Rogue’s Redemption

Chapter3

Wren’s POV

The horn from the train blasted through the air, jolting me out of a barely sleep, my heart thundered heavily in my chest as if trying to escape through my broken ribs. I blinked my eyes hard, they were blurry and a dim freight vehicle approached. Reality slams me Ryde’s rejection, the pack’s banishment, my mad dash onto this rusty train in the dead of night. I’m a rogue now, cut loose from the Bloodhowl pack, my life hanging by a thread.

Dawn’s creeping in, the air a touch warmer, but my nerves are on fire, every creak and jolt screaming danger. My bloody feet throb, my ribs ache from Ryde’s kick, and I’m hyper-alert, ears straining for any sign of trouble.

The train slows, its rumble fading, and my brain’s racing, weighing my options. Do I leap off while it’s still moving, risk breaking a leg but dodge whoever’s out there? Or hunker down among the crates, praying for a better shot later? My scarf’s damp with sweat, clinging to my face, and I’m paralyzed, too scared to pick. Before I can decide, the train jerks to a dead stop, and panic claws my chest. No time to think, I gotta hide, now. I bite my nails raw, scanning the car for cover, my pulse a frantic drumbeat.

Men’s voices echo outside, laughing and yelling, their boots crunching gravel. My spine tingles, fear curling tight. If they find me, I’m done, a rogue in the wrong place is as good as dead. I sprint to a hulking crate, my bare feet stinging, hoping it’ll shield me. But when I c***k it open, a sickening smell hits, wolfsbane, the wolf-killer plant, its stench like poison and decay. I gag, slamming the lid, my mind spinning. Why’s this train hauling wolfsbane? Who needs that much death?

I stumble to another crate, praying for better luck, but my breath catches when I see what’s inside, gleaming knives, their silver blades glinting like fangs. I reach out, then yank back, hissing as the silver’s aura burns my skin without even touching. Silver’s lethal to wolves, and this train’s a rolling arsenal. What the hell? Is this for a pack war? A hunt? The questions choke me, but there’s no time. Chains rattle outside, the men are opening the car. My heart’s in my throat, and I’m out of moves.

I dive to the back, squeezing into a cramped gap between crates and baskets, my body shaking so hard I’m sure they’ll hear it. I pull my scarf over my mouth, muffling my breaths, and pray to the Moon Goddess they don’t find me. The sliding door groans open, and the men’s chatter floods in, casual but sharp. My tears spill, silent and hot, as I fight to stay still, every muscle screaming to run.

“This load’s for the alpha,” one guy says, his voice gruff, and my blood runs cold. Alpha? I’m in another pack’s territory, aren’t I? If I’ve crossed a border without permission, I’m not just a rogue—I’m an intruder. Execution’s the least of my worries.

“Yo, you smell that?” another man snaps, sniffing loud. My stomach drops, fresh tears soaking my scarf. I press harder against my mouth, begging my scent to stay hidden.

“Smells like a damn rogue!” a third voice growls, and I’m shaking, the word *rogue* a death sentence. My runt body’s betraying me, my scent shifting without a pack to mask it.

“Rip this train apart!” the first guy barks. “If they’re not here, they’re close!” Footsteps thud, crates shift, and I’m trapped, my mind blank with terror. Giving myself up’s a joke, they’d tear me apart. Running? I’m too beat-up, too slow. A wolf would catch me in seconds. I let out a single sob, soft but stupid, and cursed myself, waiting for them to pounce.

I’m done for, a rogue trespasser in a pack’s backyard. The punishment’s clear: death, maybe worse. My rejection by Ryde, my own alpha, was bad enough, but this? I’m screwed. Then, a meaty hand shoots through the gap, snagging my scarf and yanking me out. I scream, pure fear, as I’m dragged into the open, landing hard on the car’s floor among a circle of men.

Their faces are hard, eyes glinting with suspicion, and I curl into a ball, arms shielding my head, showing every ounce of submission I’ve got.

“Please!” I choke, tears streaming, my voice raw with desperation. “I’m not please, don’t hurt me!” I’m begging, hoping they hear the truth in my cracking voice, but the silence that follows is worse than a growl. They stare, swapping looks, and I feel like a bug under a boot.

“She could be a spy,” one guy mutters, and my heart sinks. A spy? Me? I’m nobody, a runt with nothing but a scarf and bloody feet.

“No!” I sob, shaking my head so hard it hurts. “I swear, I’m not!” My words are weak, drowned by their distrust, and I know I sound like a liar.

“That’s what a spy’d say,” another man scoffs, his voice dripping with certainty. They’ve made up their minds, I’m a threat, an enemy, and I’m not talking my way out.

“Drag her to the alpha,” the first guy orders, unbothered, like I’m just a chore. “He’ll wanna see any spy sneaking onto our land.” My lungs seize, dread pooling. An alpha? After Ryde rejected me, why would another show mercy? I’m a dead wolf walking.

Two men grab me, their hands like iron, hauling me up. My feet scream with pain, blood smearing the floor, and I keep my eyes down, avoiding their glares. They march me out of the train into a dusty rail yard, the sun barely up, the air thick with diesel and tension.

Every step’s agony, my ribs throbbing, tears carving tracks down my dirty face. They don’t go far, just to a beat-up van parked nearby. They shove me into the back, the doors slamming, and I’m swallowed by darkness.

I curl up, knees to my chest, sobbing so hard my whole body shakes. The van’s engine roars, vibrating through me, and we’re moving, speeding toward a pack I don’t know. Are they brutal? Merciful? I’ve got no clue, and that’s the worst part. Back in Bloodhowl, we heard whispers of pack wars, but details were for warriors, not runts.

All I know is I’m a rogue, accused of spying, and no one’s gonna believe a word I say. I’m alone, no wolf, no pack, no hope.

Regret’s a knife in my gut. Why’d I board this stupid train? My dumb choice to run landed me here, in a van, headed for judgment. A spy? For who? I’ve got nobody, nothing but my scarf and a broken heart.

The van’s tires hum, mixing with my cries, a sad, shaky song. My fate’s in the hands of an alpha who’ll probably see me as trash, just like Ryde did. The road stretches on, and I’m hurtling toward doom, praying for a miracle I don’t deserve.