002— HOUSE ARREST.

I couldn't feel my wolf.

Seven days of pressing my palm against my chest, searching for that familiar presence that had lived inside me since I was thirteen. Seven days of finding nothing but emptiness where she used to be.

"Sloane?" My mother's voice came through the wall between our rooms. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah."

"Can you come here?"

I tried my door. Unlocked. The guards had stopped locking us in individual rooms after the first night. Why bother? Six armed wolves surrounded the house and we weren't going anywhere.

My mother sat on her bed in the same silver dress from the ceremony, wrinkled and stained now. Her shoulders curved inward and new lines creased the corners of her eyes.

"I can't sleep," she said when I sat beside her. "Every time I close my eyes—"

She didn't finish. Didn't need to.

"Your father tried talking to the guards today. Asked when the trial would be."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing. They just stared at him." Her hand found mine, cold and shaking. "Sloane, I don't think there's going to be a trial."

The words landed heavy in my chest. No trial meant no defense. No defense meant we were—

My door slammed open.

"Downstairs. Now." The guard's voice was flat.

Asshole.

We gathered in the dining room like criminals awaiting sentencing. 

My father's face was bruised from where they'd hit him during the arrest. Elijah had dried blood crusted in his hairline. My mother's wrists were wounded from the restraints.

The guards brought food. It was plain, cold and barely edible. Elijah stared at his plate without touching it.

"You need to eat," I said quietly.

"What's the point?"

"The point is not giving them the satisfaction of watching us break."

"We're already broken, Sloane." His eyes were hollow. "We're prisoners for crimes we didn't commit. Dad can't get answers. Mom can't stop crying. And you—" His voice cracked. "I watched him destroy you in front of everyone and I couldn't do anything."

The rejection mark between my shoulder blades flared hot.

"You will do something," I said. "We all will. When we get out of here."

"If we get out—"

"When."

My father reached across the table and gripped Elijah's hand. "Your sister's right. This isn't over."

"Crew Harding thinks it is."

"Then Crew Harding is going to learn he made a mistake."

The guard by the door shifted. "Keep talking like that and you'll make things worse."

My father didn't respond. Just held Elijah's gaze until my brother nodded once.

But the question burned in my head—why? Why frame us? Why the public execution of a mate bond? Crew had hated me for years, fine. But my family had served his family for generations. What had they done to deserve this?

That night, the rejection mark woke me.

Pain exploded between my shoulder blades—white-hot, vicious, stealing my breath. My hands fumbled for the bathroom door and I made it to the toilet before throwing up.

Sweat soaked through my shirt. The room spun.

"Sloane?" A soft knock. "You okay?"

"Fine." The word came out strangled.

"Open the door or I'm breaking it down."

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely turn the lock.

My father took one look at my face and went pale. "How long have you been like this?"

"Couple days."

"Turn around."

"Dad—"

"Turn around. Now."

I lifted my shirt with hands that wouldn't stop trembling.

Silence stretched too long.

When I looked over my shoulder, tears were streaming down his face. I had never seen him cry. That’s what scared me.

"No," he whispered. "No, please, not this."

"What is it?"

"A rejection mark." His voice cracked wide open. "Oh goddess, Sloane, you have a rejection mark."

He reached out, hand shaking, and barely touched my skin. Fire shot through me and I hissed.

He jerked back like I'd burned him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Tears kept coming. "This can't be happening."

"Dad, you're scaring me."

"You're dying." The words fell out broken. "A rejection mark means you're dying and there's nothing anyone can do."

The bathroom tilted sideways. I grabbed the sink. "How long?"

"A year. Maybe less." Fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. "My baby girl. That bastard killed you and I can't—I can't fix this—"

His legs gave out and he slid down the wall, face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

"Dad—"

"I can't lose you." His voice came out raw and ragged. "You're my daughter. My first baby. I'm supposed to protect you—"

I dropped to my knees in front of him. "This isn't your fault."

"I should have gotten you away from him years ago." He looked up at me, eyes red and swollen. "But I can get you out now. Tonight. We're all leaving. Tonight."

He pulled me to my feet and down the hall to his study. Once inside, he locked the door and went straight to the bookshelf.

"Help me move this."

Together we pushed the heavy shelf aside and a narrow door sat built into the wall.

"Secret passage," he said. "Leads outside, past the guards. Your mother and I found it years ago."

"Then we go now. All of us."

"We need supplies first. Food, money, weapons. I'm going to wake your mother and Elijah. We'll gather what we can, then we all go through together."

He pulled the door open. The passage beyond was narrow and dark.

"You go in first," he said. "Wait for us there. It'll be easier to move supplies through if you're already inside to help pull things through."

"I can help you pack. I can carry—"

"Sloane—"

"I can fight too. If the guards come, I'm not useless just because the bond broke—"

"I know you can fight." He gripped my shoulders hard. "I know you're not useless. But I need you here more than I need you fighting beside me right now. Please. Just wait for us."

His eyes were desperate and pleading.

"Five minutes," he said. "That's all. Just let me get your mother and brother and grab what we need."

Something in his voice made the fight drain out of me.

"Okay. Five minutes."

He kissed my forehead hard. "I love you. More than anything."

"I love you too."

I stepped into the passage and the door closed behind me, cutting off the light.

My back hit the wall. I slid down and waited.

My father's footsteps faded down the hall.

Silence.

I counted in my head. Sixty seconds. One hundred. Two hundred.

Come on, Dad.

Three hundred seconds.

Where are you?

Then footsteps—heavy, urgent, multiple sets running.

My heart kicked hard. Finally.

But something was wrong. The footsteps were too heavy. Too many.

 I heard voices shouting.

Not my family.

Guards.

"—found them planning to escape—"

"—orders are to eliminate—"

My blood went cold.

I pressed my ear against the door.

My father's voice, distant but clear: "I'll repay you. For what you did to them. For what you did to my daughter."

"Marcus, don't—" My mother's voice, terrified.

"Tell Crew," my father continued, louder now, "that he'll be exposed. Even after our—"

A wet, tearing sound cut him off.

A slash.

Then silence.

“Dad?”