FREYA
He keeps the gun on me with one hand and reaches into his coat with the other, and he throws something down into the dirt between us.
Cuffs. Heavy ones, dull grey, and even from here I can smell the wrongness coming off them.
Silver. Silver cuffs, the kind that lock a wolf's strength away and leave her no better than human.
"Pick them up," he says. "Put them on yourself. Slowly. And we are going to take a nice quiet walk, you and I, to some people who have wanted to meet you for a very— long— time."
My heart is slamming, but underneath the fear papa’s voice is moving, cold and clear, the way it always does when there is no time to be afraid.
“He wants you alive. He just told you so himself. That is your weapon. He cannot pull that trigger.”
He can hurt me. He can do almost an
