A Cold Welcome

Wren's POV

The heavy iron gates of the prison groaned behind me, the sound echoing like the dying breath of a massive, rusted beast. The noise shuddered through the soles of my worn shoes, vibrating up my legs and settling deep in my hollow chest. I kept walking. The blinding afternoon sunlight cascaded over the concrete path, washing over my face. It was bright. It was harsh. But it offered absolutely no warmth to my skin. Five years in the dark had turned my blood to ice, and a few rays of sun weren't going to thaw it.

My clothes—the same faded, oversized uniform they issued me on day one—hung loosely over my frame. The fabric swayed against my thin, brittle bones with every step I took. I limped forward. It wasn't a choice. It wasn't a play for sympathy. My right leg dragged slightly across the pavement, the muscles tight and damaged from the physical toll my body sustained in that six-by-six cell. Every shift of my weight sent a dull, throbbing ache up my thigh, but I forced my foot to move. I had survived by crawling. I could survive walking.

Up ahead, parked right against the curb of the desolate access road, sat a sleek black Bentley. The dark paint gleamed under the sun, an arrogant display of wealth in a place built for the forgotten. The engine idled with a soft, expensive purr.

A man leaned against the passenger side door.

Torin.

My brother.

He wore a tailored charcoal suit that fit perfectly across his broad shoulders. His dark hair was styled meticulously, not a single strand out of place. He looked like the pristine heir to the Thorne family. He looked like the world belonged to him.

His gaze caught me as I dragged myself closer. He didn't rush forward. He didn't reach out. Instead, his eyes dragged over my frame, taking in the sagging clothes, the sharp angles of my collarbones, the slow, agonizing drag of my injured leg. A sneer curled the corner of his lips.

"Still pretending to be weak after five years?"

His voice hit the quiet air like a whip. It was sharp, cold, and laced with unmistakable disgust.

I stopped a few feet away. The engine of the Bentley hummed. The tracking band on my wrist pulsed in time with my heartbeat.

"Five years in a cell, and you're still playing this little game," Torin continued, pushing off the car and crossing his arms. He looked down his nose at me. "I thought the guards would have knocked that out of you by now."

My throat tightened. A brief, sharp sting flared behind my eyes, catching me off guard. It was a phantom reflex. A lingering instinct from a girl who used to care. Torin was the brother I once tried so desperately to please. I remembered the eager, loving sister who used to wait outside his office with homemade soup during the freezing winter storms. I remembered the girl who rubbed his shoulders when he came home exhausted from pack business, begging for a scrap of his affection.

That girl was dead. She died on the cold concrete floor of the prison. She died when the judge slammed the gavel.

I remained silent. I adjusted my posture, shifting the weight off my bad leg, and kept limping right past him. The gravel crunched beneath my shoes.

Torin stiffened. My silence annoyed him. He expected the pleading. He expected the tears. He expected the little sister who adored him like a god to fall to her knees and thank him for showing up.

"Get in," he demanded, his tone dropping into a hard command.

I didn't stop. I kept my eyes fixed on the empty road ahead.

"Wren, I said get in the car." Torin's voice clipped with irritation. "Mom and Dad arranged a welcome dinner for you. They are waiting."

The words washed over me, cold and meaningless. A welcome dinner. The concept of a family dinner felt entirely foreign. Three years in their sprawling estate had taught me the bitter reality of my existence. I was never part of their family. I was only ever an inconvenient reminder of a past they wanted to bury. A stain on their perfect lineage. Daphne was their daughter. Daphne was their sun, their moon, and their entire world. I was just the shadow she cast.

I didn't break my stride. I dragged my foot, stepped, and kept moving.

"Damn it, Wren!" Torin cursed.

The heavy thud of his designer shoes pounded against the pavement, closing the distance between us in seconds. He moved with the sudden, explosive speed of an alpha bloodline.

Before I could brace myself, his hand clamped down hard around my wrist. His fingers dug into my fragile bones like a vice.

He yanked me backward.

"Are you deaf?" he snarled.

The violent pull threw off my already unsteady balance. My injured leg buckled instantly. The world tilted. I stumbled, my worn sneakers catching on the uneven edge of the asphalt. Gravity took over, dragging me down hard.

My palms hit the rough ground first, the skin scraping against the sharp gravel. My knees slammed into the concrete next. A blinding flash of pain flared through my injured leg, tearing through the damaged muscle like a serrated knife. My teeth clamped together forcefully on impact. The sharp metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth as my teeth clipped the inside of my cheek.

I stayed on the ground for a second, my chest heaving, dust settling around my hands. Blood pooled in my mouth. I swallowed it down. I had swallowed worse.

Torin stood over me. The shadow of his tall frame blocked out the sun.

"Are you done with this little drama?" he spat, his face twisted in utter disgust. "Still acting fragile? You really think anyone is going to buy this pathetic victim routine anymore?"

I tilted my head up. My hair fell across my face, sticking to the cold sweat forming on my forehead. I stared at him, my expression devoid of the tears he was waiting for.

He reached down, grabbed the collar of my oversized prison shirt, and hauled me to my feet. He tossed me upward like I was nothing more than a bag of garbage. My bad leg shook as I caught my balance, the fresh scrapes on my palms throbbing.

"You lured Lyla into that forest," Torin accused, stepping into my space, his voice dropping into a lethal hiss. "You know exactly what happened to her in there. You planned it. You set the trap. And you still dare to walk out of that prison and act like you are the one who suffered?"

Lyla. The name hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. The gruesome mauling. The blood in the dirt. The trial that sealed my fate.

"You were convicted because the evidence pointed straight to you," Torin continued relentlessly. "Your scent was all over the scene. You left the trail."

I looked at him. The rage burning in his eyes was so righteous. So misplaced.

"And Daphne's?" I whispered.

The two words were barely louder than the breeze, but they hit him like a physical blow.

Torin froze. The muscles in his jaw locked tight.

I didn't yell. I didn't scream. I just stared right into his eyes, watching the sudden flicker of avoidance cross his pupils.

"What about Daphne's earring, Torin?" I asked, my voice steady, scratching against my dry throat. "The one found deep in the mud near the attack. The one you made sure disappeared from the evidence log. And the message? The text that lured Lyla out there in the first place. You know it came from Daphne's phone."

Silence stretched between us. The idling engine of the Bentley seemed to grow louder.

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

Because he knew.

He knew the truth behind the polished lies. He knew the earring wasn't mine. He knew I didn't own the device that sent the fatal message. And yet, when the gavel was ready to strike, he had stood in that crowded courtroom, looked the judge in the eye, and said absolutely nothing. He had let them drag me away in chains to protect his precious Daphne.

Torin's face darkened, a muscle ticking violently in his cheek. He refused to acknowledge the accusation. He refused to look at the cracks in his perfect reality.

Instead, he tightened his grip on my arm and yanked me forward, giving me a harsh shake.

"Don't think your time in that cell wiped the slate clean," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Lyla is still in a coma. She hasn't woken up in five years. Until she opens her eyes and speaks, you are still guilty in the eyes of the world. You are still the villain. And you still owe Daphne an apology for dragging her name into your mess."

An apology.

The absurdity of it almost made me laugh. My chest hitched, but I killed the sound before it could escape. I owed Daphne an apology for spending five years in a concrete box for her crime.

I didn't argue. I didn't defend myself. I just ripped my arm out of his grasp with a sudden, violent jerk. The movement sent a fresh wave of agony through my shoulder, but I ignored it. I took a step back, putting distance between us.

The coldness in my eyes stung him more than my words ever could. I saw the shift in his posture. He expected resistance, anger, pleading. He didn't expect this dead, hollow void.

"Come home," he said. The harshness in his tone cracked slightly, trying to mold the command into an offer. Trying to pretend we were still a family.

Before I could take another step, a voice sliced through the heavy air.

"Wren."

My heart clenched violently in my chest. The sound of that voice hit my eardrums, instantly paralyzing the breath in my lungs. It was a visceral reaction. A bodily memory that five years of torture couldn't fully erase.

I knew that voice.

Vance.

I turned my head slowly. He stepped out from the shadow of the imposing prison wall, walking into the sunlight.

He looked immaculate. His dark suit was sharply tailored, pressing perfectly against his athletic build. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine. His face, structured with sharp, aristocratic lines, looked like it was carved from cold, untouchable marble. He looked exactly the same as the day he destroyed me.

But it was his voice that gutted me.

"Congratulations on your release," Vance said smoothly, stopping a few feet away. His tone was perfectly level, polite, and hollow. He spoke as if this were a graduation ceremony. As if I hadn't just walked out of hell.

I stared at him. If any other person in the world had said those words, I might have nodded. I might have forced a tight, polite smile and walked away.

But not him.

This was the boy who had once held my hands and sworn on his life to protect me. This was the man who had promised me the world.

This was the man who stood in the courtroom and helped them build my cage.

My mind flashed back to the holding cell beneath the courthouse. The cold dampness of the walls. Vance standing on the other side of the bars, his perfectly styled hair slightly messy, his eyes pleading. He had begged me. He had literally begged me to take the fall.

*She wouldn't survive prison, Wren,* he had said, his voice cracking with desperate emotion. *Daphne is too fragile. She'd break. But you... you're strong. You're used to pain. You can handle this. Do it for her. Do it for us.*

The memory tasted like bile in the back of my throat. I nearly vomited right there on the pavement.

This man. This Alpha. My mate.

He had stood in the gallery, wearing a suit just like the one he wore now, and watched the guards strap the chains to my wrists. He had watched them drag me away, and he had done nothing.

No, that wasn't true. He had done worse than nothing.

The moment the heavy steel door of my cell slammed shut, the moment the reality of my nightmare began, he had severed us. I remembered the blinding, catastrophic pain. The sensation of the mindlink tearing away like muscle being ripped directly from bone. I remembered collapsing onto the cold floor, screaming until my vocal cords bled, while his voice echoed in my mind one final time.

*I reject you.*

And now, five years later, he stood here in the sunlight, acting civil. Pretending there was still some shred of connection between us.

Vance took a step closer, raising his hand, offering a gesture of comfort.

"I brought my car," he said, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. "I came to take you ho—"

"I'm going with Torin," I said.

My voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade. I didn't look at his face. I didn't look at his outstretched hand. I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, injecting every single syllable with pure, unadulterated contempt.

Torin blinked, clearly surprised by my sudden compliance.

Vance's hand froze in mid-air. The smooth, composed mask on his face cracked for a fraction of a second. The rejection hung heavily between us, raw and undeniable. I chose the brother who just threw me to the pavement over the mate who shattered my soul. I chose Torin's car just to spite him.

I turned away from Vance, leaning my weight onto my good leg, and began walking toward the Bentley.

My body trembled slightly with the effort. My palms stung from the scrapes. My knee throbbed with a relentless, dull ache. Every step was a battle to keep myself upright, to keep the fragile pieces of my composure from shattering onto the asphalt.

I didn't look back.

Not because I wanted to go home with Torin. Not because the thought of sitting in that luxury car didn't make my skin crawl. I didn't want to go anywhere with either of them. If I had the choice, I would walk into the dense tree line and disappear forever.

But I didn't have a choice. I was out of the cell, but I wasn't free.

I was still on a leash.

The heavy metal tracking band hummed against my pulse, a constant, low-frequency reminder of my reality. One month. That was the length of my mandatory observation period. Thirty days of being monitored, tracked, and judged. One wrong move, one unapproved absence, one flimsy excuse, and the Thorne family could make a single phone call. They could have me thrown right back into that werewolf prison before the sun set.

And if I went back in there, I knew I would never come out alive. The darkness would finally swallow me whole.

So I walked toward the passenger door of the Bentley.

I didn't walk for Torin. I didn't walk for Vance. I didn't even walk for myself.

I walked because the system was still watching my every move. The pack was waiting for me to fail. The Grimjaw estate was ready to chew me up the moment I stepped out of line.

I reached out, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal handle of the car door. The sleek black paint reflected my hollow, sunken face. I pulled the door open.

For now, I had to play the part. I had to survive the ride. I had to step into the viper's nest and pretend I didn't know they had poison in their fangs.

I slid into the backseat, the heavy door slamming shut behind me.