Shadow Pride

Chapter 10 - Margo Observing the Tyranny

The sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the pride's territory as Gabriel leads me through the heart of what is supposed to be his domain. My senses tingle with the knowledge that I've met my mate, but the revelation sits heavy in my gut. I watch him, noting the careful way he moves, the calculated manner in which he speaks. He's more than an unwilling guide; he's a prisoner in plain sight.

Gabriel is tall, his lean frame standing out against the rich, golden light of the setting sun. His dark hair is tousled and his eyes, a piercing blue, seem to glow in the dimming light. He carries himself with an air of confidence, but there's a guardedness in his posture that hints at a deeper vulnerability.

Alpha Aiden made that painfully clear the way his exerted his dominance over him the second he walked into the room. Before that, he was playing the part of concerned Alpha after hearing my story. The story I created as my cover for joining this pride. I explained to him that my pride in the north had heard of their ‘exchange’ program and I begged him to allow me to come here to find my mate as well, but was denied. So I stole away in the night, determined to at least try, severing my pride bonds becoming a lone shifter.

"Over there," Gabriel says, gesturing toward a cluster of huts on the periphery, "is where most of the pride sleeps. The Alpha's quarters are centrally located for... obvious reasons." His voice trails off, laced with a bitterness he tries to conceal.

I want to reach out, touch his arm, offer some silent comfort that only mates can provide. But I don't. Instead, I nod, keeping my face impassive while inside, my mountain lion paces, agitated by the invisible chains that bind him.

"Gabriel," I start, then hesitate. My throat feels tight. Saying it out loud makes it real—makes him mine. But how can I claim him when he's shackled to another's will?

He meets my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, I see the raw edge of desperation in his eyes. It mirrors my own internal turmoil. Yet, we both remain silent on the matter. Words unspoken become our shared burden.

"Let's move on," he says, leading me away from the huts. His shoulders set in a rigid line that speaks volumes of the life he's endured here.

As we walk, I keep my focus sharp, taking in the details of the land, the placement of guards, anything that might serve as a weakness to exploit later. At the same time, I'm acutely aware of Gabriel beside me—a constant reminder of what's at stake, and what I stand to lose if I fail.

"Training grounds are up ahead," he mutters, shifting his gaze away from me.

"Show me," I reply curtly, masking my concern with professionalism. Inside, my mountain lion snarls, ready to defend, to protect, to claim.

But now is not the time for such displays. Now is the time to observe, to plan. To save them all—and perhaps save us in the process.

We pass the healing hut, and Gabriel's voice is a low hum in my ear. "Sage lives there. She's the healer." His finger points to a small structure nestled between two towering oaks, but I barely register it.

Instead, my attention snags on the women we pass. Each one of them avoids eye contact, their gazes clamped to the dirt beneath their feet. Their postures are curled inward, as if making themselves smaller could shield them from further harm.

"Here's the communal hall," he continues, indicating a large building with peeling paint and a sagging roof. It's supposed to be the heart of the pride, where laughter and stories knit the community together. But how can a heart beat strong when it's bruised?

A soft keening noise filters through the air, a sound so filled with resignation that it sends a shiver down my spine. The source is a young woman clutching her arm, purple-green bruises blooming like sinister flowers on her skin.

"Gabriel," I start, but my voice is a growl, rough-edged with fury. He hears it—the primal rage of my inner lioness—and his eyes flicker with understanding.

"Keep moving, Margo," he insists, though his jaw sets hard, eyes darkening.

I want to stop, to confront the injustice before me, but my instincts scream that it's not the time. Not yet. Instead, I nod, turning away from the bruised petals that mar the woman's flesh. But I memorize her face, add it to the list of wrongs that I will right.

The roar inside my head grows louder, a tempest of anger and protectiveness swirling through my consciousness. My mountain lion paces, agitated, yearning to surge forth and whisk these women away to Westwood Island, where their bruises can heal and their spirits soar.

"Almost done," Gabriel murmurs, and there's a note of apology in his tone, as though he feels each injustice as a personal blow.

"Almost," I echo, but my thoughts are already racing ahead, plotting, planning. My mission here is clear: observe, gather allies, strike back. And somehow, amidst all this darkness, I will find a way to shine a light bright enough to lead us all home.

The disdain is palpable. As Gabriel and I weave through the pride, I can't help but notice the sneers directed his way from the other men. They're like a pack of hyenas, reveling in a hierarchy where my mate is at the bottom. The surety that he's as caged as the women here only solidifies with each mocking curl of a lip we pass. My hand itches to reach for his, to offer some solace, but I ball it into a fist instead.

"Doesn't it bother you?" I ask him quietly, under the murmur of contempt.

Gabriel's eyes are steady on the path ahead. "Bother is a luxury," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Survival is the goal."