I Spent Five years In Prison For My Mate, Hr Spent Them Planning His Wedding

The iron gates ground open and I stepped into sunlight for the first time in five years. My skin burned. My eyes leaked water that was not tears. The world outside the Compound seemed louder, faster, too bright for a woman who had spent 1,826 days behind concrete walls and rusted bars. I carried nothing. No bag. No belongings. No one stood on the road waiting for me. The guard behind me grunted. "Move along, Vincent. We need your bed for the next one." I moved. My legs felt unsteady on flat ground, on smooth pavement after years of cracked stone floors and muddy exercise yards. The road stretched ahead like a gray ribbon, and I followed it because there was nowhere else to go. A small town sat about a mile from the Compound. I reached it on hollow legs, my lungs burning from the effort of walking freely. At the corner of the first street, a newspaper stand displayed its front page to the world. I stopped breathing. Nicholas. His jaw, his perfect teeth, his charming smile aimed at a woman in a white gown. Roslyn Mitchell. His cousin. Her dark hair swept across one shoulder, red lips parted in triumph. The headline read: "Alpha Nicholas and Luna Roslyn Celebrate Five-Year Anniversary and Announce Mating Ceremony This Weekend." Five-year anniversary. He bonded with her the same month I entered my cell. My knees threatened to give out but I forced them rigid. Something crawled up my throat, a sound between laughter and howling, and I crushed it back down before anyone on the street could hear. I gave him five years of my life. I took the blame for a murder I did not commit because he cupped my face in his palms, pressed his forehead to mine, and whispered, "I will move mountains for you. Just hold on." I held on. Through every beating. Through the nights when guards dragged me from my bunk for no reason except cruelty. Through cold seasons when frost coated the inside of my cell and my bones ached from malnutrition. Through inmates who wanted my food, my blanket, my silence. I held on because I believed he was working to free me. He was never working. He was here, in this photograph, building a life with another woman while I rotted. "You look like you need to sit down, honey." An old woman at the newspaper stand peered at me with concern. I must have looked terrible. Thin arms, hollow cheeks, faded prison clothes two sizes too large. "I am fine," I said. My voice came out rough from disuse. In the Compound, speaking too much attracted attention. I learned silence the way other wolves learn hunting. I turned from the newspaper and walked further into town. My wolf stirred inside me, restless, alert, scanning every passing stranger for threats. Five years of survival had sharpened her into something fierce. Millicent once told me, "Most wolves weaken in here; yours is getting dangerous." She said it with pride. Millicent. My only friend in that place. She would be released in eight months, and I already missed her steady voice, her calm instruction during the nights we trained in our cell using nothing but shadows and whispered counts. I reached the edge of town where the road split. One direction led toward Greyvale territory. The thought of it made my stomach seize. The other direction led south, toward unclaimed land and eventually the Rogue Territories. I had no money for food. No identification beyond release papers. No pack would accept a convicted murderer. Nicholas had made sure of that. He let me take the fall, and then he let the world believe I was guilty. Useful but disposable. That is what I was to him. A woman so blinded by love that she walked into a cage willingly. Not anymore. I chose the southern road, and I walked. After two hours, my body began to fail. Dehydration pulled at my temples. My vision blurred at the edges. Prison meals were thin gruel and stale bread; five years of that left my muscles wasted beneath the hard edges that combat training carved into them. I sat on a rock beside the road and pressed my palms to my knees. Breathed. Told myself I had survived worse. Told my wolf to stay alert. The sound of footsteps reached me before I saw the woman. My wolf registered no threat, only calm energy and purpose. I lifted my head. She was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, with close-cropped hair and a scar that ran from her left ear to her collarbone. She wore practical clothing and leather boots. A warrior. Everything about her posture announced competence. "Christabella Vincent?" she asked. I tensed. Nobody should know my name on this road. "Who are you?" "My name is Brenda Lambert. I serve as Beta to the Rogue King." She stopped three paces from me, respectful of my space. "My King sent me here today because he wanted to offer you something." "I have nothing worth bargaining for." Brenda's expression softened, though her stance remained military. "He does not want a bargain. His younger brother spent time inside that compound. You protected him from a gang that would have killed him in his second week. Damien Lambert. Do you remember?" I remembered. A young wolf, barely nineteen, terrified and too thin. I stepped between him and three wolves twice his size because something inside me could not watch cruelty and do nothing about it. "I remember Damien." "He told my King about you. Said you fight like a general and carry yourself like a Luna even in chains." Brenda extended her hand. "Jackson Lambert would like to offer you a meal and a roof. No strings attached. Just respect for what you did for his brother." I stared at her hand. Five years of trusting no one screamed inside my skull. But I had no food. No shelter. No path forward. I reached out and took her grip. Behind us, on the road leading north toward Greyvale, three wolves in dark clothing watched from a distance. I have not seen them yet. But my wolf raised her hackles, sensing something cold on the wind. Something was coming.