Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

K endra

The pounding at the front door ripped me out of sleep, my head splitting from the moonshine, and for a second, I didn’t know where I was. Everything was blurry, the room tilting sideways, and I sat up, clutching my forehead, trying to force the world to settle when it refused to. Another knock—no, not a knock, more like a hammering, the wood rattling in its frame—and that was when it all came flooding back.

Today. It was today . My birthday.

“Shit,” I muttered, scrambling to my feet, and the room spun violently, my stomach lurching.

“Wake up,” I hissed, shaking Mariah’s shoulder. She groaned, rolling over, eyes half-open and bleary. “They’re here.”

“Already?” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and something else. Fear, maybe. Or maybe that was just me.

“Yeah,” I whispered, and I could see the realization hit her, see it in the way her face crumpled, just for a second, before she forced herself to nod.

Lia was awake now, too, sitting up and rubbing her eyes, and we all looked at each other, this awful, tense silence stretching between us. None of us wanted to say it, to acknowledge that this was real, that this was actually happening.

The pounding came again, harder this time, and I could hear one of them grumbling outside.

“Come on,” one of the voices barked. “We don’t have all day.”

“Just—just go back to sleep,” I said, swallowing hard and turning toward the door. My heart was slamming against my ribs, every beat echoing in my ears, but I forced myself to take a step. And then another.

“Kendra, wait,” Lia said, but I shook my head, not looking back. I couldn’t look at them. If I did, I might start to break down and cry. I’d lose what little courage I had left, and then I’d never open that door.

I reached for the handle, my fingers trembling, and pulled it open.

The two men standing there were enormous, their shoulders nearly filling the doorway, and they had that hard, rough look about them, like they’d been chiseled out of concrete and left in the sun too long. One of them had a scar running from his eyebrow down to his jaw, a thin, jagged line that stood out against his dark skin. The other was paler, with arms like tree trunks and a scowl that could have curdled milk.

Instantly, they made me feel uneasy.

“Kendra Riley?” the scarred one asked, his voice flat, mechanical. Like this was just another normal fucking Tuesday for him.

I swallowed, forcing myself to nod. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“It’s time,” he said, and for a moment, I just stood there, my mouth opening and closing, all the things I wanted to say scrambling up in my throat and tangling together until none of them made any sense.

This is wrong.

I don’t want to go.

I shouldn’t have to do this.

They have no right.

But I didn’t say any of it. I just stood there, silent, feeling my legs start to shake, and then the man with the scar reached out, grabbing my arm in a grip that felt like iron.

“Let’s go.”

“No,” I said, finally finding my voice, but it was small, weak, barely more than a whisper. “No, I don’t want to?—”

He didn’t even let me finish. He just pulled me forward, dragging me out of the apartment, and that was when I started to fight. It was stupid, and I knew it was stupid, but I couldn’t help it. My body reacted on its own, jerking and twisting, trying to pry his fingers off my arm, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he snapped, his breath hot against my ear, and I could feel the panic rising, clawing at the back of my throat.

“Let her go!” Mariah shouted, but the second man stepped into the doorway, blocking her view, and I saw her face crumple, saw the tears welling up, and that was the worst part. Worse than the fear, worse than the pain.

I was really going to miss my friends.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Please, don’t do this.”

The scarred man sighed, rolling his eyes. “Why do they always have to make a scene?” he muttered to his partner, and before I could react, he bent down and threw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing at all. I gasped, the wind knocked out of me, and suddenly, I was staring at the filthy, cracked linoleum of the hallway floor, my hair hanging in my face, and a strangled cry escaped my throat.

“Let me go!” I screamed, pounding my fists against his back, but he ignored me, carrying me down the stairs like I was a sack of potatoes. I twisted around, trying to catch one last glimpse of Mariah and Lia, but all I saw was the door slamming shut, cutting them off, and something broke inside me.

By the time we reached the ground floor, I’d stopped struggling. What was the point? The man dropped me onto the cracked pavement outside, and I stumbled, falling to my knees. When I looked up, I saw a car, sleek and black, its paint still shining, even in the dim morning light. It looked almost out of place here, like it had wandered in from another world, a world from more than a hundred years ago.

Cars were a rarity these days. Most of them had been stripped for parts or rusted away to nothing, but this one… this one looked almost new.

“Get in,” the scarred man ordered, yanking open the back door, and I wanted to tell him to go to hell, to tell him I wasn’t going anywhere, but my legs were already moving, and before I knew it, I was sitting in the backseat, the door slamming shut beside me.

The engine roared to life, and I felt the rumble of it deep in my bones, felt it shiver up my spine, and I pressed my forehead against the window, watching as the world outside blurred into motion. We drove through the city, through the crumbling buildings and the twisted remnants of what had once been streets, but it all felt distant now, like I was watching it from somewhere far away.

Like this was all nothing more than a bad dream…

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered, not expecting an answer, but needing to say something, anything, to fill the silence.

The man with the scar didn’t even glance back. “It’s just the way things are,” he said, like that explained everything. Like that made it all okay when it didn’t.

We drove for what felt like hours, though it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. The landscape changed around us, the buildings becoming taller, sturdier, their surfaces less pockmarked and broken, until finally, we pulled up in front of a skyscraper that loomed over everything else. It was pristine, its windows intact, reflecting the morning light like a beacon, and for a moment, I just stared, my mind struggling to make sense of it.

It didn’t belong here. It was like some relic from the past, a piece of the world that had refused to die with the rest of us.

“Out,” the scarred man said, yanking open the door, and I hesitated, my fingers digging into the seat, but he reached in, grabbed my arm, and pulled me out with the same ease he’d thrown me over his shoulder.

I stumbled, nearly falling, but he held me upright, his grip like a vise, and dragged me toward the revolving doors.

“Keep moving,” he muttered, and I felt my legs start to work again, one step, then another, until we were inside, and the door swung shut behind us.

The lobby was bright, gleaming, and I blinked against the sudden light, my heart thudding in my ears. There were others here—men in suits, their faces smooth and unlined, their clothes too clean, too perfect, and they all turned to look at me, their eyes curious, hungry.

The two men led me over to an elevator and the doors slid open with a soft chime. I felt a hand shove me forward. The scarred man stood behind me, his face set in that same expression of dull indifference, as if I were nothing more than a task to be checked off his list.

I lifted my chin and tried to remain as brave as I dared.

I stepped inside, and the second man crowded in behind me, the space suddenly too small, too hot. The air felt thin, and I struggled to draw in a breath, my chest tightening as the doors slid shut, trapping us in this metal box.

We began to descend, the numbers ticking down slowly on the screen above, and I could feel the drop in my stomach, the way it made me feel weightless, like I was falling. I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms until it began to hurt. It was a small pain, something to focus on, something to keep me from screaming.

I’d never been in a working elevator before, and I didn’t like it one bit.

The elevator shuddered to a stop, and I braced myself, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise in my throat. The doors slid open, and I blinked, momentarily blinded by the harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead. The hallway stretched out before me, sterile and white, with steel doors lining both sides, and the faint, acrid scent of bleach hung in the air, mingling with something else—something metallic and sour.

It made my stomach twist into knots.

The two men led me down the corridor, their footsteps echoing off the walls, and with every step, I felt my skin crawling, my instincts screaming at me to run, to fight, to do something. But I couldn’t. I could only move forward, one foot in front of the other, as they took me deeper into this wretched place.

We reached a door at the end of the hall, and the scarred man knocked twice. It swung open, and I was shoved inside, stumbling over the threshold, my shoulder slamming into the wall. I caught myself and looked around, wincing as pain shot up my arm.

The room was small, dimly lit by a single, flickering bulb that hung from the ceiling. There were four women waiting inside, all dressed in pale blue uniforms, their faces blank and expressionless. They moved toward me in unison, their eyes sliding over me like I wasn’t even there, like I was already something less than human.

“Strip,” one of them said, her voice flat and emotionless, and I blinked at her, not comprehending.

“What?” I croaked, my throat dry.

“Take your clothes off,” she repeated, more impatient this time, and I just stood there, my heart pounding in my ears. “Now.”

I hesitated, my hands trembling, but one of the other women stepped forward, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and I flinched, feeling her nails bite into my skin.

“Don’t make this difficult,” she said, and there was something in her tone—something hard, unyielding—that made my blood run cold.

I swallowed hard and nodded, my hands moving on their own, unbuttoning my shirt, sliding it off my shoulders. I dropped it to the floor, and then my jeans, my fingers fumbling over the zipper, every motion slow, mechanical. It took me even longer to reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, and when it came time to lower my panties, I froze.

“We don’t have all day,” one of the women snapped, then reached out and slapped me across the face. I cried out, rushing to lower my panties and toss them aside with everything else, my cheek burning from the palm of her hand.

I blinked back tears.

Finally, I stood there, naked and shivering, the cold air prickling over my skin, and I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to cover what little I could, one arm around my breasts and the other covering my pussy.

“Come,” one of the women said, and they led me to a tiled alcove, an old, cracked tub set into the floor, filled with steaming water. I stared at it, at the grime and the rust that ringed the edges, and I felt something twist in my stomach.

They pushed me into the water, not waiting for me to move on my own, and I fell forward, my knees slamming into the bottom. The heat enveloped me, searing and stinging, and I hissed, trying to pull back, but hands gripped my shoulders, holding me in place.

“Stop moving,” one of them snapped, and I froze, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood.

They worked quickly, their hands rough and unkind, scrubbing at my skin with stiff-bristled brushes that tore at the dirt and grime, scraping until my flesh felt raw. They didn’t speak, didn’t look at me, just moved with that same eerie, mechanical precision, and all I could do was sit there, my fingers digging into the rim of the tub, every muscle in my body taut with tension.

One of them grabbed my arm, lifting it out of the water, and I watched as she dragged a blade over my skin, shaving away the fine hairs, moving up and down, methodical and unfeeling. The others did the same, working their way across my body, scraping and plucking until I felt like some kind of animal being prepared for slaughter. When they were done, I was as smooth as a baby’s bottom.

I wanted to scream, to tell them to stop, but my throat had closed up, and all I could do was breathe, shallow and ragged, the sound echoing off the tile.

“Stand up,” one of them ordered, and I obeyed, the water streaming off my body in rivulets, pooling at my feet. They handed me a thick towel, and I wrapped it around me, grateful for the chance to cover myself, my fingers numb, my skin stinging from the roughness of the fabric.

The two men entered the room again, and I felt my heart lurch, panic flooding through me as they nodded at the women, who stepped back, clearing a path for them to approach me.

“You’re ready,” the scarred man said, and I shook my head, backing up a step, but he was already reaching for me, his hand clamping around my arm.

“No,” I muttered, trying to pull away, but he didn’t even flinch, just started dragging me down another hallway, my feet slipping on the slick tile, the towel falling from my shoulders, exposing more of my skin with every step.

I was shoved through another door, and I stumbled into a cold, sterile room, the walls painted a dull, institutional white. There was a single steel table in the center, fitted with thick leather straps, and I knew— I knew —what they were going to do, but I couldn’t seem to make my legs move, couldn’t make myself run.

“Up,” the other man said, and when I didn’t move, he grabbed me by the back of my neck, forcing me forward, slamming me against the edge of the table. I cried out, the sound echoing in the small space, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

This was all going to happen whether I liked it or not.

They lifted me up onto the table, strapping my wrists and ankles down with brutal efficiency, the leather biting into my skin, and then they spread my legs, securing them to the stirrups at the end. I tried to fight, tried to kick, but it was useless, and I felt the first hot tears spill down my cheeks as I twisted, yanking against the restraints. In my struggle, the towel fell away, leaving me completely naked and exposed.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice hoarse, barely more than a breath. “Please, don’t do this.”

But they ignored me, moving around the room with that same detached efficiency, setting up instruments on a tray beside me, the metal glinting in the harsh light.

And as I lay there, bound and exposed, waiting for whatever came next, I felt the crushing, suffocating weight of helplessness, the knowledge that I was nothing more than a body to them. Nothing more than a vessel for breeding. I closed my eyes and waited for what came next.

I didn’t have to wait long.

The door swung open, and a man and a woman stepped into the room, their expressions blank, clinical. The woman moved with a kind of brisk efficiency, her eyes never meeting mine, as if she’d done this a thousand times and had long since stopped seeing the people strapped to the table as people.

She was small, with thin, graying hair pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore a faded blue uniform, like the attendants who had bathed me. She went straight to the tray of instruments, adjusting them, her movements practiced and precise.

The man, however, was different. He was tall, lean, his dark hair swept back from a high forehead, and he wore a white coat that stood out starkly against the sterile room. His face was sharp, almost severe, and his eyes were pale yellow, almost gold, flicking over me with the detached curiosity of someone examining a specimen. There was no kindness there, no warmth, just the cold, unfeeling gaze of someone who saw me as nothing more than an object.

It was deeply unsettling.

“Let’s begin,” he said, and the woman nodded, moving to the end of the table where my feet were strapped down. She picked up a clipboard and a pen, ready to take notes.

The doctor looked down at me, and I felt a shiver run through my body, the leather straps digging into my wrists as I tried to shrink away from him.

I didn’t get far.

“We’re going to perform a routine examination,” he said, his tone flat, businesslike. “It’s important that you remain still. The less you resist, the easier this will be for both of us.”

“I… I don’t want this,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, and I saw something flicker in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or impatience. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that same cool indifference. I swallowed hard.

“That’s irrelevant,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a pair of latex gloves. He snapped them on with a practiced flick of his wrist, the sound making my skin crawl, and then he picked up a stethoscope from the tray beside him. “Take a deep breath for me.”

I stared at him, my throat tightening, but I forced myself to breathe, sucking in air that tasted like bleach and metal. He pressed the stethoscope against my chest, the icy cold exterior sending a shiver through me, and listened, his eyes flicking to the clipboard. The woman scribbled something down, and then he moved the stethoscope lower, over my ribs, then to my stomach, taking his time as if I were just another patient in a routine checkup.

“Your heart rate is elevated,” he said, and I almost laughed, this strange, hysterical sound bubbling up inside me.

Of course it was. How could it not be?

He ignored my reaction, moving to check my blood pressure, wrapping the cuff around my arm, and pumping it until I could feel my pulse throbbing in my ears. I didn’t like the sensation and I immediately wanted it off.

“Elevated as well,” he murmured, more to himself than to me, and the woman wrote it down, not missing a beat.

“What did you expect?” I muttered, and he glanced at me, one eyebrow arched, but didn’t respond. He moved on, pressing his fingers against my throat, feeling the pulse there, and then he ran his hands over my arms, checking my joints, my muscles, as if he were cataloging every inch of me.

When he reached my breasts, he took my nipples in both hands and pinched them hard enough to make me cry out. I hated how my nipples stiffened in his harsh grip and I tried to choke back the sounds coming out of my mouth. Eventually, he loosened his hold, and I was able to pull in a breath. My breasts ached from his roughness, but there was nothing I could do to comfort them, not with my arms bound like they were.

“Her response is normal,” he said, his voice still strangely clinical.

When he reached my legs, I flinched, trying to pull away, but the restraints held me in place, and he glanced up, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“I told you to be still,” he said, his voice carrying a faint edge of warning, and I bit my lip, forcing myself to nod.

He reached for the stirrups then, adjusting them, and I felt my skin flush with heat, every nerve screaming in protest, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything but watch as he slid on a fresh pair of gloves, snapping them into place, and then leaned over me again.

As he looked down, my face heated. He was looking straight at my pussy and there was nothing I could do to make him stop.

I wanted him to stop. I didn’t want him to look.

Sure, Lia and Mariah had seen me naked before, but this was the first man to look at me like this. Back home, there were men in my sector, but they were forbidden from touching women before they were taken for breeding. The punishment for such a crime was death.

It wasn’t a kind death either. The wolves always made bloody examples of those who broke their rules. I shivered just thinking about it, but it was hard to keep my mind on anything else other than the man between my legs.

“We’re going to proceed with the internal examination now,” he said.

“What does that mean?” I asked softly, trying to understand what was happening because maybe that would make it easier to bear. Honestly, I was just hoping to distract him from continuing whatever this was so maybe there wasn’t enough time to do what he needed to do, but my hopes were dashed in an instant.

The woman handed him an instrument—something metal and shiny, and I looked away, staring up at the ceiling, focusing on the tiny crack that ran along the plaster. I felt the object, cold and slick, press against my entrance, the sensation invasive, and I clenched my teeth, trying not to cry out.

And then he pushed it inside of me and I did cry out because it hurt.

I tried to push away my rising shame, but my face reddened anyway. I knew my ordeal wasn’t going to be easy, but I hadn’t expected anything like this.

I told myself that this was normal, just something I had to get through, that the wolves put everyone through, but that did little to quell the raging emotions inside of me.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

I kept repeating it over and over in my head, like a mantra, but it didn’t stop the pain, the humiliation, the sense of being utterly, completely powerless as this man violated me with whatever metal torture device was currently shoved inside of me.

I ignored how my pussy clenched.

He worked quickly, efficiently, asking me questions about my health, about my cycle, about things that felt so absurd, so normal, in this setting that it was almost surreal. And all the while, the woman scribbled notes, her pen scratching across the clipboard like the sound of insects skittering across the floor.

I hated every second of it.

I felt something deeper then, something that made my entire body tense, and I couldn’t stop the small gasp that escaped my lips. The doctor paused, glancing up at me, his face expressionless.

“Relax,” he said, as if that was even remotely possible. “It will be over soon.”

But it wasn’t.

After he was finished with the strange metal tool, he slipped his gloved fingers inside of me and I couldn’t help the strangled moan that escaped my lips as he explored me in a way no one ever had before.

I bit my lip as my core squeezed tight, heat coursing through every nerve as I trembled, bare and exposed there on the table.

The exam went on and on, every touch, every prod, every question digging deeper, leaving me feeling raw, exposed, until I thought I was seconds away from breaking.

And then, finally, he pulled his fingers free of me and stepped back, stripping off his gloves and tossing them into a small metal bin.

Was it over?

“She’s healthy,” he said to the woman, who nodded, still scribbling furiously. “Prepare her for the next phase.”

The next phase.

My breath caught, and I stared at him, my heart hammering in my chest, but he didn’t even look at me, didn’t acknowledge the fear that had twisted its way into every part of me, until I felt like I was choking on it.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be taken care of,” he said, his voice distant, detached. “You’re a valuable commodity to us now.”

And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving me strapped to the table, shaking, as the woman stepped forward, her eyes still cold, still indifferent. She leaned over me, her breath warm against my ear, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something—pity, or maybe even regret. I couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, so softly I almost didn’t hear it. And then she was gone, too, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving me alone in the silence.

I stared up at the ceiling, wishing I was back home with Lia and Mariah sneaking out to the movies instead of lying here naked on the exam table waiting for them to come back and get me so that I could be prepared for whatever came next.

So that I could be bred…

I was terrified.