Page 1 of Rising Reign (The Wolves of Crescent Creek #3)

WREN

Rain pelted my skin, feeling like tiny knives slicing into me. But, still, I tipped my face to the darkening sky. Water. I needed this water. Opening my mouth, I caught as many drops on my tongue as possible.

I kept my eyes closed. It was easier that way, trying not to take in the surrounding walls of the pit. The towering way they enclosed me. The occasional snake that made its way down. The countless creepy-crawlies.

Breathe, Wren.

I forced my inhale to slow. No jerky, stuttered breaths that would feed my panic. As I brought the muggy air into my lungs, I scented the bayou water—the thick heaviness of it—and the rotting aromas that seemed to cling to my father’s territory.

No. Not my father. Bastian. The bastard who’d taken everything from me.

My back screamed, and the memories of the whip slicing into my flesh rose. A lash for every month I’d been away. My wolf pressed at my skin, wanting out, wanting to rid the world of every being who had caused us harm.

“With time,” I whispered. “With time.”

I lifted the shirt that had been given to me after the lashing, letting out a whimper as it peeled away from my blood-caked skin. Keeping my eyes closed, I called on my wolf—not for a full transition, but enough to bring on some healing.

My skin tingled as I felt fur ripple over my limbs, torso, and then my face. My breaths turned into those short pants I was trying to hold off—pain-filled ones—as my knees finally gave way, and I hit the muddy ground with a thud.

The healing was necessary but took far too much energy.

Especially when I hadn’t been given food or water in at least seventy-two hours.

As my fingers dug into the mud, I pictured the guys in my mind.

I painted each of their faces in such detail that it felt like I could reach out and touch each one.

A keening noise left my lips, my wolf crying out at being separated from her mates. My human half was just as devastated. Everything in me ached, and it was from more than just the beatings I’d taken. It was a soul-deep pain.

But I kept breathing. For the guys and for myself. I refused to let Bastian Boudreaux win. He wouldn’t break me.

I slowly forced my eyes open. It was getting darker, ramping the panic inside me higher. But then I pictured Locke—the way he held me and soothed my touch-hunger, how his voice sounded with his gentle reassurances—and the panic eased a fraction.

Leaning back on my heels, I studied my surroundings: mud and stone held in place by what looked like heavy-duty chicken wire or something similar. It was the only thing keeping the pit from collapsing since it was so close to the water.

The rain eased a bit, but as it did, a shiver racked me. Not a good sign. My shifter nature should’ve protected me from the cold. If it wasn’t, my energy stores were running on empty .

I didn’t let the fear of that realization in. I let logic reign. Because Bastian didn’t want me dead. Not yet, anyway. He wanted me to feel every ounce of pain that he and his minions dished out.

A shudder ran through me at the memory of Marcelle’s snarling face as he took his turn with the whip. The way he’d grabbed my hair afterward and whispered, “Just wait until you’re in heat. I’m going to make you pay in ways your nightmares can’t even imagine.”

Breathe, Wren. Just breathe.

This time, I pictured Kingston. The way his callused hands felt as they framed my face. How he promised that everything would be okay and made it so. The sweet, thoughtful gifts he left for me to find.

My panic eased again. Because the guys were my talismans, my guiding lights. And I would find my way back to them.

Footsteps sounded in the distance, and I instantly launched to my feet, every muscle and limb crying out in protest. I might’ve healed myself, but that sort of pain lived on like an echo you couldn’t wash away.

I tipped my head back, watching, waiting, listening. The steps were heavy, likely male, and carried anger.

Steeling myself, I tapped into my empath gift ever so slightly.

Pure darkness slammed into me, making me stumble. I instantly threw up my walls, but the darkness still slid inside. Nausea rolled through me as sheer agony raged.

Then, a face appeared over the side of the pit, and Marcelle sneered. “Enjoying being back where you belong, bitch?”

I struggled to pull air into my lungs. The rotting bayou scents of the Red River and Marcelle’s stomach-turning stench filled my nose.

“Nothing to say?” he snarled. “Good. I like my women silent and obedient. You’ll be trained as such.”

I nearly vomited then but managed to keep a hold of myself. Losing any water from my system now could be catastrophic .

Marcelle threw a rope ladder down, and I scurried to get out of its path.

“That’s it. Run, little bitch.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back my retort as the ladder clattered against the side of the pit.

“Start climbing. Your father wants to see you.”

It took everything in me to hold back my shudder. I didn’t want to give Marcelle or Bastian the satisfaction. Instead, I began to climb.

I’d tried refusing as a child, curled into a ball at the bottom of the pit, and hoping for death. Instead, I’d gotten the worst beating of my life. Then Bastian had brought a healer to fix me, only to do it all over again. I’d learned to never refuse.

But something about choosing to climb to my own punishment was even more painful. It made me feel weak and pathetic.

“You’re strong,” I whispered to myself. “You survive. That’s what matters.”

“What’d you say, little bitch?” Marcelle snapped.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I pictured Brix in my mind. The way he’d shielded himself and his emotions for so long. How strong he’d been through his pain. And the way he’d let me in—the gift that was. If he could make it through, so could I.

My entire body cried out in pain as I climbed. Muscle. Skin. Bones. Everything felt like it was a second away from irrevocably breaking.

“Faster,” Marcelle demanded.

I tried. My muscles screamed, but I pushed harder. The second I was within arm’s reach, he grabbed me by the hair, dragged me out, and threw me to the ground. I slid through the mud like some disgusting Slip ‘N Slide.

Marcelle’s nose flared. “You stink.”

No shit, Sherlock.

I refrained from giving voice to that thought. But whose fault was it that I smelled? It wasn’t as if they’d given me access to a shower.

“Get up,” he barked.

I struggled to my feet, my muscles quaking.

Marcelle was on me in two long strides, grabbing me by the hair again. “Start walking.”

I did as I was ordered. The pit was on the outskirts of the pack territory, with small cabins belonging to the lowest-ranking members surrounding it. Bastian didn’t want to listen to his prisoners scream all night long.

As Marcelle marched me along, a few people poked their heads out of their houses, curious to see the alpha’s traitorous daughter. There was a mix of reactions. Those loyal to my father sneered and spat. Others looked fearful. And a few looked sad—one or two even angry.

Something pricked my awareness: the realization that none of the women wore shoes. My stomach cramped. I didn’t have shoes on either. I never did on pack territory because my father thought it would keep me from running. But now, none of the women were allowed?

Marcelle’s lip curled as he followed my line of sight. “ You cost them that privilege. You, and you alone. They all despise you.”

My shoulders curled in as if wings could spring from my back and protect me from the onslaught of the words. It did no good. The knowledge that the women of this pack were being hurt because of me sliced me to my bones.

“Keep it moving,” Marcelle said, shoving me forward by my head.

I stumbled, my feet sticking in the mud, but I kept moving. I took in the cabins through the mossy trees. They got nicer and larger the closer we got to the main house—Bastian’s home. It loomed in the distance.

It stuck out like a sore thumb against the more rustic cabins: white paint and columns that gleamed amid the swampy backdrop. It didn’t fit. Just like my father didn’t—fake and not true to its nature.

But Marcelle didn’t guide me toward it. Instead, he turned me. That’s when I saw them—torches lighting the darkening sky and forming a circle.

That twisting sensation was back in my stomach for a whole new reason now.

Two massive bonfires roared on either side of the circle, with a dais of sorts behind it. A chair like a throne loomed highest, snarling wolves carved into the posts and battle scenes playing out on the legs as my father sat impassively atop it, a woman kneeling at his feet.

I lifted my chin, refusing to be cowed by his flair for the dramatic. I would meet whatever he had planned head-on. I would not cower.

Marcelle shoved me toward the dais. I stumbled, but I didn’t fall.

Bastian’s gaze skimmed over me. “Little Flower, you’re looking a little worse for wear.”

I didn’t make a sound; just stared at him.

His lips twitched. “Such defiance in you. Such fire. It’s surprising, really. Maybe there is hope for the line that comes from you yet. But you’ll have to prove yourself.”

Marcelle scoffed, but I pretended I couldn’t hear.

Bastian’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair, his many rings glittering in the firelight. “If you succeed, you’ll receive a shower, a meal, and a bed for the night. If you fail, it’s back to the pit for another week.”

I didn’t let hope show on my face. It would bring Bastian too much pleasure.

“But you’ll have to win it,” he growled.

Dread pooled low in my stomach. Win it.

I knew what that meant. The torches. The bonfires. The gathering pack .

They lived for these nights—the bloody battles that entertained Bastian and could earn them favor for a fleeting moment. But I was a submissive, and the past three days of torment had left me weak, my strength fleeting.

Bastian reached out a hand to grab the kneeling woman’s chin and lifted it. “Tell me, pet. Will you fight for my honor?”

“Yes, Alpha,” she whispered demurely. But I saw her muscles ripple as she spoke. Everything about her was a finely honed machine.

“Rise, Lilli,” Bastian commanded.

She did so gracefully, and my mouth went dry. The woman had at least a foot on me, and as she stretched, I saw that I’d been right about that muscle. The scars across her knuckles told me she was no stranger to a fight.

Bastian leveled his stare at me. “You will fight for the privilege of my shelter. You will fight until death itself comes knocking.”