Page 22 of Primal (The Prey Drive #1)

Chapter 21

Noa

M y bones begged for sleep.

Every inch of my body ached like I’d been dragged behind a school bus and then spat on for good measure, and still, rest didn’t come. Which feels like a joke at my expense considering I spent three days trying to claw my way out of unconsciousness. But last night, when I actually wanted to sleep? The bastard ran off and left me hanging. Which was rude as hell. I just laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything. How quickly it all unraveled. One trip back to Fallamhain territory and suddenly the axis of my life spun in reverse.

The pounding in my skull didn’t help matters, either. It had been sharp and persistent. That’s what finally drove me to bed last night, putting an abrupt end to Rhosyn, Canaan, and Siggy’s unexpected reunion.A fact that made me feel selfish and weak, but the awful truth was, I couldn’t stay upright a second longer.

We agreed to pick things back up this morning; there was still so much to unpack, and both sides had more to say.

Having given up on the prospect of sleep an hour before sunrise, I now sit curled up in the sunroom on the back of the manor. The glassed-in space full of hanging plants and an unbelievably cozy sitting area was a favorite of Mom’s. She spent almost every morning out here drinking her tea while she planned out her day or had quiet moments with our past Nightingales. Before, it’s always been a space that radiates warmth, no matter the weather, but now, huddled under two blankets and my heavy hoodie still firmly in place, I’m cold. Not in a way a heater could fix—it’s the kind of cold that lives in your marrow.It’s not an actual temperate issue, but a lingering effect of my still raw rejection.

Trying to ignore the ache settled deep in my bones, I let my thoughts drift to what happened last night with her .

Siggy.

Or rather, Sigrid Eklund.

A member of the Fallamhain Pack.

I didn’t know. Not even an inkling. There’d been no flicker of recognition, no long-buried memory clawing its way to the surface when I met her. While I now recognized her last name as being the same as one of the long-standing council members for Merritt Fallamhain, I hadn’t remembered Siggy at all from my time as part of the pack. Our seven-year age gap probably playing the biggest contributor of that.

Rhosyn and Canaan, however, had recognized her instantly.

They all stared at one another like ghosts. Like seeing Siggy alive and breathing was too much to wrap their minds around. Awe and disbelief tangled in the air, thick enough I could feel it pressing into my ribs.

It was Rhosyn who broke first, because of course it was. The beta female is fearlessly led by her gut reactions, and appears to have the emotional restraint of a windstorm. One moment she was standing behind me at the kitchen table, and the next she was flying toward Siggy, arms wide.

I winced before Siggy did. My entire body tensed on instinct, bracing for impact on the Nightingale’s behalf. She’s still so touch-sensitive, still flinching when I so much as brush her arm when she’s not expecting it. So, when Rhosyn wrapped her up in a full-body hug, I’d braced and stopped breathing while I waited to see how Siggy would react.

She didn’t move. Didn’t return the gesture. Didn’t even blink. She just stood there like stone, her big, blue eyes staring right over Rhosyn’s shoulder—at me.

That look…

It gutted me.

Her internal battle was so painfully clear. She wanted to lean into the comfort the familiar female was so freely offering her, but the trauma she’s endured has left her unwilling to accept it. To trust it. All of her unease, her discomfort, was written all over her face. And the second Rhosyn released her, Siggy moved. Not away. Not back.

Toward me.

Wordlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world, she stepped closer and pressed her side to mine. I didn’t hesitate. I reached out and took her hand, wrapping my icy fingers around hers like I’d done countless times during our days spent together. My grip wasn’t tight. Just enough to say, I’ve got you and I’m not going anywhere.

Neither Canaan nor Rhosyn missed the move. I felt the weight of their eyes alongside the speculation and confusion. They were silently trying to figure out how Siggy and I had crossed paths, but they didn’t voice their question. Yet. And for that I was grateful. Especially since that was around the time my headache really decided to make itself known.

While everyone’s attention was firmly on her—rightfully so—her sharp, worried gaze was once again locked on me.

“What happened to you?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper, as if attempting to keep this conversation just between us.

It hadn’t worked, of course. We were in a room full of shifters with advanced hearing, after all.

“Sigrid. Siggy ,” Canaan said gently, his tone soft but steady, like he was afraid to spook her. “We’d really like to know what happened to you .”

Rhosyn interjected before the question could hang too long in the air, clearly sensing the tight tension winding through Siggy’s frame and her fragile state. “If you’re willing—or ready—to tell us, that is. We’ve been worried sick about you, Sig. You’ve been missing for over seven months. We thought…” She trailed off, throat bobbing. “We’re just really happy to see you.”

I saw the moment Siggy retreated inward, Canaan’s gentle question pulling her straight back into whatever hell she’d escaped. Her fingers clenched around mine and she leaned more of her weight into my side, making my fatigued muscles shake as they fought to keep both of us standing.

Broken. Dirty. Omega whore.

It was when the hateful words she’d first had running rampant in her mind the first night she came to us returned, their ugly loop cycling through my own muddled head, making my headache reach a new nausea-inducing fever pitch.

That’s when I called it. Enough for one night.

Everyone agreed, reluctantly, to wait until morning to finish what had been started.

So, while I wait for the rest of the house to wake up, I sit out here, staring at nothing, locked in a quiet war with the darkness that’s settled in my mind and the anguish still crawling beneath my skin, in my soul. I keep telling myself I’ll learn to live with these things—like Seren said she did—but it’s the vacant space in my chest that unravels me. The space where something sacred and fated should be thrumming with life. I don’t know how to coexist with that kind of loss. I don’t know how to breathe around it.

Canaan’s cooking smells good, something warm and savory, but it’s wasted on me. The plate in front of me might as well be filled with gravel with how nonexistent my appetite still is. I notice Siggy hasn’t touched hers either. She sits beside me at the table, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped tight around them like if she lets go, she’ll fall apart. Her eyes are fixed straight ahead, unfocused. Somewhere else entirely.

The others don’t push. Rhosyn, sitting across from her, is quiet but alert, fingers laced together on the table like she’s willing her presence to be enough. Seren leans against the counter, Ivey on her hip, watching us both, no doubt filtering every emotion rolling off us in suffocating waves. I feel bad for my best friend during moments like these, when emotions, specifically negative ones, are high. I know she can block some of it out, but that’s only so effective.

Canaan, he just sips his coffee and waits.

It’s Siggy who finally breaks the stillness.

“It was the inlet,” she says, barely above a whisper. “At the lake.”

No one says a word while the omega at my side shares her story. She tells us about the inlet—how she and Carly were at a casual get-together with some of their classmates. A speaker, a few beers, nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone else decided to head back early since school was the next morning. But Carly and Siggy had just presented. Finally able to shift. They wanted to run. I can hear the ache in her voice when she says that part, like she’s mourning the girls they were before it all went to hell. Everyone else had loaded up into their cars and side-by-sides but the pair had wandered farther down the lake’s beach, away from any possible lingering eyes so they could shift in peace. Even though nudity wasn’t a big deal among wolves, she said it still felt awkward. They were still adjusting.

Then it happened.

She doesn’t explain the moment in vivid detail, but I don’t need her to. I can see it in the way her hands tremble, even though they stay clenched against her legs. I can feel it in the way her voice catches when she describes hands— multiple pairs —grabbing them from behind. Carly screamed. Siggy fought, and one of her earrings was ripped out in the process. But then someone got close and whispered in her ear.

“Go to sleep, dear.”

Siggy says there was no fighting it, that darkness swept her away almost instantly. The look I share with Seren tells me we’re thinking the same thing. A witch or charmer was there that night.

Siggy hugs her legs tighter to her chest, and I reach out, gently placing a hand on her back. She doesn’t flinch in surprise, which feels like progress.

“I don’t know how long we were out. Hours, maybe days. When I woke up, we were locked in the cages. In some kind of basement. A club.” Her voice cracks on the word, and her gaze finally flicks to mine, dull and haunted. “Not the kind with music and drinks.”

No one breathes. No one speaks. We understand exactly what kind of club she means. The kind where omegas don’t leave. An illegal, underground sex ring. A nightmare you think only exists in whispered horror stories. Except Siggy lived it. Carly too.

Siggy’s voice may have quieted, but the shame and anger that clings to her story lingers in the air long after she’s stopped talking. And even now, as I sit beside her, the weight of it presses against my ribs like I’ve absorbed some of her pain by proximity.

Maybe I have. Maybe that’s part of being a Nightingale. They don’t just carry their own pain. We are here to take some of the weight of it for a while.

“Do you know where this club was, Siggy?” Canaan questions. From where I sit, I can practically see the gears grinding behind his eyes—calculations already forming, scenarios being built, plans taking shape. The tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders square, it’s clear he’s already thinking about how to find this place, how to burn it to the ground piece by piece. It's comforting. And deeply, deeply intimidating.

Because this is what an Alpha is supposed to be. Unyielding in their defense of omegas. That primal drive to protect, to shield, it's built into their bones. Which is why it's so disturbing, so enraging, that some of them ignore that instinct completely. That they use that power not to protect, but to hurt. To exploit.

And it’s just becoming more common as the omega population continues to regress.

“South. I think it might have been close to northern Nevada, but I can’t be sure,” Siggy tells him.

Rhosyn shifts in her seat, looking nervous to speak the question that’s clearly on her mind. Probably on all our minds. “Honey, can you tell us how you were able to get out of there?”

For the first time since she began speaking, Siggy’s voice cracks, her big blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “It was another omega,” she rasps, barely getting the words out. “I don’t even know her name. But she’s the one who got us out.”

Siggy tells us about the omega who risked everything to get the pair of Fallamhain omegas out that nightmare. Her eyes turn into haunted orbs as she recounts the way the omega, who was probably a good ten years older than the girls, had appeared to have had the life syphoned out of her. Whatever will to live she’d once had was stolen by the monsters who kept her at their mercy for Goddess knows how long. Siggy thinks that emptiness, that absence of hope, was what gave her the courage to act. With nothing left to lose, the woman found a way to unlock their cages and open the back exit of the warehouse where they were being held—where the “club” operated.

“She opened the door and told us which direction to run,” Siggy says, her voice thin and trembling. “We could already hear the commotion below, they knew we were gone.” Her eyes glisten, glassy and distant, and I’m not sure she’s really seeing any of us anymore. “She didn’t say your name, Noa, but she told us about your sanctuary. Said if we made it to Ashvale, we’d be safe. ‘Just get there,’ she said. ‘Run like hell.’” Siggy swallows hard, her voice cracking. “Then she turned and went back inside, back toward them. We heard her scream.” Her breath shudders. “She sacrificed herself to give us time.”

Before Siggy continues her harrowing tale, Rhosyn and Canaan both shoot me a pointed look—the question clear in their expressions, a question they've likely been holding on to since Siggy walked into the kitchen last night. Why Ashvale? Why me?

In the briefest summary possible, Seren and I explain the basics of the Nightingale program. We keep it simple, leaving out critical details—especially about the witches' involvement—because even though we trust them, some secrets must remain ours alone. The less people who know about our security, the safer everyone stays.

Satisfied enough by our vague explanation for now, Rhosyn and Canaan ease back, and I gently encourage Siggy to continue.

“Carly started to fall behind,” Siggy whispers, the words shaky and frayed at the edges. “They were…harder on her. I think it’s because she never stopped fighting. Even after everything. Even after being held there, used like she was…she still fought them.”

My stomach rolls with nausea.

For two days, Siggy and Carly had run in their wolf forms. They hardly stopped, didn’t eat anything. Siggy keeps reiterating how they both weren’t willing to give up. They just wanted to live. They wanted to come home.

“We were close to a river when they caught up,” she goes on. “I thought if we made it to the water, we could use it to lose our scent. I got there first, and I was panicking, so exhausted I couldn’t see straight. I slipped.” Her voice cracks. “The cold shocked me into shifting back, and when I came up for air, she wasn’t with me. I looked back through the spray…and I saw her. She was still on the bank.”

Siggy blinks, tears cascading down her pale face.

“They grabbed her. And I couldn’t help. I couldn’t get back to her. The current was too strong, and I was too weak. It just…took me.”

Miles away from where she’d fallen into the river, Siggy woke up on a bank. Naked, freezing, and alone. That’s where the “mean ol’ crone,” as she called her, found her. According to Siggy, the witch wasn’t actually mean, just grouchy and sharp-tongued in a way that made you think twice before pushing your luck.

She lived alone in a one-room cabin and gave Siggy shelter for the night. A warm bed, food, clothes. She even knew about us. About the Nightingale program. That detail alone made my heart stutter, pride blooming sharp and sudden in my chest. Because it proved what Zora had told me—that my mom’s network was far-reaching. That somehow, through her efforts, word of our sanctuary had made it to witches in the remote outskirts of nowhere. She did that. She built this.

“The crone was going into the nearest town the next morning and offered to take me,” Siggy explains, quiet and full of guilt. “Said that was as far as she could get me. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to leave without Carly. But I knew there was nothing I could do for her. Not anymore.”

That kind of decision—leaving someone you love behind—it’s the kind of wound that carves deep. It'll take time for her to accept that she made the right choice. That surviving was the brave thing. The necessary thing.

“She had one of those ancient phones. You know, the ones without a touch screen,” Siggy adds, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips at this specific detail. “And the town was so remote the signal barely worked. But she told me to try the number anyway. I did. I heard you answer, Noa. I tried to talk but you couldn’t hear me. Then the call dropped.”

After that, she left. Alone. For days, she made her way here. She notes how it became harder and harder to stay in wolf form, like her body just didn’t have enough left to give. She walked on bare feet, stumbling through the forest a lot of the remaining way.

“I kept tripping,” she murmurs. “Branches, rocks…I think that’s how I broke my fingers.”

Images of her rough shape when she’d first arrived here replay in my mind and my heart breaks all over again as they do. But now, knowing what she endured to make it here, that heartbreak is tangled with awe. She clawed her way through hell to reach us. Survived things no one should have to. I don’t think she realizes how resilient she is yet, how brave. But we’ll remind her. Every damn day if we have to.

Head lifting, she slowly looks at each of us in the room, and then, with a tremble in her lip and tears shining in her already glassy eyes, she whispers, “I don’t know how, but I know in my heart that Carly didn’t make it. I know she’s dead. My wolf knows it too.”

Her admission sits heavy in the air.

It’s the way Canaan shifts where he stands, deliberately placing his now empty coffee mug on the counter, like he’s stalling for a few extra seconds to gather himself, that tells me whatever he’s about to say is going to destroy her.

Across the table, Rhosyn shifts her weight, eyes fixed on her folded hands as her throat works around a thick swallow.

“Siggy, there’s something we need to tell you,” he starts, “it’s about Carly.”