SANCTUARY
1136 Words
Brenda drove a black truck south at steady speed, and I pressed my shoulder against the passenger window watching the unfamiliar landscape blur past. She did not force conversation, which I appreciated more than she could know. Five years of confinement made silence a comfort rather than a burden.
After ninety minutes the terrain shifted. Paved roads gave way to gravel, then to hard-packed dirt. The trees thickened, grew taller, formed a canopy that blocked most of the afternoon light. We crossed a river on a narrow wooden bridge, and on the far side, two armed wolves nodded at Brenda through the windshield.
"Welcome to the Rogue Territories," she said. "No one enters without permission and no one leaves without saying goodbye."
I expected chaos. Lawlessness. Desperate wolves scrapping over scraps in the mud.
Instead I saw cabins built neatly among the trees, smoke curling from chimneys, children playing beside a creek with a woman watching over them. Wolves walked paths between structures carrying supplies, greeting each other by name. Order. Community. Not what any pack wolf would expect from rogues.
Brenda parked outside a large timber building and led me through a wide door into a hall that smelled of cooked meat, fresh bread, and pine. Tables ran in rows. Wolves sat eating, laughing, speaking in low voices.
At the head table, a man sat alone with a plate of food and a stack of papers beside him.
Jackson Lambert.
He was larger than I anticipated. Broad shoulders strained against a simple gray shirt. His arms bore scars layered over scars, mapping years of violence survived. His jaw was square, his nose crooked from old breaks, his hair dark and pushed back from his forehead carelessly. But his eyes caught me most. Deep brown, watchful, carrying a weight that told me he understood suffering without needing anyone to explain it.
He looked up when Brenda and I approached. His gaze swept over me once, quick, assessing, and then settled on my face with something that resembled recognition. Not of my features. Of my exhaustion.
"Christabella Vincent." His voice rumbled low and even. "Sit. Eat."
He pushed a full plate toward the empty chair across from him. Roasted chicken, potatoes, greens. I had not seen real food in five years. My hands trembled as I pulled the chair out and lowered myself into it.
"Thank you," I managed.
"No thanks necessary. You kept my brother alive. That debt is mine to repay."
I picked up the fork. The first bite nearly made me cry. Flavor, warmth, tenderness. Things I forgot existed inside those walls. I ate slowly because my shrunken stomach could not handle speed.
Jackson watched without staring. He returned to his papers while I fed myself, offering presence without pressure. Brenda sat at a nearby table and ate her own meal.
When my plate was half finished, Jackson spoke again. "You have no pack."
It was not a question. I answered it anyway. "No."
"You have nowhere to go."
"Also no."
He set down his pen and gave me full attention. "I have a cabin available. Private, clean, quiet. You may stay as long as you need. No obligation, no labor required, no allegiance demanded."
"Why?" The word came out sharper than I intended. Five years taught me that no gift arrives without cost.
Jackson held my gaze without flinching. "Because Damien told me what you are, and I believe him. He said the compound could not break you. That interests me."
"Interests you how?"
The ghost of a smile crossed his scarred mouth. "I lead thousands of wolves who have been rejected, cast out, and left behind by their packs. I recognize valuable people when I see them. But my interest comes with zero expectations. Eat. Sleep. Heal. That is all I ask."
I studied him for deception. Searched his face for the smooth charm Nicholas wore like perfume. I found none. Jackson Lambert spoke plainly. His words carried weight because they carried truth.
"I will stay tonight," I said. "Beyond that, I make no promises."
"Fair."
Brenda led me to the cabin after dinner. Small, warm, with a bed covered in thick blankets, a working fireplace, and a window overlooking a meadow. I stood in the doorway and felt something crack inside my chest. Not pain. Release.
"Lock works from the inside," Brenda said. "Nobody enters without your permission. Rest well, Christabella."
She left. I bolted the door and sat on the bed with my hands in my lap, and for the first time in five years I let my body shake. Silent tremors rolled through me as the reality hit. I was free. I was safe. I was alone and nobody was going to drag me from this bed at midnight.
My wolf settled into calm, curling protectively around my heart like she always did when the worst had passed.
I slept for fourteen hours without waking.
The following morning I opened the door to find a tray on the step. Bread, cheese, fruit, water. No note. No demand. Just sustenance.
I ate on the porch and watched the sun rise over the Territory. Wolves jogged along a training path in the distance. Their movements were disciplined, coordinated. Someone had trained them properly.
My muscles itched. Five years of fighting for survival in a cell built specific instincts into my body, and those instincts wanted release. I finished eating and walked toward the training field.
Brenda stood at the edge, arms folded, observing a group of younger rogues running drills. She noticed me approaching and raised an eyebrow.
"Could you not sleep in?"
"I slept plenty. What are they practicing?"
"Patrol formations. Most of them learned fighting from the streets, not from a trainer. We work with what we have."
I watched their footwork. Sloppy. Their guard positions left openings on the left flank that any trained wolf would exploit in seconds.
"Their center guard drops his elbow every time he pivots," I said.
Brenda turned to me slowly, a new expression on her face. Respect. Interest.
"Show him."
I hesitated for only a moment. Then I stepped onto the training field, and for the first time since prison, I felt like myself.
Three hours later, covered in dirt and breathing hard, I realized six wolves were watching me from the hall entrance. Jackson Lambert stood among them, arms crossed, that faint half-smile on his scarred face again.
He said nothing. He simply nodded once, then walked inside.
That night, another tray appeared at my door. This time, a small note accompanied it in blocky handwriting: "Brenda says you are terrifying. That is the highest compliment she gives."
I almost smiled.
But somewhere north, three wolves were reporting my location to their Alpha. And Nicholas Mitchell was already forming a plan.
- Writer
