CHAPTER 5_ I Won’t Be Your Prisoner[Part 1]
1382 Words
*Lilah*
The second knock is louder than the first.
“Lilah.”
His voice. Of course.
I burrow deeper into the pillow like that’ll make him disappear.
“Go away,” I croak.
The knob rattles. “Open the door.”
“You locked it,” I snap. “Remember?”
There’s a soft click. The latch turns from the outside.
Right. Wolves don’t believe in privacy.
I push myself up, blinking against the pale light leaking around the curtains.
Ronan fills the doorway, shadow cutting across the room. He looks exactly as annoyingly solid as last night—black shirt, dark jeans, and damp hair tamed back. His eyes skim over me: oversized bar T‑shirt, bare legs, yesterday’s mascara smeared under my eyes.
Something flickers in his expression. Then it’s gone.
“You should be dressed,” he says. “We don’t have much time.”
“For what? A firing squad?” My voice is rough, but at least it works. “You going to parade me in front of your people and let them vote on whether to eat me?”
“A Gathering,” he says. “The pack expects answers.”
“About the insane Alpha who carries random women off on his shoulder?” I stand, ignoring how shaky my legs feel. “You can start by telling them I want to go home.”
He watches me for a heartbeat. “That isn’t one of the options.”
Anger snaps through my chest, sharp and hot.
“Then maybe I should start making my own,” I say.
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. The small space shrinks around his presence.
In his hands is a fold of dark fabric. He holds it out to me.
“What is that?” I eye it like it might bite.
“Clothes,” he says, too calmly.
I take it, unfold it.
It’s a dress. Deep forest green, simple cut, soft fabric that will cling to every curve. Classy and dangerous at the same time.
I look from it to him. “You brought me a costume.”
“It’s a dress,” he says.
“It’s a costume,” I repeat. “For your show.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“You’ll stand at my side,” he says. “They need to see you.”
“See what?” I ask. “Your newest mistake? Your human pet?”
His jaw ticks. “See my mate.”
The bond sparks under my skin at the word. I hate the way it responds to him when the rest of me wants to throw the dress in his face.
“Get changed,” he says. “We leave in ten minutes.”
“And if I say no?” I ask.
His eyes lock on mine. “Then I throw you over my shoulder again and carry you out there in what you’re wearing.”
I clench my teeth. “You’re an ass.”
His mouth twitches like he almost agrees. “You have ten minutes.”
He turns toward the door.
“Out,” I say.
He pauses. “I’ve seen you covered in beer and blood, Lilah.”
“Cool,” I say. “You want to add naked to that list?”
A beat of silence. He exhales once through his nose and steps back into the hall. The door clicks shut behind him.
I throw the dress on the bed and go to the bathroom. The mirror shows a stranger with tangled hair, faint bruises under her eyes, and a look like she’s one bad word away from breaking.
I grip the sink until my knuckles go white.
“He does not get to break you,” I tell my reflection. “Nobody does.”
I strip out of Hank’s bar T‑shirt and underwear and step into the shower. The spray is hot and unforgiving. I scrub until the smell of stale beer is gone and the ghost of his scent—pine and smoke and winter—fades to a whisper I can almost ignore.
Almost.
When I pull the dress on, it slides over my damp skin like cool water. It settles against my body, hugging my waist and skimming my thighs. The neckline covers me, but somehow, that makes it worse. I look put together. Expensive. Like I belong in a place like this.
I don’t.
I square my shoulders and open the door.
Ronan is waiting.
His eyes drag over me from bare feet to bare shoulders. The bond flares, hot and sharp, like it’s responding to his gaze.
For a fraction of a second, he looks…almost stunned.
Then the mask is back.
“Turn,” he says, voice rougher than before.
My brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“Zipper,” he says. “It’s not all the way up.”
I reach back. My fingers fumble along the seam and find the zipper stopped halfway. It won’t budge.
Of course.
“Fine,” I mutter, turning slowly. “Touch me and lose a hand.”
He steps closer. Warmth hits my back before his fingers do.
Then his knuckles skim my spine as he catches the zipper and drags it up in one smooth motion.
It’s barely a touch, but my whole body jerks.
Heat races under my skin, the bond surging like it just woke up from a nap and liked what it saw. My knees threaten to buckle. I grab the dresser to stay upright.
His hand lands on my hip, steadying me.
“Easy,” he murmurs near my ear.
His breath skims the side of my throat. The spot behind my ear—where his thumb touched last night—tingles like a live wire.
“I’m fine,” I grind out. “Get off.”
He withdraws his hand with visible effort.
I turn to face him.
We’re too close. Again.
His pupils are wide, turning those amber eyes nearly black. His breathing is controlled, but his jaw is tight. He looks like holding himself back from me is painful.
Good.
“What am I out there?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest. “Be specific. Am I your charity case? Your cautionary tale? You're a cute little human to show off so they don’t rebel?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You are my mate,” he says. “That doesn’t change with an audience.”
“And what does that mean?” I snap. “Because from where I’m standing, ‘mate’ looks a lot like ‘pawn.’”
Silence stretches between us, thick and electric.
“I won’t be your prisoner,” I say, low. “And I won’t be your prop.”
Something in his expression cracks, just a hair.
“You’re neither,” he says. “You’re…complicated.”
“Helpful,” I say flatly.
“The pack is already stirred up,” he says. “They feel the bond. They smell my scent on you. They saw me bring you back. If I present you as a random human, I dragged off the road. They’ll tear you apart. If I present you as my mate, I might be able to keep them from doing something stupid while I figure out how to keep you alive.”
“So I *am* a prop,” I say. “Mate‑shaped, pack‑soothing camouflage.”
He doesn’t argue.
“Tonight,” he says quietly, “they expect me to do one of two things. Reject you. Or claim you.”
My pulse stumbles.
“Reject,” I repeat. “Like…what? Break this?”
I press my hand over my chest where that invisible string throbs under my sternum.
He follows the motion with his eyes.
“A formal rejection,” he says. “Packs like boxes. Human. Wolf. Inside. Outside. Right now, you’re a glitch. Elders don’t like glitches. They want a clean answer.”
“And your elders think the clean answer is what?” I ask, even though cold dread is already pooling in my gut.
“Cut you loose,” he says. “Call it a mistake. Blame the Moon. Move on.”
- Writer
