HER REDEMPTION

Chapter 5

DIGGING DEEP

Crimson Stone Pack

Her POV

I greedily inhaled, forcing as much air into my lungs as they would allow. You can call me greedy for wanting more of one of the only free things life has to offer. Oxygen. Precious, weightless, yet so vital, filling the hollows of my chest and sending pinpricks of relief through my trembling limbs.

I sat up, the movement sluggish and unsteady, feeling the cool rivulets of water slither down my upper body. The lower half of me remained submerged in… something. A liquid, thick yet oddly familiar, clinging to my skin like a second layer. My fingers ghosted over the surface, tracing ripples into the stillness.

Instincts took over. My gaze flickered cautiously around me, absorbing my surroundings—not in search of an escape, because if there's anything life has taught me, it’s that you can't outrun them. They always find you. Shadows stretch long, their grasp relentless. The most I could do was brace for the inevitable, be ready for the strike, and if I was lucky, I might even see it coming.

"Thank goodness you're awake. You almost had me worried there."

The voice—gentle yet laced with relief—cut through the thick silence, and I exhaled a breath I hadn't even realized I was holding. My head snapped toward the source, and there she was. Eva.

Oh. The spell. That explains it.

"How long was I out?" I mind-linked her, already performing a mental calculation, trying to determine how deep I needed to dig this time.

"Twelve hours, thirty-six minutes, and forty-seven seconds on the dot," she answered effortlessly.

"And that makes it what time now?" I choked out through the link, feeling the cold fingers of realization tighten around my throat.

"Well, this is... thirty-eight minutes past seven."

My fear was confirmed.

Eva’s voice softened, laced with sorrow. "And you have to get back to the pack house."

A weighted silence fell between us.

"But not before you eat."

---

I ran through the woods, the world a blur of greens and shadows streaked by silver moonlight. The night air was crisp, but it did nothing to cool the fire twisting through my veins, an anxiety that slithered and coiled around my nerves. Every step forward sent a tremor of anticipation up my spine, my muscles coiled tight as if ready for a strike.

Let’s just say I was eager to get home and be done with this night.

The saying goes… speak of the castle… and there it stands.

I skidded to a halt, stopping a good distance away from my final destination—the pack house.

I took a long, deliberate breath and allowed myself a moment to admire it. Not just for its physical grandeur, but for what it represented.

It was gigantic, a sight both magnificent and daunting, standing like a monument against the inky night sky. The front lawn stretched wide, illuminated by the soft glow of pristine white lights, their radiance pooling in shimmering halos over the manicured grass. Rows of carefully arranged flowers framed the entrance, their petals open in a colorful display as if welcoming lost souls home.

The building itself was large and imposing. Its towering spires kissed the heavens, and its arched windows shimmered with reflections of the moon. Every stone, every brick whispered of history, of tradition, of power.

But a pack house was more than just a structure.

It was a sanctuary. A beacon of unity and harmony within the pack.

Like a mother hen with her wings eternally outstretched, it was a place of shelter, shielding its members from the harsh sun, the biting wind, and the raging storms. It was home—a foundation on which the pack stood, a refuge where weary souls found solace. No matter how far one wandered, no matter how battered or broken they returned, the pack house stood steadfast. Unwavering. Unyielding.

Security. Protection. Family.

That’s what it meant for us. That’s what it stood for.

I took a deep breath and forced myself forward, each step heavier than the last.

Yet, with every inch I closed between myself and my so-called paradise, the weight in my chest grew unbearable. My heart sank deeper, and that furnace of dread—the one that had long sworn an oath to reduce my confidence to cinders—burned brighter, hotter, hungrier.

Fear coiled around me, slithering beneath my skin, wrapping itself around my bones. My instincts screamed at me to turn back, but I silenced them.

And the good news was…

I kept walking.

***

"Where have you been?"

The roar split the air, a sound so powerful it might have rattled the very foundations of the pack house.

I froze mid-step, my hasty ascent up the stairs abruptly halted. My breath stilled in my lungs as I straightened, instinctively adjusting my stance to face the all-glorious source of the voice.

Head down. Hands braced in front. Muscles locked in place like a soldier awaiting judgment.

Anxiety blazed beneath my skin, a wildfire licking at my nerves, but my lips refused to part.

But no words.

"I said, where the f**k have you been?"

The second demand came harsher, sharper, like the lash of a whip against bare skin. The weight of his fury pressed down on me, thick and suffocating.

Still, I said nothing.

Because I couldn’t.

He moved toward me, his steps controlled, calculated, predatory. Each one echoed through the silent corridor, and though I had been conditioned to stand my ground, I could feel my body betraying me. Every muscle begged to recoil, to retreat, but I held firm.

I had to.

Then, suddenly—contact.

His fingers clamped around my chin, the pressure bruising, forcing my head upward. My lips parted in a silent gasp as he wrenched my face to meet his gaze. And there, bold and unforgiving, were the words etched across his forehead—

Forget me not.

A cruel mockery. A taunt. A reminder that silence was not a shield.

His grip twisted my jaw, yanking at it with a pressure that most would call unbearable, but I knew better. I knew pain intimately, wore it like an old cloak, let it settle into my bones until it became part of me.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Receded. Retreated. Slipped away into the one place he could not reach.

And there, within the sanctuary of my mind, I whispered the words I had memorized like scripture:

Through the dark and through the light,

Day will come and turn the night.

So when shadows start to stay,

Know that dawn is on its way.

"When I ask a question, I demand an answer!"

His words barely registered before a sharp, white-hot impact exploded across my face. His hand struck my cheek with a force that sent my vision into a tailspin, a flurry of blurry images flashing past my eyes. My head snapped violently to the left, the sting searing deep into my skin.

.Dig.

The pain was familiar, almost routine. A test. One I had taken before. One I had passed before.

"Answer me!"

Another blow, harder this time.

.Dig.

I stumbled backward, feet unsteady, body teetering on the edge of collapse. My hands reached out blindly, searching for something—anything—to ground me.

Mistake.

The second my fingers brushed against the wall for support, his knee collided with my abdomen. The impact sent a fresh wave of agony surging through me, pain blooming in sharp, unforgiving bursts. My body lurched backward, and before I could brace myself—

Whack.

The final slap slammed my face against the unforgiving wall, the impact jarring my skull. Pain licked up my spine, but I remained still, absorbing, waiting.

.Dig.

.Dig.

I had seen this before. The swirling black-and-white spots, the hazy mist that clouded my mind. I had danced with them too many times to count, so often that I could no longer tell which version of the world I was seeing now.

"You were under strict orders not to leave these walls."

His voice sliced through the haze, sharp as a blade.

"So where went you?"

No answer.

The silence stretched, taut and dangerous. I felt the frustration radiating from him, boiling over like a pot left unwatched.

And then the kicks came.

Rhythmic. Unforgiving.

Each one drove into my ribs, my abdomen, targeting the softest, weakest points. I felt the give of something beneath his strikes, the dull, nauseating crunch of bone.

.Dig.

.Dig.

.Dig.

Keep counting. Keep digging.

"Well, if you won't speak, we might as well ensure you never do so again."

The words barely registered before a fistful of my hair was yanked, dragging me up like a ragdoll.

Pain tore through my chest, my ribs screaming in protest.

Still—no cry. No sound. No words.

Because I couldn’t.

Because I wouldn’t.

Because even if my voice could form the words, I knew better than to give them what they wanted.