Chapter 15
1365 Words
Continue from this…. The guard doesn’t meet my eyes.
He keeps a careful distance as he leads me through the corridors, as if I might snap at any moment — and he’s not entirely wrong. The stone beneath my feet is cool, the air thick with the scent of firewood, iron, and something old. This place remembers violence. It wears it comfortably.
No chains this time.
That alone feels strange.
We descend in silence, the sound of our steps echoing down the stairwell. I can feel him before I see him — a steady pressure in my chest, familiar now in a way I don’t like. The bond tightens as we move lower, pulling, guiding, reminding me exactly where I’m headed.
The dining hall doors open.
Warmth spills out first. Firelight. The low crackle of flames. Then space — long, wide, imposing. A table stretches through the center of the room, dark wood polished to a dull gleam, set for two.
Only two.
He’s already there.
Seated at the far end, posture relaxed, gaze lifted the moment I step inside. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t stand. He watches me approach like this is exactly where I’m meant to be.
The guard gestures to the chair opposite him and steps back immediately, retreating to the wall. I take that in. The way no one lingers. The way the room subtly clears around us.
I sit.
The chair is solid. Heavy. It doesn’t scrape or wobble — it holds its ground, just like him.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The food is laid out between us — meat, bread, something rich and slow-cooked that makes my stomach tighten now that I’m close enough to smell it. My wolf stirs, restless, still on edge after the shift.
“You don’t have to poison it,” I say finally. “I’m already here.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.
“If I wanted you dead,” he replies calmly, “you wouldn’t be eating.”
“Comforting.”
He lifts his glass but doesn’t drink. “You shifted today.”
“Yes,” I snap. “I noticed.”
“You survived it.”
I shrug. “You sound disappointed.”
“Impressed,” he corrects.
That word lands differently. I don’t like that it does.
I pick at the edge of the plate but don’t eat yet. “So this is it?” I ask. “Dinner like nothing happened?”
“Like everything happened,” he says quietly.
The fire pops. The sound seems too loud.
“You dragged me here,” I say. “Chained me. Froze me. Terrified me. And now you’re feeding me.”
His gaze sharpens, but his voice stays level. “The method was not my choice.”
“But the outcome was.”
“Yes.”
I push my plate away an inch. “Then start explaining.”
Silence stretches. He doesn’t rush it. He never rushes.
“You are here,” he says carefully, “because the North called you long before you knew how to listen.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the safest one.”
I laugh under my breath. “For who?”
“For both of us.”
My fingers curl against the table. “I had a home. A pack. A life.”
“Yes,” he says softly. “And you were still coming here.”
The certainty in his tone makes my skin prickle.
“If this is fate,” I say, “it’s a cruel joke.”
He doesn’t argue.
“You were raised to endure it.”
That finally makes me look at him properly. “Is that what you think my childhood was? Training for you?”
“For survival,” he replies. Then, after a pause, “And for me.”
The bond tightens, sharp and undeniable. My wolf stirs, alert, not raging — listening.
“You expect me to accept this?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I expect you to question it.”
I push back from the table and stand, heartbeat loud in my ears. “Then here’s my first real question.”
His eyes lift, attentive now.
“At least let me call my father.”
The words fall into the space between us and stay there.
He doesn’t answer straight away.
That pause is everything.
It stretches just long enough for my chest to tighten, for something uneasy to stir beneath my ribs. He’s thinking. Choosing. And the fact that this isn’t an immediate refusal gives me hope—dangerous, stupid hope.
“Do you even know who he is?” I push, voice rising despite myself. “Because if you don’t, you should. This place will crumble very quickly if he doesn’t hear from me.”
Still nothing.
The silence needles at me, sharp and humiliating.
“You must not know,” I add, anger spilling now, feeding on itself. “You clearly don’t have a clue what will happen to you—what will happen to this place—when he finds out where I am. You think dragging me here was bold?” I laugh, brittle. “It was a mistake.”
“No.”
The word cuts clean.
I blink. “No… what?”
I lean forward, pulse hammering. “No, I can’t call him—or no, you don’t know who he is?”
His gaze doesn’t shift. Doesn’t soften.
“You will not speak to him,” he says.
The finality of it hits harder than the chains ever did.
Something cold settles in my stomach. “You said I wasn’t a prisoner.”
“I said you weren’t owned,” he replies evenly. “That does not mean there are no rules.”
Rules?
The word detonates.
Rules.
As if I’m a child.
As if I’m his to manage.
I straighten sharply, fury flashing hot and immediate. Who does he think he is?
“I don’t take rules,” I snap. “Not from you. Not from anyone.”
He stands.
Not abruptly—but decisively. The room seems to recalibrate around him, like gravity has shifted.
“Sit,” he says.
My first instinct is to refuse. To bare teeth. To remind him exactly what I am.
But I sit.
The chair feels heavier this time. Less like furniture. More like a boundary.
“There will be structure while you are here,” he continues, unhurried. “Limits. Expectations. Not to punish you. To contain what you don’t yet understand.”
“I understand plenty,” I bite.
He doesn’t rise to it. “You understand survival,” he says. “Not the full scope of what you are.”
My fingers curl against the table. “And how long do you plan on keeping me here?”
“You will know more when you’re ready,” he answers. “For now, we need to get to know each other.”
I scoff. “You already said you know everything about me.”
“I do.”
The weight of that presses in, uncomfortable and intimate.
“Then maybe,” I say slowly, “it’s time I learned something about you.”
He studies me for a beat. Not wary. Not amused. Considering.
“That’s reasonable,” he says.
I lift my chin. “Your name.”
He steps closer—not invading, not retreating—just enough that I’m acutely aware of him.
“Kaelen,” he says.
The sound of it settles strangely in my chest.
“And your last name?” I ask.
There’s a pause. A real one this time.
“Vale.”
The name hits harder than any threat.
I stare at him, heart pounding, every thought scrambling at once.
The same name.
My name.
“That’s not funny,” I whisper.
He doesn’t smile.
And suddenly the questions I’ve been demanding answers to feel dangerous in an entirely new way.
Because if his last name is Vale—
Then this isn’t coincidence.
It’s design.
And whatever truth is waiting for me here…
It’s closer than I ever imagined.
- Writer
