Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

R owan

The wind whipped past me, howling through the shattered remains of the city as I sprinted over broken pavement and crumbling concrete, my feet pounding against the ground in a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of my heart. My breaths came in short, ragged bursts, and I could feel the cold air biting at my lungs, but I couldn’t afford to slow down.

Not now. Not when they were so close.

I glanced back, just for a second, and caught a glimpse of them—dark shapes moving in unison, their eyes glowing faintly in the gloom. They were faster than I’d expected, more organized, and the realization sent a spike of adrenaline racing through my veins.

I pushed myself harder, my muscles burning, the ground blurring beneath me as I took a sharp turn down a narrow alleyway, vaulting over a rusted dumpster and slipping through a gap in a crumbling brick wall. I could feel my heart hammering in my ears, a frantic, desperate rhythm that drowned out everything else.

Ahead of me, the alleyway split into two paths, and I veered left, ducking under a low-hanging beam and sprinting across an overgrown lot. Broken glass crunched underfoot, and I cursed the noise, knowing it would only draw them closer. I could hear them behind me now, their footsteps echoing off the walls, the low growls rumbling in their chests, and I knew they were gaining on me.

“Come on, Rowan,” I muttered to myself, forcing my legs to move faster, ignoring the burning in my lungs. “Just a little further.”

The city loomed around me. It was a graveyard, a monument to everything that had been lost when the virus tore through the population, transforming some into wolves and leaving the rest to fight over the scraps.

It wasn’t long after the first outbreaks that the wolves took control, forming their own hierarchy, a twisted version of the government that had collapsed in the chaos. The strongest took over, and those who had been among the earliest infected—the ones who were nearly immortal, the ones who didn’t age, who had survived the worst of the mutations—sat at the top. They called themselves the Primals, and they’d spent the last several decades carving out their kingdom from the bones of what used to be.

I’d been one of the first, too. The first, actually. The virus had twisted me into what I was now. Like them, I was nearly immortal, but I’d never wanted to rule.

For years, I’d refused to kneel to those that governed. Refused to bow to their rules, to their idea of what the world should be. And for the most part, they’d let me be. I kept to the outskirts, slipping through the cracks, always one step ahead, always just out of reach.

Until now.

Something had changed. I could feel it.

I kept running. I could see the fence up ahead—the twisted metal and barbed wire that marked the edge of their territory—and I felt a flicker of hope, the thought that maybe, just maybe, I could make it out of this. That I could disappear into the wilds again, where their laws and armies couldn’t reach, where I could be free.

But then, I felt it—an electric hum in the air, the faint scent of ozone, and I knew I was too late.

There was a crack, like a whip snapping through the air, and I felt a sharp sting in my side, followed by a flood of warmth that spread through my veins, heavy and thick, dragging me down.

My steps faltered, my vision blurring as I tried to keep moving, tried to force my body to keep going, but my legs refused to listen. I stumbled, crashing to my knees, and I could see the dart embedded in my side, the liquid seeping into my bloodstream, clouding my thoughts and numbing my limbs.

“No,” I growled, clawing at the ground, trying to drag myself forward. “Not like this…”

I heard them then, the sound of their footsteps slowing, the low murmurs of satisfaction as they approached, and I knew they’d caught me. I knew I’d lost.

“Still running after all these years,” one of them said, his voice dripping with mockery. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, a shadow against the flickering light of the streetlamps, his eyes glowing that familiar amber that marked him as one of the stronger ones. “You could have made this easy, Rowan.”

“Go to hell,” I spat, struggling to keep my eyes open, to stay conscious, but the drug was dragging me under, pulling me into the darkness, and I could feel my strength slipping away, bit by bit.

The man laughed, a low, rumbling sound that echoed through the empty alleyway.

“Still defiant, even now,” he said, crouching down beside me. I could feel his breath against my ear, hot and heavy, and it took everything I had not to lash out, not to fight back.

I bared my teeth, forcing myself to meet his gaze, even as the darkness crept closer, even as my limbs grew heavy and unresponsive.

“You’ll never break me,” I snarled, the words slurring together, barely more than a whisper.

“Oh, I don’t need to break you,” he said, and I could see the glint of his fangs, the way his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “I just need to make sure you remember who’s in charge. And that you do as you’re told.”

And then, as the tranquilizer finally took hold, as my vision faded and the world went black, I felt the anger, the helplessness, the frustration of knowing that, despite everything, despite all the years I’d spent fighting, I was still just another piece in their game.

As the darkness swallowed me, I swore to myself that I’d find a way out. That I’d make them regret ever thinking they could cage a man like me.