Chapter 5 Soraya

My pack felt heavy on my shoulders, I tried to shift the weight a bit… just in case I had to make a run for it. I told myself to keep walking, keep steady. The sound of boots behind me couldn’t help but make me feel uneasy.

I didn’t get the chance to turn before an engine growled. Headlights swept across the cracked pavement as it made a U-turn. A black SUV slid up next to me and stopped hard enough to leave tracks on the road.

All four doors opened at the same time. Wolves unfolded out of it—broad, heavy, faces that were focused and mean. Their boots hit the ground and flanked me in seconds.

“Soraya Wane,” the tallest said. “You’re coming with us.”

I squared my shoulders, tried to sound braver than I felt. “Why.”

“You’re wanted for the Alpha’s murder.”

The words stunned me and I froze.

Hands were on me before I could answer. My pack straps cut deeper as they hauled me forward. I twisted, kicked once, twice. Useless. They tossed me in the back seat like I was freight. Doors slammed, and the locks clicked. The SUV lunged forward.

The man on my right had a white scar under his ear, thin as chalk. The one on my left jiggled his knee like motion kept him from breaking something. The driver’s eyes met mine in the rearview—wolf-hard—then slid away.

Nobody spoke.

The air was thick with tension. My mind raced, trying to make things make sense. The Alpha was murdered, and they think it’s me?

“Why me? I didn’t do anything to anyone. It doesn’t make sense. Let me go.”

Through the back window, I caught one last sliver of the block—the diner’s lit sign, the reflection in the glass, the alley. A shadow peeled itself off the corner and stayed there, just a shape. The watcher? They had to see what happened, maybe they’ll follow and save me.

Then the SUV turned and the street vanished.

We left town. Pines stacked up on either side of the road until they felt like walls. The air thickened the closer we got, tension in the car grew.

Gates swung open for us without a word. The Pack House, where just one day ago, I dreamed I’d live in, loomed at the top of the hill. Flags at half-mast snapped in the wind. Pack lined the steps, not moving, not smiling, not anything.

A guard opened my door before I could reach for it. His hand clamped around my upper arm, hard and painful.

“Ouch,” I said.

They marched me up past faces staring with contempt and disgust. A woman gasped as I went by as if my mere presence tainted her somehow.  A man smiled like he’d won a bet without paying in.

Inside was quiet even though pack members moved about, carrying out their daily tasks.

We didn’t stop for the council chamber. We didn’t stop for anything. Scar-under-the-ear steered me down a corridor with no windows, then through a big solid door to stairs that went down. We descended down a few flights until the only light came from torches along the stone walls. The air changed to something dank. Not much life lived down here.

At the end of the last hall, a door waited with a steel bar thick as my arm. A guard lifted it with both hands and shoved the door open.

The cell was a square and small. Stone floor, stone walls, a cot with a mattress thinner than the one in Wane Hall, and a bucket right next to the cot. Nothing else.

The scarred man pushed me in. Locked me to the chains on the wall; then the door slammed, a bolt slide, and then nothing but the sound of footsteps retreating.

I stood until the echo of his boots ran out. Then I walked the perimeter of my chain to see my reach. Not much, barely to the bucket.

With nothing else to do, I sat on the cot. The blanket stank like years of other bodies—sweat sunk deep, grime rubbed in, maybe worse. It seeped into my lungs no matter how I tried to hold my breath.

Time dragged. Orielle wouldn’t settle. She pushed forward until I heard through her ears…a door thudding shut, something dropped and hushed too fast, a laugh smothered before it could breathe. Life kept moving above us.

She shrank as boots approached, muffling any sounds I might have heard, any clues as to why I was here.

Keys rattled. The bolt slid. Two guards came in. One set a tray inside and left without looking at my face.

Bread. A small wedge of very dry very stinky cheese. Water in a tin cup. I drank. The water tasted like nothing but reminded my throat how. The bread was dry; the cheese was worse. I ate anyway.

I heard voices outside the door. Not private, just low.

“She did it,” one said. “Why else cut out in the middle of the night?”

“She’s a Wane,” the other answered like that solved a math problem. “That’s how she repays the Pack’s kindness? Fuck her.”

The other grunted his response.

The quiet came back heavier.

Orielle nudged up, cautious. He comes?

Tail flick. Hope.

“He already said no,” I told the ceiling. “Once was enough.”

Wolves don’t trust words the way people do. Wolves trust instinct. Orielle knew his wolf called to her. That’s all she needed for hope to linger.

Even though I knew better.

Light under the door dulled as time went on, surely someone would be changing the antiquated torch at some point. Somewhere high up, a horn sounded, low and steady Others answered, thinner with distance.

Keys again. The door opened. The Elder, the one who spoke about order at the bonding ceremony, stepped in with two guards.

He looked me over with a sneer on his lips. “Evil, ungrateful child.”

He left. The lock turned.