Chained To An Enemy Alpha

6. Chapter

Morning came too fast, too harsh and too bright, as if dawn itself had crawled onto my face just to drag me out of that short, exhausting, dreamless sleep that felt more like collapsing into half-consciousness. When I opened my eyes, I didn’t even know where I was at first — I just felt my heart pounding against my ribs and a cold, choking fear pressing against my chest, as if the stone walls of my cell were still around me. My body tensed, my lungs froze halfway through a trembling inhale.

And then I saw him.

Zane stood by the door of the dim room, arms crossed, unmoving, as if he had been watching me for a while. His black coat melted into the shadow of the wall, but his green eyes gleamed in the half-light, and the moment I saw him, my whole body panicked. He didn’t do anything — he simply stood there — yet I recoiled as if he were about to strike.

The sheet tangled around my legs, my hands shook, and for a heartbeat I was sure I had fallen back into an old memory where every morning began like this: a man standing in the doorway like a shadow, and his first movement decided whether I lived that day — or merely tried to survive it.

But Zane didn’t move closer.

“We’re leaving,” he said quietly, in that deep voice of his that held no aggression, yet set every nerve in me on edge. He spoke like someone who could command, but wasn’t doing it — and that only made everything more confusing.

I gathered my rags, the thin cloak they’d put on me last night, and tried not to flinch at every tiny shift the man made. When he looked past me over my shoulder, even though his attention wasn’t on me, I still jerked instinctively, as if afraid he might start shouting any second. It was a reflex — burned into my body, impossible to unlearn.

Zane held the door open for me but didn’t walk behind me. He waited, held back, as if he knew even his shadow was too much for me. And still I was terrified. When I walked past him. When the soldiers in the corridor looked me over like some strange package he carried and they didn’t know where to place.

The departure happened silently, full of tension and hurried preparation. The horses were brought forward, the packs secured with thick straps, one warrior threw a heavier cloak around me so I wouldn’t freeze on the journey — but when his hand accidentally brushed my shoulder, I flinched as if he had burned me. Zane’s gaze flicked toward us, sharp, but he said nothing, didn’t drag the man away — he just watched how I tried to steady myself after the shock.

Then he moved to his horse, mounted, and gestured for me to do the same. One of the Red Moon men helped me up, but even that brief touch felt like too much, and when Zane rode up beside me, a shiver crawled down my spine. Not because he meant harm — simply because he was too close. Too big. Too strong. Too… unknown.

For the first half hour, neither of us spoke.

The horses kept a steady rhythm on the mountain paths, the branches above us intertwined, and under their shade every sound felt louder. I felt the warriors’ eyes on my back, felt Zane’s presence beside me, and my fingers trembled from everything.

Then a branch suddenly snapped nearby, cracking sharply as it hit the ground.

My heart nearly leapt out of my chest.

I jerked.

My horse spooked.

My lungs tightened, and I instinctively snapped my head toward Zane, bracing for a burst of anger.

But it didn’t come.

He only said:

“It was just a branch.”

And that terrified me even more, because he was too calm. Too quiet. Too attentive.

The sun grew stronger, exhaustion dragged at my eyelids, and the pain in my ribs pulsed dully. Before I even realized it, my body surrendered the fight to stay awake.

I fell asleep in the saddle.

I thought I’d fall off and that would be the end of it.

But when I came to, something soft and warm was supporting my head.

Slowly, shaking, I turned my gaze.

It was Zane’s shoulder.

My body was leaning against his, my head resting against the curve of his collarbone, and he was holding me gently with one arm, as if he had been doing it for a while — naturally, effortlessly. With his other hand he held the reins, guiding our horse as though nothing unusual were happening.

For a moment, the world stopped.

And then the crushing panic hit me all at once.

All the air rushed out of my chest, my lungs refused to work, and I recoiled from him as if I had touched fire. My horse jerked its head, nearly throwing me, and I gasped for breath.

“No! Don’t touch me!” I burst out, almost screaming.

Zane stiffened, yanked his hand back as though I had burned him. Confusion flashed in his eyes, followed by something I couldn’t identify.

“What happened?” he asked, stepping closer — but stopped instantly when he saw me retreating.

The panic hit me with such force it felt like my body was finally releasing every fear it had hoarded for years. Air tore into my lungs in shallow gasps, my fingers trembled, my vision blurred. Sounds narrowed. The world tilted.

Then Zane snapped.

Not at me — out of pure helplessness.

“I don’t hurt women!” he shouted, his voice ringing through the forest, deep and sharp and furious.

Birds burst from the branches, wings scattering into the sky, the trees shuddering.

And I… I collapsed.

My body curled in on itself out of reflex, bracing for a blow, preparing for the pain that always followed shouting. My vision darkened, a high ringing filled my ears.

Zane’s face twisted, and the instant the words left his mouth, regret washed over him.

“Elara…” he began, much softer, though his voice still shook. “I… I wasn’t yelling at you.”

He took a small step, then froze halfway, as if every instinct in him knew his closeness would only make it worse. His chest rose and fell slowly, the muscles in his hand tightening with frustration.

“I don’t…” he tried again. “I don’t hurt women. Ever. Don’t you understand?”

But my body wouldn’t let me understand.

Too many years of fear clung to me, too many memories whispered in my ears, and even though Zane was calmer now, even though some wall inside him had cracked, I was still trapped in my own prison.

I stood beside my horse, shaking, gasping, pressing a hand to my chest as if terrified my heart might tear itself free. Zane stood a few steps away, helpless and angry — not at me, but at his inability to help, and maybe at the fact that I still thought he was a threat.

The silence stretched on.

Too long.

Finally, Zane spoke — slowly, very slowly.

He didn’t shout.

He didn’t command.

He didn’t try to dominate.

“I just want you… to feel that I won’t hurt you,” he said, in a voice I never imagined an alpha could use. “But I think… you’ll have to believe that on your own. In your own time.”

And something inside me cracked at that — quietly, barely audible.

Not trust.

Not relief.

Just… a fracture in the wall.

But the fear was still too much.

The sun didn’t stop, though, and the road kept leading us forward.

And whether I liked it or not, we were traveling toward the Red Moon together — two wolves, one who feared too deeply, and the other who struggled too much against what he felt.

Our story didn’t get easier that day.

But something began.

Something that made my wolf rumble deep, very deep inside me:

“This is different.”