Chapter 3

Zahra's POV

I wake to the sound of an engine, the low thrum of wheels grinding over tarmac. My head throbs, my mouth is dry, and my nose burns with the sting of scent-blocking chemicals. A coarse sack scratches against my face, and I realise there’s a bag over my head. I try to move, but my wrists are bound behind my back, the cuffs biting into raw skin. My ankles are tied too. When I shift, my body collides with something warm and soft. Fuck. What is that? I prod with my fingers as much as I can and realise it’s another body. Hopefully the fact that it’s warm means it’s not a dead one.

I can’t smell anything through the chemical reek. I have no idea who’s with me, but I think there are at least two others. Shapes press against me as the van jolts. My stomach lurches, but I force myself to breathe quietly, shallowly. I need to stay calm. I need to think.

Male voices drift from the front of the van, muffled but clear enough to catch snippets of conversation.

“She’s supposed to be resistant to suppressants,” one says. “The white wolf’s blood burns through anything.”

“Yeah, but none of the ones we’ve captured have. So, either we’ve not found her yet, or the stories are bullshit,” another replies.

A third voice laughs. “Doesn’t matter. The boss wants them all. We’ll know soon enough when the drugs wear off.”

I shut my eyes tighter beneath the sack. I can’t give myself away. If they realise the suppressants aren’t working anymore, I’m done. I force my breathing to stay even and slow. The smell of wolfsbane clings to the air, mixed with human sweat and oil. Every bump in the road sends pain up my spine, but I stay limp.

Hours pass before the vehicle swerves suddenly off the road, bumping over uneven ground. We’re thrown around, slamming into each other and the metal sides. It hurts like hell, but I have to stay limp, don’t react, don’t react, don’t react!

Finally, the van jerks to a stop. Doors slam. Footsteps. A burst of cold air floods in as the rear doors open. I listen, straining my ears. If I can’t see or smell, I need to use what’s left. Birds. Wind through leaves. No traffic, no city sounds. Shit. We’re in the middle of nowhere.

Rough hands grab me, hauling me up. I’m slung over someone’s shoulder, their shoulder digging painfully into my stomach. The jarring rhythm of their stride thuds through my ribs as we move. The sound shifts—echoes, stone, the scrape of boots on stairs. We climb, then descend again. The faint flicker of light filters through the fabric. Torches. Underground. Perfect.

They drop me hard onto a cold, damp floor. Pain shoots down my arms where the cuffs bite, and through my hip where I landed. I grit my teeth, forcing myself not to make a sound. I can hear chains rattling, muffled cries, shallow breaths. There are at least half a dozen fast heartbeats nearby. Other prisoners I’m guessing.

Rough hands unlock the cuffs on my ankles. My head is seized, and I hastily close my eyes as the hood is ripped away. The gag stays on, but the air tastes marginally cleaner. The bite of something cold closes around my neck. I panic, but refrain from reacting instinctively. It’s fastened tight before I can even think. The metal burns my skin—silver, its, heavy, and it’s a fucking collar.

Footsteps retreat, a door slams, and a key turns in the lock. I lie still. No idea if I’m being watched. There’s another heartbeat across the room, maybe three metres away. I’ll have to wait and see how the others react when the drugs wear off.

Time crawls. Then, there’s a low groan to my right. The other person is waking. Shuffling. Breathing quickens. Panic. I give it another few minutes and start to move, mimicking the sound of someone just coming to.

Chains scrape. A muffled cough. I sniff faintly and catch something familiar—Corrine. Fuck. They got us both. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Edwardo had mentioned this could be the next step if we got nowhere, using me as bait, but I thought there’d be backup plans. An extraction. Something. I know my tattoo will alert them to my location, but I still feel utterly cut off and alone. This may have been a possible eventual plan, but it wasn’t the plan on this op.

My arms burn in their sockets, my shoulders screaming from the strain. I can’t sit up, chained the way I am. All I can see is the edge of a filthy floor and part of the door.

Footsteps echo closer. Two sets. Heavy. Men. The key scrapes in the lock. The door squeals open and two guards enter. They are massive, ragged, feral-looking. Tattoos wind across their arms and necks, crude symbols like gang signs. Fuck!. I don’t move.  But Corrine whimpers as they they grab her. Her muffled cries fade as they drag her away. I twist, but the cuffs bite into my skin, drawing a hiss of pain.

Before long there’s a distant sound; a scream. Corrine. It echoes through the ceiling from above me. Its quiet, but very definitely still audible. My stomach churns, but after its followed up by another, and another, for what feels like hours, I have to wall up my feelings inside, a box or I’m not going to survive this.

When they bring her back, she’s broken. Unconscious. Bloody. They drag her back to the wall. They chain her by collar and her hands. her beautiful face barely recognisable. And I feel like I’m going to be sick.

A hand clamps on my arm. “Your turn,” one of them grunts. The chains clatter as I’m dragged up. My legs barely hold me, my arms burning, shoulders raw. My head spins from blood loss or the drugs, I can’t tell which.

They haul me upstairs fast, my bare feet slipping on the slick stone. Somewhere along the way I lost my heels. The torches flicker along the stairwell, and then we emerge into a large chamber. The air tastes old—dust, smoke, blood.

It’s a hall. Faded marks on the floor show where rugs once lay. Firelight flickers across the high ceiling. At the far end, a row of chairs lines the wall, all occupied. Wolves. Rogues. Every one of them massive.

The sight that chills me most is the single chair in the centre of the room, surrounded by chains. They drag me to it, force me down. Shackles clamp over my ankles, then my wrists. My arms scream as blood rushes back into them. The gag is yanked away, and I cough.

“Name,” a man orders. His voice is deep, rough, commanding. He’s leaning against the fireplace—tall, scarred, terrifying. One eye bifurcated with a jagged scar that runs from temple to mouth. Both eyes are black pits of violence. Suddenly my head snaps to the side, and a second later pain explodes across my face, as I register the man beside me has juct back handed me across the face.

“Name.” the large man growls again.

“Zoe Lancaster,” I whisper, forcing my voice to shake and not to snarl back at him.

“What do you know of the white wolf?”

“N-nothing,” I stammer.

Pain explodes through my stomach as the man beside me punches me hard enough to steal my breath. The questioning continues—who I am, what do I know, where is the white wolf. Every answer earns me another blow. I focus on my breathing, on the thin thread of my mind. I can’t reach Zanthe, but I still try to push the pain down the bond. Whether she feels it or not, I don’t know—but it helps. I scream when I need to, to sell the act, but I don’t break.

Time dissolves. When the final blow comes—hard, to my jaw—my head snaps sideways, vision swimming. I force myself to go limp. They think I’m unconscious, and to be honest I’m holding on by a thread. They haul me up under the arms, dragging me down flight after flight, my ribs grinding with each breath. My toes hit each step as they go, pain sparking through my broken body.

Back in the cell, they chain me the same way as Corrin, my hands either side of me attached by cuffs to the chain, and another chain through the loop on the back of the collar. I let my head fall forward, breathing slow, shallow. Corrine is still unconscious opposite me. I take a long breath and reach inward. The link flickers, faint, but there. Zanthe. I can’t let her hold my pain too long or it’ll crush us both, so I slowly pull it back, letting it drip through the bond in manageable waves. The agony is staggering, but at least it’s mine again.

I force myself to think. They’re hunting the white wolf. Me. But why? Are they connected to the Sanctum of Shadows after all? I need to learn more. I need to survive. I just have to hold on long enough for Edwardo and the others to find me.

Surely, it won’t be too long?