Page 16 of The Pack

CHAPTER 16

Z ara

I had another dream last night.

It started the same way it always did—soft and blurry around the edges, like looking through a fogged window. I was home again, in London. The air carried the faint hum of machinery, the scent of oil and smoke mixing with the perfume of blooming roses from the manicured gardens.

London had always been a city of contradictions. Its streets were lined with ornate gas lamps, their flickering flames spilling warm pools of light on cobblestone roads. The sound of engines churning filled the air, mingling with the rhythmic clatter of steam-powered carriages and the clip of polished boots on stone.

Soldiers in crisp uniforms patrolled the streets, their faces hidden beneath the smooth, expressionless visors of their helmets. Banners bearing the sigil of the Regency flapped in the wind, their stark black-and-gold designs a reminder of the order that ruled us all.

Order and fear: That’s what London was built on.

In the dream, my brother had already been taken. In the minutes following, I stared at the empty space where the hidden panel used to be. It was wide open, exposing the small, secret room I’d built for Logan.

In the dream, I remembered what happened to me.

“Zara Yorke,” a sharp voice barked from behind me.

I spun around to see two soldiers standing in the doorway, their black uniforms gleaming under the dim light of the hallway outside the bedroom. One of them held a rifle, the other a heavy baton. Both looked at me like I was nothing more than a bug to be squished underneath their boots.

“You are under arrest for harboring a shifter and obstructing justice,” one of them said, his voice clipped and mechanical through the modulator in his helmet.

My heart pounded as they stepped closer, their boots loud against the floorboards. “Wait—please—you don’t understand,” I stammered, holding up my hands.

They didn’t listen.

After that, they dragged me through the streets, my wrists bound with cold, unyielding metal. People watched from their windows, their faces blank, their expressions carefully controlled. No one stopped to help. No one even looked at me for more than a second. I was just another criminal to them, a terrorist that had harbored a shifter.

The soldiers brought me to a towering structure of steel and glass that loomed over the city like a monolith. Its windows were dark, and the faint hum of electricity filled the air.

Inside, the walls were cold and clinical, lined with pipes that hissed and clanked with every step we took. The air smelled of antiseptic and something acrid, metallic.

They led me to a room—a stark, windowless space with a single metal table bolted to the floor. The walls were lined with strange machines, their dials and switches glowing faintly.

I was shoved into a chair, my arms strapped down before I could even think to resist. A bright light clicked on above me, blinding me for a moment.

“She’s ready,” a male voice boomed near me.

I blinked, trying to focus as a figure stepped into the light. A man in a tailored black coat with a high collar loomed at the edge of the table. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his face clean-shaven, and his eyes cold, like shards of ice. He carried himself with the kind of authority that demanded obedience without a single word.

“Zara Yorke,” he said, his voice disinterested, like he was reading my name from a dull report. “You’ve caused quite a stir, hiding a shifter here in the heart of London.”

My throat tightened, but I forced myself to speak. “He wasn’t dangerous. He didn’t go feral. You didn’t need to take him.”

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s not your decision to make,” he said in clipped tones.

He turned toward one of the machines, his long fingers flipping a switch. A low hum filled the room, the sound vibrating in my bones like a warning.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, my voice trembling as panic began to creep into my chest.

“You’ll see,” he said, his tone calm and clinical, like a surgeon about to make the first incision. “The drug is still experimental, but I’m told it’s quite effective.”

“Drug?” I repeated, my stomach twisting.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he motioned to someone behind me, and I felt a sharp prick in my arm.

Panic surged through me, white-hot and all-consuming. “Wait—what is this? What are you doing to me?”

The man leaned in close, his expression cold and unfeeling, his icy stare boring into mine. “You wanted to protect a wolf, Miss Yorke,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the air like a crack of thunder. “Now you’ll know what it feels like to be one.”

His words hit me like a slap, and I thrashed against the restraints, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. “You can’t do this!” I screamed, my voice breaking. “You can’t?—”

He straightened, his expression just as emotionless as before. “It’s already done.”

The drug was already taking hold. Heat spread through my veins, starting in my chest and radiating outward, consuming me. My vision blurred, and the last thing I heard before everything went dark was the man’s voice.

“She’ll go into heat soon enough. She’ll get what she deserves.”

The memory lingered, harsh and vivid.

They’d drugged me.

I stared out at the forest, the morning sunlight filtering through the trees, but all I could see was the sterile white walls of that facility. The hum of the machines echoed faintly in my mind, the words of that cold man ringing like a death knell.

She’ll get what she deserves.

I rubbed at my wrist absentmindedly, as though I could still feel the bite of the restraints.

“Oi, lass. Let’s stop for a second, just the two of us.”

Killian’s voice broke through the fog, and I turned to find him standing a few paces away, his fiery red hair catching the sunlight. His golden-brown eyes were edged with curiosity, but there was a warmth in them that softened the edges of his usual mischief.

He crossed the short distance between us, leaning casually against a nearby tree. “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours? You’ve got a look like you just saw a ghost.”

I hesitated, my fingers tightening on the edge of the cloak. “Do you really want to know?”

Killian tilted his head, his grin faltering slightly. “Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

I searched his face for a moment, trying to gauge how much I could trust him. There was something disarming about Killian, something that made it hard to stay guarded around him. Maybe it was his easygoing smile or the way he always seemed to bring levity to even the darkest moments.

“It’s not a pretty story,” I said finally, my voice quieter.

“Pretty’s overrated,” he said, his grin returning, though softer this time. “Tell me anyway.”

So I did.

I told him about London—about the soldiers who had taken me, the cold, clinical facility they dragged me to. I told him about the man in the coat, the needle, the way they’d talked about me like I was some kind of experiment.

I told him how they’d stripped away my humanity with a few cold words and a vial of something I still didn’t completely understand.

When I finished, my voice was trembling, and my hands clenched so tightly that my knuckles ached. I risked a glance at Killian, half-expecting him to laugh it off or make one of his usual jokes.

But he didn’t.

He was silent for a long moment, his golden eyes darker than I’d ever seen them. Finally, he let out a low breath, running a hand through his wild hair.

“That’s… heavy, Zara,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

I blinked, his sincerity catching me off guard. “Thanks,” I whispered.

Killian’s gaze lingered on me, his usual humor tempered by something more serious.

“But I’ll tell you somethin’ else,” he said, his tone shifting. “I’m not sorry it brought you to us.”

My breath hitched, and I looked up at him, his words settling over me like a warm blanket.

“Look, I know we’re a bunch of mangy wolves,” he said, his grin on full display again. “But we’ve got your back, lass. Whatever happens, you’re not alone in this.”

The knot in my chest loosened just a little, and for the first time that morning, I managed a small smile.

“Thanks, Killian,” I said softly.

His eyes gleamed with mischief. “We’d better keep movin’ before Magnus scolds us for laggin’ behind and starts hummin’ some old tune again,” he said.

“He’s not that bad,” I chuckled.

“That’s because you’ve never been on a three-day trek with him humming the same goddamn tune the whole time,” he smirked, and I laughed.

He winked, stepping ahead to join Callum and Tobias, who were walking slightly ahead. Magnus, as always, led the group.

“Where are we?” I asked out loud.

A mountain range loomed in the distance, the grassy slopes and jagged ridges so very different than the dense forest we’d just left behind. The path was uneven, riddled with loose stones and patches of thick undergrowth that made every step a struggle.

Callum glanced over his shoulder, offering me a small, reassuring smile. “Those are the Wicklow Mountains,” he said. “Well, we’re on the edge of them now, heading into the deeper woods.”

I frowned, the name unfamiliar. “Wicklow?”

“The Wicklow Mountains stretch through this part of Ireland,” Callum explained. “It’s mostly hills and valleys, but there are deep woods too—places where people don’t go anymore.”

“They don’t go because they’re not idiots,” Tobias muttered.

Magnus sighed, turning slightly to look at me as we walked. “It’s rugged terrain,” he said. “Steep climbs, uneven paths. Perfect for hiding, and not easy to cross.”

“And dangerous,” Thorne added from the rear, his eyes full of warning. “Especially for people who don’t know the land.”

“Like me,” I said, my tone dry.

Callum nodded, but there was no judgment in his expression. “Aye.”

“Quiet,” Magnus said all of a sudden, his eyes narrowing as he slowed his pace.

“What is it?” Tobias asked, his voice low and tense.

Magnus raised a hand, his head tilting slightly as he sniffed the air. The rest of the pack followed suit, their expressions darkening almost immediately.

I strained to hear or see whatever had caught their attention, but the hills around us were quiet, the breeze carrying only the faint sound of rustling grass.

“There’s a pack nearby,” Thorne said, his eyes narrowing. “Feral. A big one. Maybe a dozen or so.”

Killian groaned, running a hand through his wild hair. “Of course there is. Can’t go a bloody mile without runnin’ into somethin’ tryin’ to kill us.”

Magnus’s jaw tightened as he scanned the horizon. “We’re not going to fight them,” he said firmly.

“Thank God,” Callum muttered, but the relief in his voice was short-lived as Magnus pointed toward the dense woods to the east.

“We’ll take the old trail,” Magnus said.

Tobias stiffened, his dark eyes narrowing. “The one through the deep woods? You can’t be serious.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked, glancing between them.

“The problem,” Tobias said grimly, “is that those woods aren’t just difficult to travel through—they’re dangerous. There are stories about people who go in there and don’t come out.”

“Stories,” Magnus said dismissively.

“Stories rooted in truth,” Callum said, his voice quieter. “People say there’s a tribe in there. Cannibals. They hunt anything that moves—and they’ve got a taste for wolf flesh.”

I shivered, glancing toward the shadowy line of trees in the distance. “Cannibals? That’s… comforting.”

“They’re just rumors,” Magnus said firmly, his gaze steady as he met mine. “And we don’t have a choice. The feral pack will tear us apart if we stay on this path.”

Tobias grunted, his jaw tightening. “Fine. But if I see anything moving, I’m not waiting to find out if it’s friendly.”

“None of us are,” Thorne said as he looked out into the woods.

Killian let out a low whistle, his grin returning despite the tension. “Well, then. Let’s hope we’re not on the menu tonight, eh?”

The unused trail was narrow and overgrown, winding its way into the heart of the forest. The further we went, the darker it became, the thick canopy above blotting out most of the sunlight. The air grew cooler, heavier, and I found myself glancing over my shoulder more than once, half-expecting to see something—or someone—lurking in the shadows.

The pack was quieter than usual, their typical banter replaced by tense glances and complete silence. Even Killian was subdued.

“Do you believe the stories?” I whispered to Callum, who was walking just ahead of me.

He hesitated, his gray eyes darting to the trees before he answered. “I don’t know, but I’ve heard enough to make me cautious.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” I muttered, earning a faint smile from him.

Magnus, walking at the front, hummed a low tune under his breath, the familiar sound somehow grounding despite the unease pressing in around us.

“We’ll be fine,” he said, his voice calm, but firm. “Just keep moving.”

The path narrowed as we descended deeper into the forest, the dense trees closing in on either side. The Wicklow Mountains were beautiful from a distance, their green slopes rising against the horizon like something out of a storybook. But up close, the beauty turned rugged, every step a challenge as the trail wound through uneven ground and patches of tangled undergrowth.

The air grew stagnant, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the forest itself was watching us. Every rustle of leaves, every distant snap of a branch set my nerves on edge.

Magnus led the way. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who’d navigated places like this before, his broad shoulders cutting through the overgrowth like it was nothing. Tobias followed closely behind him.

Callum stayed at my side, his usual easy demeanor dimmed by the tension in the air. Killian brought up the rear, his red hair catching the occasional shaft of sunlight that managed to break through the dense canopy overhead. Thorne walked silently on the outskirts of the group, his pale eyes never resting in one place for long.

“I’ve decided,” Killian said, breaking the heavy silence, “that I hate this bloody trail.”

“You decided that just now?” Tobias asked dryly.

Killian shrugged, his grin flashing. “What can I say? I like to take my time forming opinions.”

Callum let out a low laugh, though the sound was softer than usual. “You’re just mad you can’t see what’s ahead.”

“Exactly,” Killian said, kicking at a loose rock. “I like to know when something’s about to try and eat me.”

“Then you’re in the wrong forest,” Thorne said, his voice clipped as his gaze swept the trees.

As we moved further into the woods, the sunlight grew scarce, replaced by a hazy, eerie fog that seemed to come from nowhere. The trail became steeper, the rocky ground shifting underfoot. I stumbled, my boot catching on a root hidden beneath the moss, and Callum caught my arm before I could fall.

“Careful,” he said gently, his eyes flicking to mine.

“Thanks,” I murmured, my cheeks flushing.

Magnus slowed, his hand raised in a silent signal for us to stop. We froze, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

“What is it?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing as he sniffed the air. “Something’s not right,” he said finally.

Tension rippled through the group, everyone straightening as they scanned the surrounding trees.

“Feral pack?” Tobias asked, his voice low.

Magnus shook his head. “No. Something else.”

“Something worse?” Killian quipped, though his grin had vanished.

“Maybe,” Magnus said grimly.

Callum’s hand tightened on my arm as he turned toward Tobias. “You don’t think it’s…”

“It’s nothing,” Magnus said firmly, cutting him off.

But the look that passed between Callum and Tobias said otherwise.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

A twig snapped somewhere to our left, and everyone froze.

Tobias’s hand went to the hilt of his blade, his dark eyes narrowing. “Magnus…”

“I heard it,” Magnus said, his voice low.

Callum and Thorne both moved closer to me, their bodies tense. Killian was already scanning the trees, his gaze darting back and forth.

“What do we do?” I whispered.

Magnus turned to me, his expression calm and collected.

“We stay together.”