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The scream that rips out of my throat when Dorian disappears is primal, angry, painful. It leaves me gasping for air, the stinging trailing all the way down my esophagus.

If I thought it was bad before, when I only felt trapped in this house, this is definitely worse. Much, much worse.

Dorian thinks he’s protecting me. I know that. But from where I stand, he doesn’t have the right to make this decision—he hasn’t earned the right to throw me over his shoulder and lock me away. No matter how big the threat is, no matter how much he’s worried about me.

I deserve to know what’s going on. And I’m not going to sit here and wait for him to come back, wallow, feel sorry for myself. I am going to find a way out of this stupid little cube.

Mind going a bit numb, I move to the sink, take down one of the glass cups from the shelf—which is surprisingly clean—rinse it out, then fill it with water. After drinking the whole thing, I put my hands on my hips and turn, surveying the room.

There’s a little grate in the corner of the room, and for a moment, I entertain the thought that I might be able to take it off, climb through it like a spy in an action movie.

But the grate is small, no bigger than the size of my fist, and when I try to dig my nails under it, I just end up hurting the tips of my fingers, sending a stinging pain down to my wrist. I have no tools, nothing I could use to pry it away. And I wouldn’t fit through it, anyway.

Pacing, I keep looking around, my hand going to my stomach absently as I do. I don’t know when you officially become a mother—does it count if you’ve only had a premonition that you might, someday, have a kid?—but I want to be the kind of mother who shows her kid not to take any shit.

If I have a baby inside me right now, I’m going to show them that they’re never trapped. That they can find a way out, a way through, a way forward. It’s what I’ve been doing my entire life.

I stop my pacing, my eyes resting on a keypad just inside the door. It matches the one on the outside, the one Dorian punched his fingers into before the door opened. I should have been paying better attention, should have thought to take note of the code.

Moving over to the keypad, I hover my fingers over it, then punch in the year Dorian was born.

The screen flashes red, and proudly tells me hat I only have two tries left before it locks out for biometric access, only.

I’m guessing that certainly doesn’t include me, and would mean I’d definitely have to wait for Dorian to get back before I could get out of here. Taking a deep breath, I look up to the ceiling, wracking my brain for anything that might make sense.

A four digit pin. What would they use?

I remember the year that Dorian’s grandfather became the Alpha from our pack history class and pause for just a moment, hesitating before punching in the numbers. It flashes red once more, and I shake my fingers out, bouncing around.

“Fuck,” I whisper, pushing my hands through my hair. I can figure this out—I know I can. If only I could get a premonition about this—

I stop, thinking about the keypad upstairs, the older one that Dorian wanted me to connect to. My eyes fall back to the one in front of me.

But I couldn’t do it. Wasn’t able to control my gift. Beth said that it would take a long time to train up to it, to be able to seek out information, rather than just having it come to me, like I’m used to.

This is my only choice.

Letting out a resolute breath, I step up to the pad, lightly rest my fingers on either side of it, close my eyes, and listen.

The rest of the world falls away. I feel my energy reaching out, fusing into the object, feeling what it feels, hearing the way that it exists. The soft humming of the electrical components, the soft zap years ago of a power drill mounting it to the wall.

Then, as though from nowhere, I hear a deep, raspy voice I’ve only heard a few times before. Despite not being familiar with it, I recognize it.

The voice of my former alpha leader.

Dorian’s grandfather.

The man that my pack believed I murdered.

Their voices come to me untethered, no visual to accompany it. Just their voices in a vast darkness, as though I’ve poked my head into the room, eyes closed.

“This room isn’t for you, Dorian,” I hear him saying. “It’s for someone like Ash. The point of this is never for you to hide in here, you get that?”

“Of course, Gramps.”

Dorian’s little voice, pre-puberty. He must have been about twelve when they had this discussion. I can imagine it, the two of them standing here, his grandfather with his arms crossed, his wiry hair popping up from all angles on his head.

“And the code you pick, it should have nothing to do with you, alright? No birthdays, no nothing special. Last thing you need is for someone to guess what it could be. Let’s go with something random, alright? What you got?”

Dorian answers, hesitantly, “Five … six … two … eight.”

“That’s random?” his grandfather confirms.

“Yes.”

A second later, breaking free of the memory, I’m pushing out of the heavy door to the panic room, sucking in a breath of basement air. It takes me a moment to figure out the secret panel, how to push against it, and once it’s closed behind me, I take the steps two at a time, euphoria rushing through me.

I am so much more than Dorian thinks I am. Not just some asset to be protected—a force to be reckoned with. I think about Jerrod, how his hand connected with my face all those weeks ago, and realize I want to learn how to defend myself. That it’s high time I learned how to fight back.

It’s not until I’m in the guest bedroom, filling a duffel bag from under the bed with the weird mix of clothes from Ash and what I’ve managed to sew myself, that I realize I’m leaving.

Maybe Dorian can come and find me, beg for my forgiveness, but I’m definitely not staying here like a good little girl until he comes back. He’ll have to crawl on his knees to me, claim me as his mate in front of everyone, beg for my grace—

“Kira?”

When I spin around, I’m not expecting to see her.

But, at the sight of my mother, all my walls come crumbling down. It’s like the five-year-old version of me steps forward when I fly into her arms, folding her much smaller frame into my arms, the sobs ripping out of me before I even realize they’re coming.

“Mom,” I sob, falling apart further when her hand is on my back, rubbing large, soothing circles.

“Oh, honey ,” she breathes. “I was looking for you everywhere—I didn’t know what Dorian did—”

“It’s okay,” I gasp, pulling back, wiping the tears from my eyes, but when I catch a glimpse of her concerned face, I start to fall apart again, everything flooding out of me. “Everything is so messed up,” I rasp, sitting down on the bed so hard the duffel beside me bounces. “I’m—I’m pregnant, and—”

She gasps, and I look up, sucking in quick, devastated breaths, feeling like I can’t breathe.

“Darling,” she says, coming to my side, rubbing her hand up and down my arm. “Come with me. We’re going to get you a warm mug of tea and talk this through, okay?”

Something in the back of my mind hesitates, pulls away from her, remembers all the times she’s hurt me throughout my life. The other part of me insists that this is my mother —that if I can’t trust her, really, who can I trust?

So I stand, and I walk out the door with her, letting her lead me down the stairs, to the front door. Outside, the area is deceitfully peaceful. Something must have been going on for Dorian to rush away like that, but to either side of us, the low-lying, sprawling trees rustle in a slow breeze. A lizard climbs up the side of the house.

There’s not another soul out here, and no signs of distress.

“Come on, love,” my mother says, tucking me into her car gently. I let her close the door behind me, and stare up at Dorian’s house as we reverse, watching the front door get smaller and smaller.

She reaches over, running her hand over my hair gently, smiles, and says, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you, baby.”