Five Years Later

Wren's POV

Time dissolved in that cell. Hours bled into days, and days melted into the endless, suffocating gray of existence. After the searing agony of the broken mate bond faded into a permanent, hollow ache in my chest, I lost track of the seasons. I lost track of the moon’s cycle. I even forgot the shape of my own face, my only reflection a distorted blur in the scratched metal over the sink.

Survival became my only religion.

My knuckles scraped against the rough concrete floor as Vesper’s heavy boot slammed into my ribs. The impact drove the air from my lungs in a sharp gasp. I curled inward, protecting my stomach.

"Choose, mutt," Vesper sneered, leaning over me. "A shank across the face or ten slaps?"

Her breath washed over me, reeking of stale sweat and rotting meat. She held a jagged piece of sharpened metal in her right hand, the edge glinting under the flickering fluorescent bulb of the cell block. Behind her, three of her lackeys snickered, their shadows stretching long and dark across the floor.

Five years in this concrete pit taught me the ultimate rule of the imprisoned. When dominant wolves bare their teeth, you show your throat before they tear it out. You do not fight. You do not argue. You survive.

"Slaps," I croaked. My voice sounded rough, unused, but it held steady.

Vesper smirked. She tossed the makeshift shank to one of her followers and grabbed a fistful of my matted hair, yanking my head up.

The first blow landed with a crack that echoed down the cell block. It snapped my head sideways. My teeth caught the inside of my cheek, and the hot, copper taste of blood flooded my mouth. I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on the rusted drain in the corner of the room. I counted each strike like a twisted prayer.

Two. My ear rang.

Three. My vision blurred.

Four.

Five.

I let my body go limp. I offered no resistance. I swallowed the humiliation, shoving my pride down deep into the black void where my heart used to beat.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Vesper released my hair, letting my head drop back against the concrete. "Pathetic," she muttered. She spit at my feet, the glob of saliva landing inches from my fingers. She turned on her heel and stormed off, her pack of hyenas trailing behind her, laughing at the broken girl on the floor.

I stayed hunched over for a long time. The stinging heat on my bruised cheek already started to fade, buried beneath the much deeper, heavier ache of memory.

This was my reality. This was how I survived for one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days. I chose the lesser evil. I chewed on broken glass and smiled with bleeding gums.

Lying there in the dark, my mind drifted. It always drifted back to the beginning. Back to the day they sealed my fate.

I remembered my first real week at the Grimjaw Pack. I remembered Torin cornering me in the grand library. The air had been thick with the smell of old paper and his sharp pine cologne. He had slammed a heavy book shut on the table, the noise making me jump.

"Blood or not, Daphne is my only sister," Torin had snarled, his voice low and vibrating with a lethal threat. He lunged forward, his large hand clamping around my wrist. His fingers dug into my skin, pressing down until dull, purple bruises blossomed beneath his grip. "Touch her again, and I'll make the Rogues look like a warm welcome. Do you understand me?"

I had nodded. I had nodded like a naive, desperate fool. I was still stupid enough back then to think that sharing blood meant something. I thought family meant protection. I thought if I just proved my innocence, he would see the truth.

How laughable. My own brother would rather see me in iron chains than believe I had not lured Lyla into the Shadow Forest.

Then came Vance.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my palms against the cold floor, but his face floated up in the darkness anyway. His easy, crooked smile. The one that used to make my ribs ache with a ridiculous, fluttering hope.

I remembered the exact moment we met. The way his breath hitched. The way his pupils dilated, swallowing the iris as his wolf howled in instant recognition.

"Mate," he had whispered, stepping close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his skin. He had reached out, his fingers gentle, and tucked a small, white daisy behind my ear.

Those early days were intoxicating. They were full of stolen kisses by the lake, twilight walks, and promises whispered in the dark. I thought I had finally found my anchor. I thought I had finally found someone who chose me.

But then Daphne started playing her games. She started spraining her ankle every time Vance and I went on a date. Every single birthday dinner, every quiet moment we carved out for ourselves, was interrupted by an urgent, frantic call from her.

And Vance always left. He always stood up, checking his phone with a worried crease between his brows. He would lean down, press a quick, absent kiss to my forehead, and murmur apologies that tasted like ash on my tongue.

"She needs me, Wren. I'll make it up to you. I promise."

He never made it up to me. When the ultimate choice came down, he proved exactly where his loyalties lay. He severed our bond, leaving me to rot in this cage while he comforted the true villain of the story.

And my parents?

My chest tightened, a sour burn climbing up my throat. My father never even looked me in the eye. Whenever we were in the same room, his gaze would slide past me, fixing on the wall, the window, the floor—anywhere but the daughter who had returned from the wild.

My mother was worse. She flinched. Every time I stepped too close, every time I reached out to touch her arm or offer a hug, her shoulders would pull tight. She looked at me like I was a feral beast wearing human skin.

I remembered spending an entire afternoon in the pack house kitchen. I had ventured out to the edges of the territory, foraging for wild, tart berries. I spent hours kneading the dough, measuring the sugar, baking a pie from scratch just to see them smile. Just to hear them say they were proud of me.

That evening, I walked into the kitchen to clean up. I found my pie in the garbage can. It was untouched. The crust I had carefully crimped by hand was broken and covered in discarded coffee grounds.

On the marble counter, under a pristine glass dome, sat a delicate tower of Daphne's store-bought macarons. They were waiting for praise. They were waiting for love.

And then there was Lyla.

She and Daphne were inseparable. They whispered in the hallways, shared secrets, and traded clothes. I remembered seeing them sharing a picnic by the lake on the very day she was attacked. I saw them laughing.

So why would Lyla follow me into the Shadow Forest? Why would she trust the pack outcast over her best friend?

She wouldn't.

A heavy guard's baton slammed against the iron bars of my cell, the sharp crack snapping me out of the past.

"Visitation," the guard grunted, his voice a low, bored rumble.

I didn't move. I didn't push myself off the floor. I didn't even lift my head from the concrete.

I stopped looking forward to that word years ago. In this hellhole, the rules permitted inmates one family visit a month.

Sixty months. Sixty chances.

Not once had anyone come. Not my father. Not my mother. Not Torin. Not Vance.

During my first year, I used to jump up at the word. I used to run my dirty fingers through my tangled hair, trying to smooth out the knots. I used to bite my lips to bring some color back to them, pretending the bruises fading on my cheekbones weren't so noticeable. I would sit on the hard plastic chair in the visitor's room, staring through the scratched plexiglass. I would watch the long, empty hallway, holding my breath, waiting for a silhouette to appear.

No one ever walked down that hall.

Not a single letter arrived in the mail call. Not a single whispered message passed through the guards. Not even a lie to keep my spirits up.

Eventually, the waiting became more painful than the beatings. So, I stopped hoping. I stopped pretending that I mattered to anyone on the outside. I let the silence do its work. It stripped away the desperate, pleading girl who wanted a family. It killed Wren the daughter, Wren the sister, and Wren the mate.

It forged me into something else.

I pushed myself up onto my knees and pressed my forehead against the damp, cold wall of my cell. My breath came out ragged in the dark. My hands curled into tight fists, my nails biting into my palms.

Let them live their perfect little lives. Let them feast and laugh and celebrate. Let them forget about the girl they threw to the wolves.

Because I knew one day, that heavy steel door would open. And when it did, I wouldn't be walking out as the broken girl they discarded. I would be walking out as the storm they never saw coming.

The loud, metallic clang of a deadbolt sliding back jolted me from a fitful, shallow sleep. The sound ricocheted off the cinderblock walls like a gunshot, making my heart slam against my ribs.

"Prisoner 4729," a voice boomed from the corridor. It was followed by the heavy scrape of steel as the cell door swung outward. "Stand and face the door."

I pushed myself up from the thin, lumpy cot. My joints popped and creaked like rusted hinges. I stood straight, wiping the sleep from my eyes, and turned.

A guard stood in the doorway. His uniform was stiff, perfectly starched, and his hand rested casually on his baton. His expression was a blank slate. But there was a subtle shift in his stance, a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there yesterday.

Then I saw the warden step out from the shadows behind him.

The warden held a thick sheaf of papers in his hands. He usually wore a permanent scowl, looking at us like we were vermin crawling under the floorboards. Today, his face held a cold, rigid neutrality.

"Wren Grimjaw," the warden began. He cleared his throat, the sound dry and loud in the silent cell block. "By order of the Werewolf Corrections Board, your sentence has been served in full. Effective immediately, you are granted release from this facility."

The rest of his words bled into a muted, buzzing static. My ears rang. My gaze bypassed the two men and locked onto the open doorway. Beyond them, at the end of the long corridor, was a bright rectangle of blinding, natural light.

For five years, that threshold had been a cruel taunt. It was a mirage I chased in my dreams, only to wake up to the smell of rust and unwashed bodies.

Now, the door gaped wide open. It was real. It was raw. It was waiting for me.

"—proceed to intake for final processing," the warden finished. He extended a clipboard toward me, pointing a pen at a dotted line.

I stared at it for a second. My hands trembled, shaking so hard I had to lock my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. I reached out, snatched the pen, and scribbled a messy approximation of my name. I shoved the clipboard back at his chest.

"Move," the guard ordered, stepping aside.

I stepped forward. My first footfall felt leaden, heavy with the weight of a thousand days trapped in a ten-by-ten box. But as my boot crossed the threshold of the cell, something shifted.

The air in the corridor felt different. It was thicker, richer. It lacked the suffocating stench of despair. Instead, it smelled of harsh antiseptic, polished metal, and a faint, electric trace of freedom.

I walked down the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. We reached the final processing desk right before the exit.

"Hold out your arm," the guard commanded.

I extended my left arm. He stepped forward and snapped a thick, gray bracelet around my wrist. The metal locked into place with a sharp click.

I flinched, bracing my muscles for the sharp, burning bite of a shock collar. I expected the familiar jolt of pain that kept us in line during yard time.

But the pain never came. It was just a plain tracking band. The heavy metal hummed faintly against my pulse, radiating a low, steady frequency of suppressed magic. It was designed to dull my wolf, to keep me tethered to their grid, to ensure I never stepped out of line again.

The warden stepped up beside the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at my hollow cheeks, the dark circles under my eyes, and the faded scars on my arms.

"Good luck," he muttered under his breath, his tone flat and dismissive.

I didn't answer him. I couldn't form the words even if I wanted to. I turned my head away, letting my gaze lock onto the glowing red EXIT sign mounted above the final set of heavy double doors. It was a beacon blazing through the dim corridor.

For one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days, I survived by crawling. I survived by keeping my head down, swallowing blood, and choosing physical pain over the shredding of my remaining sanity. I let them beat me. I let them starve me. I let them think they owned me.

The guard pushed the heavy metal bar, and the double doors popped open.

I stepped out of the building and onto the concrete path of the front courtyard.

The sudden, blinding intensity of the afternoon sunlight hit my face. I squinted, raising a hand to shield my eyes. For the first time in half a decade, there were no bars cutting the sky into small, mocking squares. There was just open air, endless blue, and the distant line of the forest.

The wind blew across the courtyard, rustling the fabric of my oversized, worn prison clothes. I closed my eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. The scent of pine needles, damp earth, and rain filled my lungs.

And right there, standing on the edge of my freedom, something deep inside my chest stirred.

It wasn't the broken, pleading girl who begged Torin to believe her. It wasn't the desperate mate who cried when Vance walked away.

It was something ancient. It was something dark, wild, and forged in the absolute zero of complete isolation. It was a power that hadn't whispered in a long, long time, waking up and stretching its claws.

They thought they had broken me. They thought sending me to this pit would make me crawl forever. They thought I would walk out of these gates with my tail tucked between my legs, terrified of my own shadow.

The fresh air expanded my lungs. The suppressed magic humming against my wrist meant nothing against the inferno waking up inside my soul.

I opened my eyes, staring at the long road leading away from the prison. A cold, sharp smile spread across my face.

Let them sleep peacefully in their big houses. Let them celebrate their perfect, untainted lives. Let them tremble when they realize what they built in the dark.

The storm has just stepped outside.