Chapter 2: The Alpha's Pain

The pain didn't stop.

Torrhen rode for three miles before he had to pull over. His entire left arm was on fire.

He dismounted and stumbled, catching himself against a tree.

"Torrhen!" Davyn was beside him in seconds. "What's happening?"

"I don't know."

He rolled up his sleeve. No marks, no wounds, nothing. But the pain was real, bone-deep, throbbing.

"Should I get Cerys?" Davyn asked.

"No. It's not... it's not an injury."

"Then what is it?"

Torrhen didn't answer because he knew what it was. He just didn't want to say it out loud.

A bond. The rarest kind. The kind that hadn't been documented in over fifty years.

A pain bond.

When one person's suffering became another's. When hurt traveled through an invisible link that couldn't be broken, couldn't be ignored. Only happened between mates, true mates. The kind destined by something deeper than choice, deeper than logic.

The kind that ruined lives.

"Torrhen." He looked up. Davyn was staring at him. "Your eyes just shifted."

"What?"

"Gold. For a second. Like your wolf was surfacing."

Torrhen closed his eyes and breathed, forcing the wolf down. The pain was making it harder to control, making the animal restless, aggressive.

"We need to get back to the compound," Davyn said. "Now."

"No. We finish the patrol."

"You can barely stand."

"I can stand fine."

It was a lie, but Torrhen didn't care. He wasn't going back until he understood what this was, until he knew for sure.

They rode for another hour. The pain ebbed and flowed, sometimes sharp, sometimes dull, never gone. And every time it spiked, Torrhen's wolf surged, wanting out, wanting to hunt, wanting to find whoever was hurting and tear apart whoever was causing it.

By the time they reached Ashford territory, Torrhen was barely holding on. He dismounted and walked straight to his office, slamming the door.

Davyn followed him in anyway. "Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"You're in pain. You've been in pain for hours, and you won't tell me why."

Torrhen sat down and stared at his wrist. The pain was still there, constant now, a dull ache that wouldn't quit.

"It's a bond," he said finally.

Davyn went still. "What kind of bond?"

"Pain bond."

"That's not possible."

"It's happening."

"With who?"

Torrhen looked up. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No. I felt it for the first time at Greymire, right before we left. And it hasn't stopped since."

Davyn sat down slowly. "You think it's someone in Greymire."

"I know it is."

"Who?"

Torrhen thought about the well, about the girl crouched behind the stone. Dark hair. Hollow eyes. Bruises on her wrist. He'd seen her for three seconds, but something in him had recognized her, had known.

"I don't know her name," Torrhen said. "But I saw her. At the well. Hiding."

"What did she look like?"

"Small. Thin. Scared."

"That describes half the servants in Greymire."

"I know."

Davyn was quiet for a moment. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

"Torrhen"

"I said nothing. It's probably a fluke, a temporary thing. It'll fade."

"Pain bonds don't fade."

"This one will."

Davyn shook his head. "You're lying to yourself."

"Maybe. But I'm not dragging some random girl into my life just because of a bond I didn't ask for."

"What if she needs help?"

"Then she'll have to find it somewhere else."

Davyn stood. "You're making a mistake."

"It's my mistake to make."

Davyn left, and Torrhen sat there alone, feeling the pain pulse through his wrist, feeling his wolf claw at his control. And hating every second of it.

He didn't want a mate. Didn't want a bond. Didn't want some fragile, broken girl tied to him for the rest of his life.

He had a pack to lead, borders to defend, responsibilities that didn't include playing savior to a stranger.

The bond would fade. It had to.

It didn't fade.

Three days later, the pain was worse. Torrhen barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, the bond flared, sharp jabs, dull aches, sometimes burning, sometimes cold.

Someone was hurting her. Repeatedly. And he felt every second of it.

On the fourth day, Isla cornered him. "You look like hell."

"Thanks."

"I'm serious. You haven't slept, you're snapping at everyone, and your wolf keeps surfacing during training. What's going on?"

He considered lying, but Isla would see through it. She always did.

"I have a bond."

Her eyes went wide. "What?"

"A pain bond. With someone in Greymire."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"How don't you know?"

"Because I saw her for three seconds and I don't know her name."

Isla sat down. "Okay. Walk me through this."

He told her everything, the border meeting, the girl at the well, the pain that started the moment he left, the way it hadn't stopped since.

When he finished, Isla was staring at him. "You have to go back."

"No."

"Torrhen"

"No. I'm not starting a war with Greymire over some girl I don't even know."

"She's your mate."

"I don't care."

"Yes, you do. That's why you're falling apart."

He looked away. She was right. He did care. And he hated it.

"What if she's in danger?" Isla asked quietly.

"She's in Greymire. Of course she's in danger."

"Then help her."

"How? By marching back in there and demanding Rodrick hand over one of his servants? He'd laugh in my face."

"So you do nothing?"

"I do what I always do. I protect my pack, I hold my borders, and I ignore everything else."

Isla stood. "You're a coward."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You're scared, scared of the bond, scared of what it means, scared of caring about someone other than yourself."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

She walked to the door and stopped. "She's suffering, Torrhen. Right now. While you're sitting here pretending you don't care. And you can feel it. You know exactly how much pain she's in. And you're doing nothing."

She left, and Torrhen sat there hating her, hating himself, but knowing she was right.

That night, the pain woke him.

Not the dull ache he'd gotten used to, something else. Sharp, burning, radiating across his back in lines.

He gasped and rolled out of bed, hitting the floor. His back was on fire. He reached back, felt for blood. Nothing. But the pain was real, worse than anything he'd felt before.

"No," he whispered.

Because he knew what this was. A whip. Someone was whipping her.

He felt each strike, one, two, three, four, each one tearing through him like his own skin was splitting.

His wolf surged, not just surfaced but took over. He shifted without meaning to, bones breaking and reforming. The wolf snarled and paced, wanted blood, wanted to hunt, to kill, to tear apart whoever was doing this.

Torrhen fought for control and forced the shift back, collapsing on the floor. Breathing hard. The pain was fading now, but the damage was done.

He couldn't ignore this anymore. Couldn't pretend it didn't matter.

Because whoever she was, she was his. The bond had claimed her. And he couldn't let her suffer alone.

Even if it meant war. Even if it meant risking everything.

He stood, got dressed, and walked to Davyn's quarters. Knocked.

Davyn opened the door and took one look at Torrhen's face. "What happened?"

"Get the enforcers. We're going to Greymire."

"When?"

"Now."

Davyn didn't argue, just nodded. "I'll gather them."

Torrhen walked back to his room and strapped on his weapons, feeling the bond pulse. Still hurting. Still suffering.

But not for much longer. He was coming. And whoever was hurting her was going to pay.

Three miles away, in Greymire, Brynn lay on the floor of the servants' quarters.

Her back was bleeding, twenty lashes for spilling water.

She didn't cry, didn't scream. Just breathed through it.

And wondered why her chest felt strange, like someone was angry. Not her. Someone else. Someone far away.

Coming closer.