Aelara's POV
I didn't make it far enough.
I thought I had.
The forest had begun to thin, the air shifting with the scent of another territory somewhere ahead. My injured leg throbbed with every step, but I kept pushing. Just a little farther. Just a little more.
Then the wind shifted.
And with it came a scent that turned my blood to ice.
Silver Ridge.
They were close.
I stumbled behind a fallen tree, heart slamming against my ribs. I tried to steady my breathing, to make myself smaller, quieter. I barely managed to pull myself upright before the first wolves burst through the brush.
Bloody. Barefoot. Shaking.
Helpless.
Six warriors surrounded me in seconds. I tried to run, but exhaustion made my legs buckle. Rough hands grabbed my arms and forced them behind my back.
"Thought you could escape?" one of them sneered.
A familiar presence stepped through the trees.
Ronan.
He didn't look surprised.
He looked irritated.
"You didn't even make it past the outer range," he said flatly. "Pathetic."
I lifted my chin despite the fear clawing through me. "I'd rather die out here than stay in your pack."
His jaw tightened, but he only gestured to the warriors. "Take her back."
They tied my wrists and dragged me through the forest like I was nothing more than a captured animal.
The pack gates closed behind us with a heavy finality.
They didn't take me to the cells right away.
They took me to the great hall.
The celebration had quieted, but many were still there—drinking, laughing, basking in the glow of their new rulers. Music died completely when they saw me thrown onto the marble floor at the foot of the steps.
Whispers rippled through the room.
Seraphine descended slowly in her crimson gown, every step graceful.
Satisfied.
"So," she said lightly, "the little runaway came crawling back."
I searched the room without meaning to.
Ronan stood beside her.
My mate.
He didn't look angry.
He looked inconvenienced.
"Lock her up," Seraphine ordered smoothly. "Whip her every day until I say otherwise."
A sharp slap snapped my head to the side. Tears spilled before I could stop them.
Strong hands hauled me up and dragged me away as the room returned to low conversation, as if I were nothing more than an unpleasant interruption.
The dungeon swallowed me whole.
Cold. Dark. Damp.
They threw me onto the stone floor and left without another word. The door slammed shut, the echo ringing in my ears.
Then it started.
A crushing ache in my chest, like something inside me was breaking apart. Heat spread under my skin, burning through my veins. I curled in on myself, sobs tearing free no matter how hard I tried to stay quiet.
I cried for my parents.
For the girl I used to be.
For the life I never got to live.
And for the mate who had watched them drag me away without lifting a finger.
I had never felt so alone.
Days blurred together in darkness.
Every morning, the guards came.
They never spoke much. They didn't need to.
The whip did all the talking.
Each lash reopened wounds that never had time to close. My back burned constantly, raw and bleeding, the pain so deep it became its own kind of numbness.
I stopped screaming after the second day.
Not because it hurt less.
But because crying was useless.