Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Derrek

"Hold on there, Jessup." Nielsen's voice is bored, as if my continued torture is just not entertaining him any more.

Jessup steps back, breathing heavily, and lowers the club to his side.

Once again I'm crouched in the corner, panting, with my arms around my head for protection. After easing my arms down, I turn my head painfully, straightening my neck, and spit a bloody glob onto the concrete floor. There's already a fair amount of crimson dotting it; today they opted to go for a more basic form of torture, testing the idea that the direct physical contact from someone would spur my wolf to the surface. My entire upper body is battered, dark purple blotches already spreading on my ribs. I'm nowhere near a mirror, but judging from the way it's throbbing, I can only assume my head is just as bad, if not worse. Hot liquid trickles down the sides of my face, but I can't tell if it's blood or sweat. Or, most likely, a combination of both.

Nielsen decided to be sporting today, and have a couple of his thugs start out hitting me with fists. He even let me take a few swings, hoping that allowing me to fight back might do something for my wolf. When it didn't, they went back to the tried-and-true method of using inanimate objects designed for causing pain.

They keep saying they have a very specific, very successful program, and yet I haven't seen anything to convince me they aren't just winging it.

It was satisfying to land a couple of hits on Jessup, the sadistic asshole. But all it earned me was some split knuckles and an eventual yank on the leash that sent me sprawling across the floor.

One of my eyes has swollen shut, so I squint the other toward what has become my most hated voice in the world. Nielsen's standing outside the cage, examining me like a specimen in a lab. Which, I suppose, to him I am.

"What do you say, Jessup? Do you think he's done for the day, or should we push him a bit more?"

My one good eye darts to Jessup, anxiety spiking with absolute certainty he'll want to continue.

But even Jessup looks rough. He's still panting heavily, his t-shirt damp with sweat and dotted with blood. He's sporting a swiftly developing black eye, with blood still running from his eyebrow where it split on my knuckle. His dark eyes glimmer with malice, although I'm not sure what reason he could possibly hate me for. It's not as if I did this to myself.

"Eh, fuck him," Jessup spits in disgust. "We don't want to beat him so badly he's not recovered by tomorrow. As it is, his ribs may not be fully healed. I say we stop and let him heal up for Level Five in the morning."

Nielsen chuckles. "Already Level Five, huh? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that my son has my cool head and stubborn streak. It took weeks for my father to break me and draw out my wolf. Alright, let's wrap it up. Fetch the hose."

My body had relaxed when he said they were going to wrap it up, but it tenses again immediately. The hose wasn't the worse they've done to me by a long shot, but it took me hours to warm up afterward. The shower only has room temperature water and the room itself is always cold. I'm not looking forward to hours of shivering to combat hypothermia.

The older man opens the cage from the outside, allowing Jessup to exit with the club before closing it again. He drops it below the ‘tool box' and pulls the hose from a mount on the wall, turning the knob on the top.

When the hose stiffens with water, he walks back to the cage, dragging the coils behind him.

I crouch lower, tucking my head and waiting for the icy blast to hit my battered skin.

"Well, look at that, I think he's learning," Jessup drawls, chuckling. "Don't worry, you're not getting sprayed tonight. This is for you to clean up your mess."

I risk peeking over my arm, and realize he's passing the spray nozzle through the cage.

"Now before you get any smart ideas," Nielsen warns, "if you decide to get clever and turn that water on us, you'll be spending the night in that cage just as you are, naked and soaked. So I'd suggest you do as you're told and that's it."

The thought of blasting them with the freezing water had crossed my mind, but I'd already concluded it would do me no good. Obediently, I ease myself to a standing position and shuffle to the metal barrier, grabbing the sprayer and pulling it with me.

It only takes a few minutes to rinse the spatter from the walls, rivulets of water turning pink as they race across the floor and circle the drain. When Nielsen's satisfied with my work, Jessup claims the hose and replaces it, along with the club, and locks the ‘tool box' up tight.

"You get cleaned up, Leaf. One of the boys will be in with your dinner soon." Nielsen tugs on the cage door, leaving it slightly ajar. "I'm ready for the game. Do you know what time they're playing?" He and Jessup discuss some local sports team as they head for the door, as if forgetting me immediately.

That he's so blase about this entire process still strikes me as incredible. How does a person spend hours torturing someone, then act like it's just a regular day at work?

The grim realization that to him this probably is a regular day at work hits me like a brick to the face, and I sigh, resigned, heading for the bathroom with stiff, painful steps.

After dinner they'll leave me alone til morning, and that will give me time to experiment.

I have to get out of here. I have to. There's no way I can just wait this out. The only way Nielsen's letting me out is by forcing me to shift, and that's looking less and less likely.

I need to take matters into my own hands.

Over an hour goes by, and I'm still waiting in my room, restlessly, for one of the Montrose thugs to deliver my dinner.

It's depressing how quickly I've turned into a trained animal. My body is stiff, every part of me screaming in protest at the smallest movement. So I sit on my bed, with my back resting against the wall, and wait. The overhead lights are too bright; I'd turn them off if I could, but they appear to be in some kind of external control. Nielsen decides when I wake up, when I take a leak, when I eat, and when I sleep. This treatment seems eerily similar to the sort of torture covert operatives would use against terrorists they don't plan to release, ever. I can only hope he means it when he says it'll stop when I shift.

At least I'm clean and wearing clothes again. Even cold, the shower was nice. In fact, it probably helped relieve some of the pain. I shouldn't have been so quick to gratitude for not being sprayed with the hose. My skin is roasting, and the heat seems to radiate out of me from my very core. Never having been beaten this way, I'm not sure if it's a normal response or a wolf thing. I'm certainly swollen, particularly on my face and ribs, so that could be it.

The one consolation I have with the abuse is knowing that by tomorrow, my body will more or less repair itself. I never had these abilities before, but I just assume that was because my mom bound my magic so tightly it overrode mystical wolf healing as well.

However, I wonder if it gives them free license to brutalize people even more, knowing that it won't affect their victims the next day.

Just as my stomach rumbles angrily, the door creaks open and the sound of footsteps reaches my ears. With a groan, I drag myself away from the wall and open my one functional eye.

"I have to say, I've seen you in better shape, Leaf." Azalea's tone is sarcastic as usual, but there's a flatness to it, as if her heart really isn't in it.

She sets the tray on the low table by my bed and steps back, watching me.

Given my inability to make a single sound, I choose to ignore her and focus on my food.

If I had to say one nice thing about this place, it'd be that they don't skimp on the menu. The tray is laden with a thick steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, a pile of roasted carrots, and several dinner rolls. I'm certain it ties into the healing; from the times I remember Mom treating members of the pack, she always advised them to eat well, more than they'd ordinarily consume, if they could. She told them their innate healing would take over where she left off—typically she only saw someone if they had a severe injury like a broken bone—but that it consumes a large quantity of energy to do it. If they were half starving, they wouldn't be able to heal as quickly.

Despite the similarly large breakfast this morning, I feel as though I haven't eaten for days. I lean over the tray and shovel the food into my mouth as quickly as I can swallow it.

Azalea, unfortunately, still hasn't departed. "Well, I think they're already achieving some success with this little program, don't you? You may be dressed like a man, but you're acting like a caged animal."

My hand tightens on the soft buttered roll, and I clench my teeth against the urge to reply. The collar is as sealed to my flesh as ever, and it's reminded frequently what happens if I so much as growl.

Angrily, I shove the roll into my mouth and continue eating.

My lack of response spurs her to continue. "Look at that. It seems you can teach an old dog new tricks. Should I say congratulations, or ‘good boy'?"

I raise my head to glare at her with my one partially open eye and finally realize something's off with her. She's changed her hair from hot pink to a shocking purple color, but that's not it. Despite her smirk and wide-legged stance, something's leaking through the fa?ade. I study her, the food before me temporarily forgotten.

What is it? What's changed? What am I picking up on?

It takes several minutes of staring at Azalea, with her gazing indifferently back at me, before I realize it. What I'm noticing has nothing to do with her appearance.

It's her scent.

The food distracted me at first, filling my senses and triggering the powerful need to fill my belly.

But as I grew accustomed to it, I started noticing other smells. I haven't left this room for days, so every fragrance here is intimately familiar and I've grown to ignore them without conscious effort.

I draw in a deep breath, closing my eye to focus on the nuances.

Of course, there's the immediate hit of the sickeningly sweet perfume she wears, and beneath that, the scent of herbs I associate with Grannie's house; she must have been there recently.

But beneath that there's something else, and with a start I realize that I'm picking up her scent, something unique to Azalea that identifies her alone.

And that scent is laced with anxiety, almost like fear. No idea how I know it—it has to be some sort of wolf instinct—but I know it to the very core of my being.

Azalea is super anxious right now, despite her attempts to appear otherwise.

I pull in another deep breath, trying to determine if I can read anything else in her scent.

"Why are you sniffing like that?" She asks with a snarl. "You really have turned into a dog, haven't you?"

The ribbon of fear weaving through her scent gets thicker. Interesting.

Curiosity satisfied, I return my attention to my plate and finish my meal. Azalea's eyes burn holes on the top of my head, but she she doesn't speak again.

Maybe my lack of a response is really bothering her.

Just then, the door flies open.

Nielsen storms in, his face a dark, angry red beneath his beard. "What the hell are you doing here, witch?" he growls. "I don't recall issuing you an invitation to visit."

She doesn't turn to face him. "You said you'd be in touch and I haven't heard from you in days. Figured I'd come down and follow up on my dear cousin's progress." She's giving him the same indifferent attitude she gave me, but another breath confirms she's rattled by his presence.

I can't seem to get a read on him; either I can't scent other wolves the same way, or it's more nuanced than non-shifters.

I don't need his scent to tell me his emotions, however. They're written plainly on his face.

"I don't give a flying fuck what you want. You don't have the right to waltz into my house and do whatever you see fit. I can banish you just as easily as I did your aunt, so don't assume you have any kind of leverage over me. Now that I have Leaf here, he's more than capable of performing any magic we might need your help with."

"Ha!" she snorts. "You seem to have forgotten one tiny, significant detail: without speaking, Leaf can't use his magic, period. So as long as he has that collar on, he's no more good to you than every dog in this mangy pack. And since I'm the only one who can remove it, you'd be wise to remember that."

"Nobody threatens me in my own home!" The alpha is well and truly pissed now, veins popping in his neck as he thunders at her. Given her natural height and the added six inches from her thigh-high platform boots, Nielsen has to look up to continue raging, and he's clearly not happy about it.

"I can find another witch to undo it if I want to. You keep your position solely because it's my choice to allow you to remain. My good will only goes so far, and you are testing my patience to the limits, witch. Get out of my house!"

Dropping her voice to a deadly whisper, Azalea is suddenly more menacing than the hulking man. "We had a deal, Nielsen, and you can't back out of a deal with a witch. There is a price to pay if you don't keep your word. A very steep price."

He meets her threatening tone head on, growling deep within his chest. "You can't touch me, and you know it. That's been the deal between packs and witches since the beginning. You can't use your magic against the alpha of the pack you serve. And you signed the contract, so you're beholden to it unless I choose to release you."

Azalea's not deterred. "That doesn't release you from fulfilling our other deal. Like it or not, you owe me, and you'll have to pay up soon."

"You'll get what I promised when I choose. Now get out of my house before I decide you're not worth the trouble and do something drastic."

"You can't touch me either, and you know it. That little bargain goes both ways, and you'd be wise to remember that, dog." Azalea sniffs, then turns to stroll casually from the room. "Our little stalemate continues, but you'd better pony up before I tire of waiting. Lovely to see you, Leaf. Let's do dinner sometime!" she calls over her shoulder and saunters through the doorway.

Nielsen roars in earnest, releasing a guttural, animal sound that belongs on a Nat Geo special.

His gaze lands on me, and I realize with a start his eyes are glowing an unnatural shade of blue. "I know that witch is your cousin, but her time's coming, son. Mark my words." And with that, he storms out the door, slamming it closed behind him.

And I'm finally alone.