Just wood smoke, pine, and something warm and male that makes the creature inside me stir.

My eyes open to a ceiling that looks smooth and polished, not concrete and fluorescent lights.

And I remember.

The forest. The men. The blood.

Him.

Movement draws my attention. He's there, slumped in a chair beside the bed, his head tilted awkwardly against his shoulder. His chest rises and falls with each steady breath, his face softer now, less alert. Less lethal.

Erik. That's what the scientist called him.

The beast inside me recognizes him, wants to press close. It confuses me—this pull. I've never felt anything like it, this magnetic tug toward another person that isn't born of fear.

I study him openly, now that he can't see me looking. His features are harsh but not cruel—strong jaw, straight nose, dark brows drawn slightly together even in sleep. A shadow of stubble covers his chin. He looks exhausted, like he's been watching over me for hours.

No one has ever watched over me before.

I glance down at myself and freeze. I'm wearing clothes. A large shirt, soft and faded, buttoned to my throat. And there's no chain, no restraint, no guard standing over me with cattle prods or needles.

I'm not tied down.

The realization hits me like cold water. In one motion, I push myself upright, waiting for the pain to follow—but it doesn't come. I press a hand to my stomach where the wounds should be, and find only smooth skin under the fabric.

A breath escapes me, too loud in the quiet room. The man—Erik—stirs but doesn't wake.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, movements slow and careful. My bare feet touch the smooth floor, warm from a nearby fire that crackles in a stone hearth. For a moment, I just sit there, breathless with the shock of such a simple thing: standing up when I choose.

Could it really be this easy? After all these years?

Am I truly free?

My gaze falls on a window across the room. Beyond it, trees sway in wind I can't feel. I rise, legs trembling but not from weakness. From possibility.

The floor creaks beneath my weight as I cross to the window. My hand finds the frame, fingers curling around it. I push. It doesn't move. I try again, harder this time, desperation building in my chest with each failed attempt.

"It doesn't open."

I freeze, every muscle locking into place. The voice is deep, rough with sleep, but not threatening. Not yet.

I turn slowly, my back pressed against the wall, hands flat against the wood at my sides. Ready to fight. Ready to run.

Erik is watching me, his posture still relaxed in the chair, though his eyes are sharp now, alert. He doesn't move toward me. Doesn't raise his voice. Just watches, as if waiting to see what I'll do next.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

Words stick in my throat. How long has it been since anyone asked me that? Since anyone cared about the answer? I try to speak, but nothing comes out. My hand moves to my stomach again, pressing where the wounds should be.

"The wounds are healed," he says, answering my unspoken question. "I had a healer look at you. You were..." He pauses, something dark crossing his face. "You were badly hurt."

I swallow hard. My tongue feels thick, clumsy. I have words—I know I do—but they've been buried so long under screams and silence.

Erik rises slowly, keeping his movements telegraphed and careful. He crosses to a wooden chest and pulls out something soft and gray—a sweater, I realize, as he approaches me. He holds it out, not forcing it on me, just offering.

"You're shivering," he says.

Am I? I look down at my arms and notice the goosebumps prickling my skin. I reach for the sweater hesitantly, my fingertips brushing against his as I take it. The contact sends an electric jolt through me. Not fear. Something else.

He guides me back to the bed, gently, as if I might shatter. I sit on the edge, and he drapes the sweater around my shoulders. It's warm from being near the fire, and impossibly soft against my skin.

"Can you tell me your name?" he asks, crouching in front of me so we're at eye level. "Do you remember it?"

I stare into his eyes—green, flecked with gold—and find no threat there. Just patience. Concern.

"Freya." The word scratches its way out, rough from disuse. My own voice sounds foreign to my ears. "My name is Freya."

Relief washes over his face, softening the hard lines around his mouth. "Freya," he repeats, like he's testing how it feels on his tongue. "That's a beautiful name."

Something warm blooms in my chest at his words. I can't remember the last time someone spoke to me like I was a person instead of a specimen. Like I mattered.

"Where am I?" I ask, the words coming easier now. "Is this... another lab?" Fear creeps back into my voice despite my efforts to sound strong.

He shakes his head quickly. "No. You're at the palace, my home. My brother—the king—came with a healer to help you. You're safe now."

I blink at him, struggling to process his words. "King?" The term is familiar, but distant—from some half-remembered story, perhaps, from the time before. "What is a king?"

Erik's expression shifts, surprise flickering across his features before he schools them back to calm. "A king is someone who rules a kingdom—a territory," he explains carefully. "My brother Griffin is the king of the Human Wolf Kingdom."

None of this makes sense to me. Human Wolf Kingdom? Kings? These are words without meaning, pieces of a puzzle I don't have the frame for.

"Am I... a prisoner here?" I ask, voice smaller than I want it to be.

His response is immediate and firm. "No. Never again." He reaches out slowly, telegraphing his movement, and when I don't flinch away, he takes my hand in his. His palm is warm against mine, calloused and strong. "You're free, Freya. Free to stay, free to go. Free to choose."

Choose. Another concept so foreign it makes my throat tight. In the facility, there were never choices. Only commands, consequences, and pain.

I look at his hand holding mine, at the way his thumb brushes lightly over my knuckles. The touch is gentle in a way I don't know how to process. The creature inside me—my wolf—preens at the contact, wanting to press closer, to burrow into his warmth.

"I don't know how to be free," I whisper, the admission tearing something loose inside me. “I don’t know anything outside of my cell.”

His fingers tighten around mine, not painfully, just reassuringly. "Then I'll help you learn," he says.

And he does. He tells me about the three wolf shifter kingdoms, the Veil that separates the human from two of the kingdoms. He tells me about the Silver Ring Organization.

And I listen, and absorb.

Listening to him speak calms down the agitation within me. I like the sound of his voice. It makes me feel safe. I like the way he caresses my palm. He doesn’t seem to know he’s doing it. I just want to sink into him and hide from the world and the darkness that I’ve known for far too long.

The sun is starting to rise and I stare at it, fascinated.

When was the last time I saw a sunrise?

“The window— Can it really not open?”

“This one can’t,” Erik tells me. “But there’s another on the other side of the bed. Come.”

He helps me to my feet and his feels warm.

As he guides me to the window, I stare at the back of his head. he makes me feel safe. I don't remember much of my childhood, but the only time I ever remember feeling safe was when my mother was alive. Before that monster she married, sold her off like he did me.

Erik opens the window and steps aside. I draw in gulps of the cold air in a way I was never able to when running away. I smell the freedom, taste it, and my eyes burn.

“This is real, isn’t it?” I ask, my voice cracking. “I’m free? They're not going to come for me anymore?”

Erik fixes my sweater. “They will not stop looking for you, Freya, but as long as you're here, they can't touch you. And you can stay here for as long as you want.”

I feel a strange ball of tension within me as he fixes my clothes. For the first time, a man’s touch does not incite fear. He's gentle and careful with me, something I’ve never experienced before.

A soft knock at the door makes me stiffen. Erik squeezes my hand once before releasing it. He moves like someone who's never been afraid of being hunted.

"That's probably breakfast," he says, and the word stirs something in me—a distant memory of morning light and the smell of something sweet.

When he opens the door, a woman enters carrying a wooden tray. She's young, with dark hair pulled back neatly, and when she sees me, her eyes widen slightly before quickly looking away. I wonder what she sees—a wild thing, perhaps, or something broken beyond repair.

"Just set it on the table," Erik tells her, his voice gentle but firm.

She does as instruct, bobbing her head in a quick motion before slipping out. The door closes behind her, and we're alone again.

Erik brings the tray to the bed, setting it between us. Steam rises from bowls of something thick and golden. The smell hits me, rich and unfamiliar, and my stomach clenches painfully.

"Oatmeal," he explains, noticing my confusion. "With honey and fruit. Jerry — The healer who looked after you has made a chart for your meals. You might not be able to process heavy meats so we’re keeping the food light for a few days.”