At first, when I awoke, I thought I was in my bed back home. I sat up, ready to start my day. First, I’d find Will and then together we would go help Jo pick up food. Will is my best friend - he’s always looking after me, and thinking of me. Just the day before, he had given me a beautiful necklace - a delicate white-gold chain with a round diamond hanging from it. I had no idea why he had given it to me, but he was just like that.
Jo is the closest thing I have to family. She found me wandering around the Scourge, scavenging for food scraps, and took me in.
Jo is sixty and tough as nails. She works at a farm on the outskirts of the city, and uses the money and extra food to help feed and take care of all the packless wolves that live in the Scourge. We do our best to provide two meals a day, shelter, and blankets.
But I noticed that the blanket I was wrapped in was far too nice to be one of my own. It was thick and warm and incredibly soft. And when I opened my eyes, I saw that I was in a hospital of some kind.
I was provided a meal and a private bathroom to shower and freshen up. The medical staff was friendly and helpful, even the man named Alex seemed nice.
However, after all my discharge papers were filled out, another man came in and placed silver cuffs around my wrists.
The next thing I know, I’m being marched down to dungeons that smell of blood, urine, and mildew. My mate was there waiting for me. Hope and happiness flared up inside me until I saw his cold expression.
I pace the small cell. The man who questioned me hasn’t returned since I was shoved in here. I don’t know where he went or when he’ll be back. All I know is that I need to get out of here.
Fortunately, they removed my silver cuffs, though burn marks circle my wrists. The cell bars are silver to stop me from escaping, but I start to formulate a plan anyway. I just need something that can pick a lock.
Outside my cell, I spot a display of silver torture devices, including handcuffs, chains, collars, and blades of various sizes. There are even spray bottles that look like they have liquid silver in them and a container full of wolfsbane. My stomach churns as I wonder what they will do to me.
I have to get out of here before it gets to that.
I can feel my wolf chomping at the bit. She’s restless like me. Though she and I are still on different pages when it comes to our mate.
I push her out, not wanting to deal with her hopeless romantic side any longer.
After walking circles and running escape scenarios in my mind for what feels like hours, I go lie down on the straw. As soon as my eyes drift closed, I’m hit with freezing cold water, jerking awake in surprise.
When I look up, I see the man that is supposed to be questioning me. “Stand up and place your hands flat on the wall,” he orders in a low and commanding voice.
I’m annoyed. I’m tired and hungry. And thanks to the ice-cold water that was thrown at me, I’m also cold and wet.
I consider if I want to follow his orders or not. After all, I haven’t done anything wrong. But right now, I don’t exactly have a lot of options. Plus, I want to find out why I was thrown down here to begin with.
The man narrows his eyes when I don’t immediately follow directions. I let out a sigh of resignation and shake my head before turning around to place my hands on the concrete wall. I hear the cup that held the water being placed on the ground.
“I’m opening the cell. Don’t move,” he demands. I roll my eyes, which he luckily can’t see, now that I’m facing away from him.
I hear the rustle of fabric and can see in my peripheral vision that he is putting gloves on. There is a click of the lock, and the cell door creaks open.
He comes up behind me, takes my wrists, and cuffs them. I hiss at the contact of the silver against my freshly healed skin before he grabs me and forces me to walk ahead of him.
He leads me straight out of the cell and down the hall to a small windowless room. The room has a single metal table bolted down to the floor in the center of the small space. There are two chairs on either side of it and a bar down the middle.
He pushes me into one of the chairs before connecting my cuffs to the attached bar so that I can’t walk away from my seat. I watch every move he makes, on high alert, wondering what to expect.
He silently takes a seat across from me in the interrogation room. For a moment, he just looks at me like he’s assessing me. Finally, he rests his arms on the table between us and leans slightly forward.
“Can you answer some questions for me?” he asks politely. I give a simple nod, wondering how this is going to go. “What’s your name?”
“Scarlet.”
“What pack do you belong to?”
“I don’t have a pack.”
He nods and continues, “Where were you the evening of October fourteenth around seven?”
I don’t even know how long ago that was, but I sit and think for a bit before I realize why that night is significant. “I…I started to go for a run. Then I heard screams.”
“Where?”
“I was by a forest line, and the screams came from inside the Scourge.”
“Can anyone attest to that?”
I was by myself during the run and stayed hidden until I ran into Ray’s gang. No way they would vouch for me. They’d probably make everything worse. I sigh. “I was by myself. I stayed hidden to try and figure out what the screams were about.”
“And was this before or after killing some local wolves?”
“I…I didn’t kill anyone. Who was killed?”
“You didn’t kill anyone?” he questions sternly. “That’s not what the evidence suggests.”
“The scent from the scene of the crime was followed back to you. When you were found, you attacked our alpha,” he begins grimly.
It sounds like he may have already decided that I’m guilty because his so-called evidence doesn’t sound like much.
I scoff as my anger and frustration build at the ridiculousness of the situation.
“I didn’t attack your alpha. I defended my people like anyone else would. Your alpha and his men attacked the people of the Scourge unprovoked and killed innocent wolves,” I remark firmly.
He lets out a derisive laugh at my words. “Unprovoked? You call killing multiple pack members in cold blood unprovoked?”
I slam a hand on the table as I reply loudly, “I didn’t kill anyone! None of those people you went after would have done something like that!”
For a moment, his eyes glaze over, and I know that he’s being mind-linked. His gaze refocuses on me, even angrier, and he bangs his fist on the table.
“You claim you’re innocent? Then why the hell were your fingerprints on the murder weapon?”
“You want to keep lying? Fine! Maybe a few more days in the cells will make you realize your mistake!” he growls as he drags me out and throws me back into my cell.
He at least has the decency to unlock my cuffs before I tumble onto my knees, and they scrape along the ground. I hear the loud clang of the door as he slams it shut behind me, locking it once more.
Then I see it—the guard carelessly left the metal cup outside my cell.
I sit close to the bars, my back to the camera, in hopes I can disguise my efforts. I slip my hand through the silver bars, the metal burning my skin, but I grit my teeth and push through the pain.
My fingertips brush the cup, and I manage to drag it closer until I can grasp it fully. I pull it back into the cell, my wrist throbbing from the burns.
I hide the cup in my shirt, then in the pile of straw and decide to wait an hour to ensure no one comes to continue the interrogation.
I wait, counting the minutes, until I’m sure the dungeon is silent.
I muffle the sound of breaking the handle on the cup with my shirt, pressing the fabric tightly around the metal as I bend and twist it into a jagged edge. The noise is dull but still risky.
I work quickly, my heart racing, glancing at the camera in the corner. The cup’s handle is thin and malleable enough to be bent into a rough, pointed shape, yet sturdy enough not to snap under pressure.
I rip a small strip of fabric from my shirt, my hands trembling. Climbing onto the bedframe, I reach up and press the fabric over the camera lens, hoping it will buy me enough time. The red light is obscured, and I jump back down, hurrying to the cell door.
With the broken cup handle in hand, I start working on the lock. My fingers are nimble, my movements desperate. Sweat beads on my forehead as I pick at the mechanism, praying no one notices the camera’s obstructed view.
It feels like an eternity, but finally, I hear the satisfying click of the lock giving way.
