4

Charollet had imagined pain. She had imagined betrayal. But never like this.

The sound of iron striking iron echoed through the crumbling stone corridor. Her wrists, bound in silver-tipped cuffs, had already begun to blister. Each jolt of the cart beneath her made the metal bite deeper into her skin. Her ankles were shackled too, connected by a short chain that forced her to shuffle when she walked if she was allowed to walk at all.

They had dragged her from the rogue camp under cover of night, like a secret too shameful to witness in daylight. No goodbye. No protest. No mercy.

Only Viktor’s desperate voice shouting, “You’re making a mistake! She’s just a girl!”

And Mia’s last glimpse eyes rimmed red, mouth covered by another rogue’s hand, powerless to stop what was happening.

Charollet had been too weak to fight. Too broken to scream.

Now, she was cargo.

Property.

She sat in the cage cart, watching the world blur past: dense forests, crooked trees, ravines that could have swallowed her whole and saved her the torment. But fate wasn't that kind.

The rogue trader driving the cart had barely looked at her, except to spit or laugh.

“Pretty face. Shame about the attitude,” he muttered once, tapping the bars. “You’ll fetch a high price, little dove.”

She turned her face away, her long, tangled hair, once brushed with care in her tiny room now a mess of knots and dirt. Her skin was marked with dried blood, soot, and the ghosts of whip lashes. But still, she glowed in a strange way. Not polished, not radiant, but alive. And that alone made her dangerous here.

The auction house was an abandoned stone fortress near the borderlands. It had once been a military post during the Pack Wars, but now served as a flesh market for the twisted and powerful. Moonlight barely seeped through the cracks in the ceiling, casting cruel shadows on the makeshift platform at its center.

She was stripped of her tunic and forced into a thin, off-white shift that clung to her cuts and bruises. Her feet were bare. Her pride, long gone.

Other "lots" stood nearby, chained men and women with sunken eyes and hollow stares. Some were younger than her. None dared to speak.

“Next,” a gruff voice called.

A hand shoved her forward.

Charollet stumbled up the steps of the platform, blinking under the glare of torchlight. A hush fell over the crowd of bidders.

“Lot Forty-Seven,” the announcer declared. “Nineteen years. Rogue-raised. Never shifted. Suspected human. Untouched.”

A collective murmur passed through the crowd. Some scoffed. Others leaned forward in interest.

Charollet kept her eyes down, jaw clenched.

“Lift your head,” the auctioneer snapped. When she didn’t move fast enough, a hand jerked her chin up. The crowd gasped.

Even bruised, bloodied, and stripped of dignity, she was a vision. Hair like moonlight spilled over her shoulders light ash blonde, nearly white under the firelight. Her skin, despite dirt and blood, held a porcelain softness. And her eyes, those storm-grey eyes were fierce, wet with fury and fear, but unbroken.

“She’s got fire,” someone whispered.

“Soft body, sharp eyes. I’ll take her.”

“Two hundred gold.”

“Three hundred.”

The bidding spiraled quickly. She felt sick. Each number was another nail in the coffin of who she had once been. A girl who used to paint the trees. Who stayed quiet not out of fear, but out of wonder. Who used to dream, even in rogue lands.

“Four hundred.”

“Four-fifty.”

“Five hundred.”

Silence.

A figure in the crowd stepped forward.

Clad in black. Hood up. Tall. Still.

Charollet froze as the firelight touched his face.

Kade.

No.

Her breath caught. Her knees nearly gave.

He had followed through. Just as he said he would.

“You’re mine, one way or another,” he had whispered before the rogues turned on her.

And now here he was.

“I’ll take her,” he said simply. “Six hundred gold.”

The crowd fell silent. Even the auctioneer hesitated.

“Sold,” he declared, slamming the gavel.

Charollet was yanked backward as a collar was fitted around her neck. Cold. Iron. Engraved with runes.

“Witch iron,” someone said. “Dulls the spirit.”

She barely felt it. The worst pain wasn’t physical anymore.

The carriage ride to the Black Fang outpost was silent, except for the rumble of wheels on gravel. Kade sat opposite her, as composed as ever. He hadn’t said a word since the auction.

Charollet refused to meet his eyes. But she could feel them on her.

Studying. Feeding.

“You look different without your attitude,” he said at last.

She flinched but didn’t reply.

“Still beautiful, though.” He leaned forward, elbow resting on his knee. “You know, I never liked being rejected. Especially not by someone like you. You’re just a stray—filthy, forgotten. But somehow, you made me feel...”

He didn’t finish. Instead, he smiled. A dark, smug curve of the lips.

“But don’t worry. I’ll fix that. I’ll fix you.”

When the carriage stopped, she was dragged into the fortress, a place of cold halls and colder hearts. Guards sneered as they passed. She was taken to a chamber with no bed, no blankets. Just a rough straw mat and a bucket of water.

She collapsed onto the mat, too weak to sit up.

Later, a woman brought her a piece of stale bread and looked at her with pity.

“You shouldn’t have looked like that,” she said quietly. “Men like him… they destroy pretty things.”

The days blurred together.

She was woken before sunrise. Forced to scrub stone floors with rags and freezing water. She cooked in silence, standing over hot fires that singed her hands. Every mistake earned a slap, or worse.

When she refused to kneel before Kade during a command, she was flogged in front of the guards.

“You’ll learn obedience,” he had whispered afterward, crouching by her bloodied form. “Or you’ll learn pain.”

But still, she didn’t beg.

Still, she didn’t break.

And that infuriated him more than anything.

Some nights, he would visit her in silence. Just to watch. Other nights, he’d force her to serve at formal dinners, dressed in nothing but a thin black shift, collar glowing under torchlight, as men whispered about her like she was furniture.

They called her the Storm Pet.

Exotic. Quiet. Dangerous.

But never human.

Never real.

And yet, through it all, something stirred inside her. Weak. Distant.

Not words. Not thought.

A pulse.

A whisper.

Something old. Something buried.

It came to her in dreams. A silver wolf standing at the edge of a cliff. Watching. Waiting.

She woke every time with tears on her cheeks.

She wasn’t done.

Not yet.