Then my hands catch on bare skin.
I freeze.
No wire.
My breath stutters as my fingers move, checking more carefully. Tenderness. Healing skin. The faint ache of what was done to me. But no wires.
The wires are gone.
My fingers probe the tender flesh again, trembling. Nothing but raw skin and healing scars where metal once tore me open from the inside.
Relief hits first, so hard my knees nearly give out. Then disbelief. Then rage.
Five years. Five fucking years of poison threading through me like a living parasite, eating me alive with every step, every movement, every breath. And now it’s gone.
My hand braces against the tile. Water runs over my face, mixing with whatever’s running out of my eyes, and I can’t tell the difference between the two. I don’t care.
I press both hands between my legs, feeling the absence of the wires.
My body is mine again. Not theirs. Mine.
And that’s when I realize I’m not chained.
No cuff on my wrist. No iron bolted to the wall—no locked door.
I could run.
I could bolt right now. I take a step out of the spray too fast, and the room tilts.
Shit.
My hand slaps against the wall to steady myself. My legs feel weak, my stomach hollow, my whole body still drained from the shift and everything that came before it. I could run now. And maybe make it ten feet before collapsing naked in the yard like an absolute dumbass.
Fine.
New plan.
Breakfast with my kidnappers. Figure out who’s watching me. Learn the compound, the exits, the routines. Eat their food until I’m strong enough to move. Then leave.
By the time I come out for breakfast, I’ve pulled myself mostly together, and I have a new strategy. But something is off.
The alphas’ scents are stronger than before. Richer. Thicker. They hit me the second I walk into the kitchen, and my skin tingles. My omega instincts are going haywire. I tighten my fists so hard my nails dig into my palms. I will not let them see what they do to me.
Meanwhile, my wolf is doing something inside my chest that can only be described as a celebration dance.
No. Absolutely not.
Archer greets me with a smile.
Archer. Smiling.
What fresh fuckery is this?
Silas pulls out a chair for me, his scarred face soft and expectant. The scrape of the legs against the wood floor is too loud, too sudden, and my whole body flinches back a step before I can stop it.
Silas freezes. His face crumples. The big alpha looks gutted, like I’ve reached into his chest and squeezed his heart.
“Sorry,” I say too fast. “It’s fine. The chair.”