Painful Past

POV Lyra

The aged wooden planks of the yard fence press harsh splinters into my palms, but I ignore the sting. I hoist my small frame upward, my younger sister Cora giggling right beneath my feet. The afternoon sun warms the sloped shingles of the estate roof as we scramble across them, our bare feet slapping the clay tiles in a chaotic rhythm. Below us, the sprawling green lawn looks vibrant and vast. My mother stands dead center on the manicured grass, her hands planted firmly on her hips. Her face tilts toward the sky, her brow furrowed in that familiar, maternal scowl. She scolds us at the top of her lungs. Her voice rings clear, lecturing Cora and me about the sheer recklessness of scaling iron gates and running across the rooftops without a single care for our own security. Cora pipes up from beside me, cheekily mentioning that we left the guards far behind in the dirt. My mother sighs, a sound full of exasperation but lacking any real malice. A bittersweet ache blooms heavy in my chest. It is a warm, nostalgic memory. A safe memory of a time when the world was bright.

Then, the sun begins to dim. The bright blue sky bleeds into a murky, suffocating gray. The warmth of the roof shingles fades into the bitter, bone-deep chill of damp dungeon stone. The dream dissolves into the shadows.

In its place, a scent anchors me, pushing back the lingering dread of my nightmare. Pine. Rich, dark earth. The distinct aroma of an untouched forest floor wraps around my senses. It is a surprisingly comforting scent, easing the constant tension coiled in my muscles.

My mind swims in a thick, sludgy haze. The heavy fog of sedatives pulls at my limbs, trying to drag me back down into the dark, but the fog lifts just a fraction. Voices filter through the heavy veil of my consciousness. They are low, muffled, yet distinct in the quiet room.

"She’s been out four days, Nolan," a deep, masculine voice murmurs near the edge of my mattress. The sound vibrates through the springs beneath me.

Another voice answers. Calmer, clinical, and laced with gentle concern. The healer, Nolan. He speaks about medical charts, about the machines monitoring my pulse. He mentions my blood work. The words drift around me before locking together in a terrifying sequence. He states calmly that my labs showed extremely dangerous, toxic levels of wolfsbane.

He explains the poison to the deep-voiced man. The wolfsbane was systematic. The captors pumped it into my fragile system day after day to violently suppress my inner wolf, forcing her into a deep, unnatural hibernation. My pulse stutters. Lumina. My wolf. Nolan speaks with quiet, unwavering conviction. He firmly believes that Lumina has not abandoned me. She is not dead. She is simply trapped beneath a mountain of toxin.

A sudden, powerful flare of hope ignites deep within the hollow space of my chest. Lumina is alive. She is still inside me, fighting to survive just like I am. The realization crashes over me, making terrifying, agonizing sense. The bitter, foul-tasting porridge the warden shoved down my throat every single day. The gritty texture on my tongue, the immediate nausea that followed every forced bite. They were drugging me on purpose. They kept my wolf locked away in the dark. I spent years believing she left me because I was too broken, too weak to hold onto her. She didn't leave.

"Little wolf? Can you hear us in there?" the deep voice coaxes gently. The rumble pulls me further upward, away from the lingering shadows of the drugs.

I focus all my remaining strength on my eyelids. They feel heavy, weighed down by days of exhaustion. I force them to flutter. Bright, harsh hospital lights pierce my vision, making me squint blindly against the glare. It takes several long seconds for my eyes to adjust to the sterile brightness. Forms shift and sharpen into focus.

A man leans closely over the edge of my bed. My breath hitches in my throat. He is the most gorgeous shifter I have ever laid eyes on. Messy, dark black hair falls over his forehead in thick waves. A neatly trimmed beard accentuates the sharp, unyielding cut of his jawline. High cheekbones frame stark, piercing green eyes that lock onto mine. They hold a depth that matches the ancient forest he smells of. His large, warm hand rests gently over my thin fingers. The heat radiating from his calloused skin seeps into my freezing bones.

"Hello there, little wolf. I am Declan Cross, the Alpha of the Obsidian Pack of San Juan," he says. His voice is a soothing rumble that vibrates in the quiet, sterile room.

He turns his head slightly, motioning to the man standing beside my monitor. Nolan. The striking, blonde healer steps forward. Ocean-blue eyes crinkle at the corners as a gentle, reassuring smile touches his lips. He keeps his tone calm and even, explaining my physical condition. He tells me I was brought in severely poisoned and dangerously malnourished. He lists the steps they took to flush the wolfsbane from my veins. Then, he says the words I never thought I would hear again. He tells me I am safe.

Declan leans in a fraction closer. His green eyes search my battered face. "What is your name?"

Immediate panic grips my chest like an iron vice. My lungs freeze, refusing to pull in oxygen. The heart monitor beside my bed picks up the sudden, erratic spike of my pulse, beeping in a frantic, high-pitched rhythm. My mind races through a maze of terrifying, blood-soaked scenarios. If I speak to these strange men, will they hurt me? The warden despised noise. He punished a whimper with the whip. If I use my voice, will they hurt me just to hear me scream? But if I stubbornly refuse to answer an Alpha's direct question, will they punish me with starvation? Will they lock me in a dark cage and leave me to rot?

Declan watches the stark terror wash over my pale features. He does not push. He does not raise his voice or bare his teeth.

"It's okay, little wolf. You don't have to tell us right now," Declan soothes, keeping his broad shoulders relaxed. He studies the fear swimming in my eyes. "Can you speak?"

Terrified of making the wrong choice, I keep my dry, cracked lips sealed tight. I slowly shake my head *no*.

Declan accepts this silent answer without a single hint of frustration. "Can you write?"

I stare up into his striking green eyes. They hold tiny flecks of deep brown, catching the harsh hospital light. For a fleeting second, a sliver of bravery pierces through my paralyzing fear. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat and offer a small, eager nod. *Yes*.

Nolan catches the silent exchange. Understanding my mute plea, the healer steps back from the bed and exits the room with quick, purposeful strides.

I am left alone with the Alpha. My muscles tense instinctively. I pull my knees up slightly under the thin hospital blankets, trying to make myself smaller. Declan notices the subtle shift in my posture. He scoots his chair a mere inch closer to the mattress. He lifts a large hand and rests it gently on my knee. His thumb begins to trace slow, soothing circles against the fabric. The touch is light, yet the sheer size and heat of his hand ground my spiraling thoughts.

"Take your time," Declan whispers. The rumbling vibration of his words settles the erratic thumping of my heart.

Nolan returns seconds later. He carries a plain, yellow legal pad and a standard wooden pencil. He hands them to me, offering another kind smile before stepping back to give me space.

My fingers tremble as I grip the slender piece of wood. The graphite tip hovers over the blue lines of the paper. It has been so long since I held a tool meant for creation rather than a tool meant for torture. I press the tip to the paper. The soft scratching sound fills the silent room.

*My name is Lyra Vale.*

I turn the pad toward Declan. He reads the cursive letters. A stunning smile breaks across his rugged face. Deep, charming dimples indent his cheeks, softening the hard, authoritative lines of his jaw. He looks genuinely relieved.

"Lyra," he says softly. Hearing my name spoken aloud without malice, without a mocking sneer, sends a strange, foreign shiver down my spine. "How many months ago were you taken?"

His question hangs in the sterile air. He assumes my captivity was recent. A matter of months. My brow furrows in genuine confusion. Months? I bring the pad back to my lap. The pencil moves across the paper again, tracing out my confusion.

*What year is it?*

I hold the pad up. Declan reads the short sentence. His dimpled smile falters. The edges of his mouth drop, the boyish charm melting away into confusion.

"It is still 2024," he replies.

The math hits me. It strikes my chest like a physical blow, knocking the remaining breath from my lungs.

2014. That was the year the sun disappeared. The year the heavy iron door slammed shut, trapping me in the dark.

Ten years.

I stare at the yellow pad resting on my thighs. My mind struggles to process the sheer, crushing weight of a decade stolen in the underground dirt. Ten years of rotting in a damp dungeon. Ten years of the warden, the cage, the silver collars cutting into my throat. Ten years of starving, bleeding, and praying to the Moon Goddess for an end that never came.

That means I am no longer the terrified fourteen-year-old girl who scaled the roof of her childhood home. I am twenty-four years old.

I bring the pencil down to the paper. I slowly write the number. *24*.

I stare at the graphite numbers on the page. A strange, twisted comfort washes over my soul. I finally know my own true age. After a decade of lost time, of counting tally marks on a stone wall only to lose track in a haze of pain and starvation, I have a number. I know where I stand in time. I am a twenty-four-year-old woman.

I turn the pad around to show him the number.

Declan reads the digits. His comforting smile vanishes. His face transforms in the blink of an eye. The soft, gentle demeanor hardens into jagged, unforgiving stone.

"You were kidnapped ten years ago?" he asks. His voice drops a full octave. The soothing rumble morphs into a dangerous, gravelly scrape that demands an answer. "Ten years?"

A remarkably low, furious growl rumbles from the deepest part of his broad chest. The sound vibrates through the metal frame of my hospital bed, rattling the side rails. It is a terrifying, primal noise. I watch in horror as his striking green eyes flash. The emerald hues burn away, replaced by a brilliant, predatory gold. The wolf inside him pushes to the surface, unyielding, enraged, and demanding blood.

Absolute panic surges through my veins. It is not the hesitant fear from earlier. This is sheer, blinding terror. The sight of an angry, raging alpha triggers every survival instinct I possess. My body remembers the beatings, the brutal bites, the wrath of dominant shifters losing control.

*Hide.* My mind screams the command. *Hide!*

I frantically scramble backward. My heels slip on the sterile sheets as I push my battered body away from him. I press my spine hard against the plastic headboard of the hospital bed, trying to merge with the wall behind it. I yank my knees tight to my chest, curling into the smallest ball possible, protecting my vital organs. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps that tear at my throat.

Declan blinks hard. The sudden, frantic movement on the bed snaps his attention back to my face. He sees the sheer terror widening my eyes. He sees the way my shoulders shake.

He immediately forces his gaze down. He wrestles his wolf, shoving the beast back into the depths of his mind. When he looks up again, the gold is gone. The green is back, though his massive chest still heaves with restrained fury.

He raises both his hands in a gesture of surrender. He steps back from the edge of the bed, putting distance between us to ease my suffocating panic.

"It's okay, little wolf," Declan says, his voice strained as he desperately tries to soothe my racing heart. "You aren't doing anything wrong. You are safe."

He drags a heavy hand down his face, exhaling a harsh, jagged breath. He looks at me, his expression caught between a murderous rage directed at my captors and a deep, aching sorrow for my reaction.

"I am just having a hard time wrapping my head around you surviving in that dungeon that long," he confesses, his voice tight. He clenches his jaw, recognizing that his inner beast is too volatile, too close to the surface to remain in the room. "I need to step out for a while. Let you rest. I'll have Nolan come check on you."

He gives me one last lingering look before turning on his heel. He quickly leaves the hospital room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. He needs to go calm his raging beast before he breaks something.

I am left alone.

The sterile silence of the clinic presses heavily against my ears. Without Declan's grounding presence in the room, the familiar, dark, self-deprecating thoughts begin to creep out from the corners of my shattered mind. They slither through my mental defenses, growing louder and louder until they scream in my head.

*You made an Alpha angry. You triggered his beast.*

I grip the edge of the thin hospital blanket. The rough cotton digs into my raw knuckles.

*You are damaged goods,* the voice in my head hisses. *Look at you. Mute. Broken. Flinching at shadows. You can't even hold a conversation without sending an Alpha into a rage.*

I pull the covers up tight over my shoulder, seeking a warmth that does not exist. The chill of the room sinks deep into my bones. I turn my head away from the door and stare blankly into the empty corner of the room. The white walls feel too pristine, too clean for someone covered in invisible filth.

*They want you gone.* The dark whisper echoes in the hollow space of my chest. *They just found out how long you were down there. Ten years. They know you cannot be fixed. You are nothing but a burden to this pack.*

I let out a long, shaky breath. A stray tear slips down my cheek, hot and stinging against my pale skin. The clinic, the soft bed, the kind healer, the gorgeous Alpha—it is a temporary illusion. Soon, they will realize the true extent of my ruin. They will realize the wolfsbane did too much damage. They will throw me out, or worse, toss me in a different kind of cage just to keep me out of their sight.

I stare at the pale yellow light reflecting off the floor tiles. My fingers tighten around the blanket, my knuckles turning stark white.

Maybe I need to find a way to get out of here. Before they decide to throw me away.