by J. L. Wilder
The world spun around me, even though I remained in place. All thoughts of ever experiencing happiness again simply left me. I knew the rest of my life would be devoted to trying to move on from the great love I’d once had.
“Nope, not lying” he said, shaking his bald head. “Wasn’t very hard, either. You know, the whole lot of you are way too trusting. Seriously, you couldn’t even bother with disguises. I know going to the grocery store is supposed to be quick and easy, but when you’re outlaws, at least have the courtesy to throw together a costume.”
“The cashier,” I replied slowly, realizing the truth. “He was a paranormal, like Daniel had originally thought.”
“Now that’s my smart little girl. Yes, he’s one of us. Well, not strictly speaking. He’s a warlock, but no matter. Anyhow, he was a warlock in need of protection after some spells he cast went rather awry, and the whole paranormal world knew I was out looking for you. Because I have my ways, as you’re aware.”
Yes, he did. He always had. If there was something Brock wanted, he made it so widely known you couldn’t escape his desire. It was ever-present, constantly in the background, seething.
Brock rubbed a hand over his head. “Silly little man. We killed him too, because it was more convenient to tie up loose ends. Besides, protecting warlocks is such a finicky business. They always disappear on you.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I gasped, my heart wrenched with pain and misery. It would’ve been easier to be dead, I thought grimly.
“Simple. So you stop dreaming about them.”
“What?”
He gritted his teeth, and now, I could see the anger quite clearly playing across his expressions. “You’ve been asleep for twenty-four hours, after Boris gave you a good knock on the skull. The entire time, you kept saying “mates”, ” Wolves”, “Hell’s Wolves”. It was annoying.”
I knew it had been more than annoying. It had burrowed deep beneath his skin, like a parasite. Good. At least something had gotten to him. That made me feel some minor twinge of power.
“Anyway,” he continued, brushing aside his own palpable rage. “Like I said. Not a problem anymore. They’re dead as dead can be, and you’re back home.”
“Are you going to kill me?” I asked bluntly, not interested in playing his games. In truth, Brock had no use for me besides my allure in the shifter world. I couldn’t bear him children, and I wasn’t a strong fighter. I was, for his intents and purposes, worthless.
But nevertheless, he was taken aback by my question. “Kill you?” he asked, as though affronted. “No, Emma, never. I love you.”
I’d heard that line before. “No, you love owning me.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, okay, you got me.”
“I’ll escape again,” I threatened. “I did it once before, I can do it again.”
“Doubtful. Now that I’ve let it be known I did away with your little boy toys, nobody will dare assist you in another breakout. You’re toxic waste, as far as the shifter world is concerned.”
Oh God, he was right. The only reason the Hell’s Wolves had helped me was because they were outlaws, they thrived on the edges of society. They took on the people too dangerous for everyone else. Of course, they’d wanted my prestige[TM3], but really, they’d wanted the good publicity that came with wrenching Brock’s prized omega from his grasp. Nobody else was that brazen. Nobody else had that much of a death wish.
“All right,” Brock said. “I’ll be going now. I think you’ll spend … let’s say … ten more days in the cuffs. That should rid you of any muscle you managed to build up while hanging around those pups. After that, well, it’s back to normal.”
Normal. That meant meal deprivations when Brock was mad, little to no time outdoors, his men constantly hovering around me, making jokes about my body, smacking their lips as if they’d love to devour me whole. Normal was hell.
“Goodbye, Emma,” he said with a waggle of his fingers, before abruptly walking to the door, opening it, and exiting the room.
Alone once more. Something I would have to get used to again.
Brock gone, I burst into tears, hot, wet tears that rolled down my face in large globs, like sticky snow. And the screams, those came too. Loud, piercing, unending. But all the tears and screams in the world wouldn’t wash Tristan’s, Caine’s and Daniel’s faces from my eyes, upon which their images were imprinted. My men, my mates, my loves, my pack. Dead. Gone. Because of me.
The guilt that ricocheted through my body, which had been building while Brock was in the room and finally took its full form upon his exit, felt deadly in and of itself. I had the blood of the ones I’d loved most on my hands. I realized my mistake almost instantly, what I believed had truly given the game up: I’d taken off my sunglasses.
Yes, that was it. I’d been in the store with Daniel, in all black, hat and sunglasses. If I hadn’t taken them off, if I hadn’t allowed the cashier to see my face, maybe my men would still be alive. I should be the one that’s dead, I thought to myself. Were I able to trade my life for theirs, I would’ve done it in a heartbeat. They shouldn’t have paid for my error, shouldn’t have paid the steep price for protecting me. I would never forgive myself, not for this.
I hung my head low against my chest. My future was hopeless. Brock, though he was a pathological liar, had been honest when he said nobody would help me now. I was a pariah in the shifter world, a toxic thing you tried to help, only to have it fell you in the end. I’d never escape.
As I looked at my dangling feet, I thought, with gallows humor, that at least Brock had left me in the clothes they’d picked me up in: black boots, t-shirt and jeans. Could’ve been worse—I could’ve been stripped naked for his pleasure. That would be on brand for him.
But something else caught my eye.
My black t-shirt, which only a day prior had hung loose on my body, was now a little tighter.
Specifically, tighter on my stomach. Was it possible to gain weight in solitary confinement, having had no food whatsoever? Maybe I was just bloated, something to do with my arms being suspended above my head.
It took me another thirty seconds to realize the truth, something so unbelievable it almost made me laugh.
I was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, pregnant.
That was what had been kicking in my belly, that sunny, shining thing that was yearning to be heard, that little spark of hope that had awoken me. My fluttering. My pups.
My mind raced with a million questions. Did Brock know? Was he prepared to do something about it? Would my babies grow up in captivity? Oh God, not that last one, that I couldn’t handle.
Because here’s the thing—shifter pregnancy works on an extraordinarily abbreviated timeline. It has something to do with our body’s ability to grow new cells so quickly (hence, why we can heal fast), but I don’t know the science well enough to explain more than that. What I do know is that, while the average human carries a baby for nine months, I would carry mine for nine days.
I must have become impregnated the other night, in the forest, I thought, scrambling to put the pieces together. Yes, that tracked. Wolves are more fertile during the full moon. And that’s why I was so hungry the next morning—my babies were already craving extra fuel.
This meant I had a single week until my litter was born, assuming Brock allowed me to carry them to term. Even in my head, I bucked at this term. Allowed. Nobody would forbid me from having these babies, the last remnants on earth of my mates. For, I knew, with a mother’s clarity, that there were three shifters growing in my belly, each fathered by one of my men—Daniel, Tristan and Caine.
“I love you,” I whispered to my stomach, wishing furiously that I could tear free of my chains and rub my belly. “I love you.”
The next words blazed in my mind as though on fire. And I will get you out of here.
I couldn’t allow Brock to steal my children, to do unto them what he’d done to me. I couldn’t fight for myself, sure, but I could damn well
fight for them.
Deep breath. “Okay, Emma. Think.”
And with that, I began to formulate a plan.
Chapter 21
Here’s what I had working to my advantage: Brock gets bored easily; his passions vacillate from one day to the next. His men are tough, but not brilliant minds. And I’d escaped once before, I could, within reason, do it again.
My mind kicked in to overdrive. What else could I do? Well, I’d been training with the Hell’s Wolves. I was physically in better shape than I had been before, thanks to Caine. Tristan had taught me some military strategy, which could probably be useful, somehow. And Daniel had schooled me in the art of survival.
Yes, I had every tool at my disposal to escape. And I would damn well do it.
First, according to Tristan (and Sun-Tzu): assess the enemy.
In my case, this meant studying the schedule of the compound. Luckily, I already had a leg up in this regard. I’d spent two years here, so I had a general idea of how things worked. There were Brock’s personal soldiers, and then there were his workers. Serfs, as I thought of them. The men tasked with doing the shit jobs that the higher-ups didn’t want to do.
And then, of course, there were Brock’s flock of women, his harem, if you will. They were constantly churning out his spawn, as if he were Genghis Khan. Of course, they weren’t omegas, so most could only bear one at a time, and then, only once a year. Which is to say, they were frequently disposed of, if he got bored of waiting for them to be fertile again.
You could tell everyone apart by how they wore the pack’s symbol. Brock’s personal guard had silver epaulets in the shape of bears, and the women wore gold arm bands with the symbol engraved. The minions, the lowliest ones, wore a simple pin on their shirt, not made of any real metal (they weren’t worth it).
That’s what I knew about the general organization. But, I’d never been a prisoner under Brock. Or, well, of course, I had been a prisoner, but not usually in chains. I was a plush prisoner; this was real dungeon and whips shit.
Two days passed. Brock, predictably, did not come by to visit. After all, he was a busy man with, as I said, a very limited attention span. And he clearly didn’t know I was four days pregnant, not yet, anyway. Thank God the shirt was so baggy, but I knew that by the fifth or sixth day, even his lack-witted minions would pick up on my pregnant belly.
However, as I alluded to, the minions did visit. They brought me three square meals a day; good thing, too, or I would’ve gnawed through the walls, I was so racked with hunger. They also let me down from the cuffs so that I could relieve myself twice a day. This wasn’t enough, but I got good at holding it. They did not, however, let me down to eat; instead, they fed me, by hand, like I was a baby bird.
This shouldn’t be too hard. My confidence was bolstered by the kicking in my stomach, which grew more fervent every day. There’s nothing a mother won’t do for her young, as Brock was about to learn.
I’d studied my enemy, just as Tristan had instructed. Now, I was going to take him right the hell down.
On the morning of the third day, my guard entered with a terse nod and nothing more. This was the one charged with letting me use the bathroom, which meant I was about to be let out of my cuffs. Perfect.
Normally, he unceremoniously loosed me from the wall, forcing me to drop at least twelve inches and land on my feet. A stool would’ve been nice, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
This was my moment. I’d only get one chance. I prayed my babies would survive. Be tough, I told them.
Today, instead of landing on my feet, I let them buckle beneath me, going to my knees. The guard muttered something along the lines of ‘you imbecile’, and bent down to help me up. I pretended to grasp at his shirt for support. He hoisted me up brusquely, and commanded me to go use the toilet.
I smirked. If only he knew.
As was customary, he turned his back while I went to relieve myself. The moment he turned away, I looked in my palm. I’d successfully ripped the pin off his shirt. Nicely done, I thought to myself. While I peed (because the guard needed to hear a sound), I twisted the cheap alloy into a makeshift ring around my finger, a simple silver band I knew would escape notice. The guard picked up on none of this.
“Are you done yet?” he bellowed.
“Yes,” I replied, and tottered back toward him.
He chained me back up to the wall, never once noticing my new jewelry. Simpleton.
That was the easy part. The moment he left the room, my real work began.
Daniel had, in the course of our lessons, taught me how to pick a lock, saying it was an essential survival skill. At the time, I’d thought that was a little overzealous, but now I was thanking my lucky stars. And him. He’s in those stars now, my brain added, though the thought made my heart ache.
What they don’t tell you about getting out of handcuffs chained to a wall is that it’s extremely hard. Or … I guess they do tell you that, in, like, every movie ever made. Anyhow, trust me—it’s even harder than you’re imaging. It requires all kinds of bicep and core strength you don’t even want to talk about. None of which I would’ve had were it not for Tristan, my wild Wolf, my little dope. Dead, like Daniel.
At last, after an hour of feverish work, I got the first handcuff undone. I hung in the air, one arm free, the other screaming with pain from bearing the brunt of my weight. With immense effort, thinking of my litter and the Hell’s Wolves, I brought the free hand back up, and managed to unlock my second shackle.
Just like that, I dropped free. I wanted to cry out with happiness, to thank every good force in the universe, but there was no time. Brock could walk through at any point, and the food guard usually wasn’t long behind the bathroom guard.
There was one final piece to my plan. I pulled the chain out from my shirt, and hefted its items into my hand.
I’d become so used to wearing my flint necklace from Daniel that I’d nearly forgotten it’d existed. But after Brock left on that first day, when I was racking my brain for an exit strategy, I noticed something in the dungeon, something decidedly un-dungeon-like, but which was a necessity in a compound of this size. It clung to the wall, small, minute—and my way out.
I saw a fire alarm.
Now, all I had to do was start a fire.
I ran to the alarm. Time was of the essence. Luckily, though the alarm was modern, Brock had gone with a very dungeon-y theme for his, well, dungeon. The walls were a black slate; picture a French prison on an abandoned island, the place that only the really crazy criminals go. That was Brock’s decorating scheme.
Moving toward the alarm, I knew from what Daniel had told me that this was a long shot, but all I needed was enough smoke, close enough to the alarm, to send up the signal. Brock was obsessed with technology, one of the many fields he worked in; this alarm would be the best of the best.
I sent a prayer up to the heavens, where my three mates were now.
“Watch over me,” I murmured. “Like you did when you were alive.”
And with that, I struck the flint and steel against the wall, right next to the alarm.
“Gimme a spark, gimme a spark.”
Nothing. I tried again and again. Didn’t work.
My arms were beginning to weaken; I could only hold them up to the alarm for so long. They’d grown especially limp throughout their days in cuffs. I didn’t have many more bids left in me.
Tristan. Caine. Daniel.
I began to recite their names in my mind like a mantra, calling on them for strength. Tristan. Caine. Daniel. I would do this for them, and for their children whom I carried. I would do this.
On the twenty-seventh try, I got a spark and a little sizzle of smoke, rising from the wall defiantly. I clasped my hand over my heart, hoping the tendril was enough. Please, boys. Please protect me.
Moments later, the fire alarm went off. My plan had worked.
In our lessons, Tristan had always said that the best way to defeat an enemy, when y
ou were technically smaller and weaker, was to confuse them, to use their chaos to your advantage. So that’s exactly what I planned to do—use this fire alarm to send the compound into utter disorganization. In my two years at the compound, I’d never been party to a fire drill. I think they’re considered a little dorky by big kahuna shifters. Like the cool kids in high school who refuse to go outside during a fire drill, except on a rather grander scale.
I ran toward the door of the dungeon, expecting to have to pick that lock as well with my reformed pin. As luck would have it, they’d simply left the door open. Probably because I was the only one in the dungeon, and chained to a wall, I wasn’t perceived as a great threat. I’d escaped last time through assistance; this time, they presumed I would have none.
Except, I did. I had the voices of my mates in my head, their wise words gleaned over our time together, to guide me. I was no longer weak, docile and afraid. I was emboldened. Brock and his followers had another thing coming to them.
I fled out the door, taking a sharp right and bounding up a set of stairs. If things went according to plan, I would disappear in the crowd as people scattered to try and escape the imaginary fire. Nobody would notice as I, too, made my way outside.
That was the second advantage provided by a faux fire—everyone races outside. If I could get that far, and then maybe, just maybe, jump the gate, well, that would be enough of a chance. I hadn’t planned much further than that. Of course, I wanted very badly to live, for my litter’s sake, if not my own, but in my heart of hearts, I didn’t think it likely that I’d get over the gate. All of Brock’s guards would be nearby, probably even Brock himself. But I had to try.
Inserting myself into the roiling masses, I kept my head down and ran with everyone else toward the great doors of the compound, which someone had thoughtfully pushed open. People were racing toward the doors, toward the sunlight. I thought wryly, Perhaps a fire drill or two wouldn’t have hurt.
The chilly air slapped against my face, while at the same time, overhead light poured onto my cheeks, warming them. I was outside. I had made it this far.
