Chapter 7: The Countdown

I pulled away from Conrad’s hold.

The heat of his chest lingered against my face, but I needed the distance. I took two steps back, putting space between us before the rest of the room could notice how closely he had shielded me.

Conrad didn't chase after me. He simply let his hands fall to his sides, his eyes trailing my retreat with a slow, calculating patience that felt entirely different from the hunger in the rest of the room.

Across the hall, the violence on the sofa was finally winding down.

The circle of men broke apart in an easy, satisfied shuffle. They adjusted their belts, chuckling into their glasses as if walking away from a successful hand of cards. Their laughter was casual. Easy. The kind of laughter that belonged on a Sunday afternoon, not in a room where a girl’s dignity had just been shredded on the cushions.

Near the fireplace, Sybella had already moved into position.

She stood close to an older Alpha with gray threading his temples. Her posture was curved in careful, practiced flattery, her shoulders drawn back to hide the fresh welts blooming against her pale skin. She laughed at something he said, the sound high and musical, drifting over the crackle of the hearth.

I couldn't judge her. Sybella understood the calculus of this room far better than I did. Survival didn't care about pride; it cared about who stood between you and the teeth at midnight.

I backed toward the far wall, putting my shoulder against the tall terrace doors.

The freezing night outside turned the panes into a dark mirror. In the glass, the grand hall reflected back at me like a stage play: the roaring fire, the velvet drapes, the men drinking amber liquor while five captive girls waited to be hunted.

Then a shadow shifted in the reflection.

He was watching me from across the room, leaning his broad frame against the mantle.

Alpha Rafe.

He didn't look away when our gazes collided in the glass. Instead, he pushed off the wall and began to walk.

He didn't hurry. A man with his reputation never had to rush. He moved with the heavy, unhurried prowl of an animal that knew the perimeter fence was locked from the outside.

He stopped less than an arm’s length away, crowding me against the cold pane.

"Rafe," he rumbled.

"Pleasure," I replied, my voice dries as kindling.

I tried to keep my face smooth, to call upon the blank indifference Mrs. Hobbs had tried to drill into me during childhood etiquette lessons. But I failed. The revulsion was there, raw and unmistakable in my eyes, and Rafe caught every second of it.

His mouth twisted into a slow, satisfied grin.

Men like him didn't want compliance handed to them on a platter; they wanted the thrill of breaking something that dared to fight back. He stepped closer, deliberately pressing into my space until the scent of stale whiskey and cedar smoke surrounded me, cutting off the air.

He tilted his head, letting his gaze drift down my neck to the thin strap of my slip. He didn't touch me—the rule was still held by a thread—but his posture made the threat crystal clear.

Before he could speak, movement near the center of the hall broke the tension.

Gwen was being pulled up from the floor.

Captain Vanya dropped a fresh, sheer slip over her head, letting the fabric fall down to cover her bruised skin.

I waited for tears. I waited for her to collapse, to scream, to curl into a ball in the corner.

None of it happened.

Gwen smoothed the front of the ruined dress with steady fingers. She drew a shallow breath, tilted her head back, and looked straight at the man who had just pinned her down in front of forty onlookers.

Then she smiled at him.

It was a small, fragile, vacant smile, but it was there. She reached out and touched his sleeve, leaning into his space as if the last ten minutes had been nothing more than an awkward courtship.

My throat went completely dry.

"Did you think she hated it?"

Rafe’s whisper landed against my ear, low and mocking.

I jerked my head toward him, my hands clenching at my sides. He clicked his tongue, watching my reaction with dark amusement.

"Nobody hates it," he murmured.

He gave me a slow, insolent wink, turned his back, and strolled toward the drinks table as if he had just settled a minor bet.

I was his target now. I knew it with absolute certainty. My disgust hadn't warned him off; It had painted a bullseye on my back.

"Wren?"

The timid voice came from behind me.

I turned around. Gwen was standing there on bare feet, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Her lips were swollen, the bright pink gloss smeared across her chin, and red finger marks circled her wrists. Yet her expression was eerily composed, suspended in that terrible, protective fog the mind builds when reality becomes too heavy to carry.

"How's my braid?" she asked softly.

She looked at me with wide, searching eyes, waiting for an answer.

Of all the things that had been stolen from her in that center circle, her hair was the only piece left that belonged to her.

"It's messy," I answered, keeping my voice as gentle as I could manage.

"Can you fix it?"

"Turn around," I whispered.

She turned without a word.

I reached up, working my fingers through the tangled strands of her blonde hair. It was matted near the crown, pulled loose from the rough hands that had held her down. I worked through the snags with quick, careful motions, smoothing the locks flat against her scalp and reweaving the three sections into a tight, clean plaited line.

I couldn't kill the monsters in this room. I couldn't tear the doors off their hinges, and I couldn't change the laws of the Silverfang Pack.

But I could finish this braid.

I tied the end securely, resting my hand on her shoulder for a brief, steadying second. "All set."

Gwen touched the neat plait behind her neck. "Thank you."

Across the hall, the atmosphere abruptly tightened.

The men were gathering around a long table near the hearth.

One by one, the Alphas took their turns stepping forward. They weren't just placing bets anymore; they were signing the ledger of intent, formally declaring which tribute's scent they intended to run down once the horn sounded.

Rafe took the pen. He signed his mark with a heavy, arrogant scratch, setting the quill down before his eyes cut straight across the room.

He didn't look at Gwen. He didn't look at Sybella.

His eyes locked directly onto me.

Beside the terrace doors, Lady Vane stepped into the center of the floor, commanding the room without raising her voice.

"The blood moon has crested the ridge," she announced.

She walked toward the far wall, where a long cord hung from a ceiling pulley. Her hand wrapped around the braided rope, her sharp, crimson-painted lips curving into a smile that promised blood.

"Are you ready, Alphas?"

A low, unified rumble answered her from the gathered men.

"You have ten minutes, girls," Vane purred, her eyes sweeping over our shivering row. "Make the most of them."

She pulled the cord with a sharp jerk.

Glass panes slid back along their tracks with a grinding screech, parting open to the night.

The room broke into chaos.

The other girls didn't wait. They bolted through the open threshold, their bare feet slapping against the stone terrace before vanishing into the shadows of the woods.

I didn't run immediately.

Conrad stood near the table, his eyes locked on mine. He gave a single, tight nod—a clear, unspoken promise that he was coming for me.

Ten feet away, Rafe stood stretching his broad shoulders, his smirk widening as he tapped his knuckles against his thigh. He wasn't in a hurry. He knew which trail he was taking.

I didn't need to defeat the pack tonight.I just had to outlast Rafe long enough for Conrad to find me first.

I stepped into the cold, and the countdown began.