Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

K endra

The days blurred together, one bleeding into the next until time lost all meaning. I woke up that next morning to find myself bathed and dressed in a simple black wrap dress, my skin scrubbed raw, every trace of him washed away. It was as if they’d stripped me of any claim he’d tried to make, as if they were determined to erase the mark that he’d left on me and remind me that, to them, I was nothing more than another body in their endless cycle of breeding and control.

The room they kept me in was a far cry from the padded cell that the wolf had fucked me in. It was bigger, with cold, concrete walls and a single barred window high up that allowed a sliver of light to seep in, painting the floor with a pale, ghostly glow. A narrow cot sat against one wall, its thin mattress barely softer than the floor itself, and in the opposite corner, there was a toilet hidden behind a half wall, the only nod to privacy that I was allowed. There were no mirrors, no sharp edges, nothing I could use to hurt myself—or anyone else.

I hated it.

They fed me three times a day, the meals sliding through a slot in the door like I was some kind of prisoner or stray dog. The first morning, I ignored the tray, letting the smell of cinnamon apple oatmeal and warm bread turn my stomach. It felt like another form of control, another way to remind me that I was at their mercy. I thought, maybe, if I refused to eat, if I showed them that I still had some small sliver of power left, it would make a difference.

It didn’t.

By the second day, hunger gnawed at my insides, and I couldn’t afford to be proud anymore. I forced down every spoonful, hating myself for how eagerly I scraped the bowl clean, licking the remnants of every bit of food from my fingers. There was no savoring each bite, just the cold, practical need to survive.

After that day, I ate what I was served when I was served it.

The wolves that guarded me weren’t interested in me. Not really. They came and went, their faces blurring together into one indistinguishable mask of boredom, irritation, and indifference. Sometimes, they would speak to each other, exchanging gruff words or tired jokes, but they never spoke to me. I wasn’t important enough for that. I was just another chore to be dealt with, another task to be completed before they moved on to whatever came next.

I tested them, of course. Every time they opened the door, I would stand, my spine straight, my eyes locked on theirs, daring them to react. Sometimes I refused to answer their questions, staring back in silence until they grunted in frustration and left.

Once, I tried to slip past one of them as he brought in fresh clothes, a burst of adrenaline pushing me forward, but he caught me easily, his hand closing around my wrist with bone-crushing force, and he shoved me back against the wall with such little effort, it was like he was swatting away a fly.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he’d growled, his voice thick with irritation, like I was nothing more than an annoyance that had interrupted his day.

And that was it. No punishment, no spanking, no drawn-out lecture to remind me of my place. He’d just left me there, my wrist throbbing where he’d grabbed me, my body trembling.

Days passed like this—me testing the boundaries, and them brushing me off with all the care of someone swatting at an overly persistent mosquito.

The worst part of this whole experience, though, was the waiting. The endless, mind-numbing hours stretched out before me, each one heavier than the last. I would lie on that narrow cot, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with my eyes over and over until they blurred together, and wondering if this was how it would always be—if I would spend the rest of my life in this room, slowly unraveling until there was nothing left.

Maybe that was the point. To grind me down, piece by piece, until I forgot what it felt like to fight back.

I hated them for it. I hated how easy it would be to let myself slip into that numbness, to let them take everything from me without even lifting a finger. I hated how the days passed in this endless cycle, and how each one left me feeling a little hollower, a little more like a ghost haunting my own skin.

But more than anything, I hated how desperately I wanted to see him again. Because even in the dark, even in the endless silence, I could still feel the ghost of his touch, the way his eyes had looked at me, like I was something more than a vessel to be bred.

The bite mark on my shoulder had faded, the bruises yellowing and turning ugly as they healed, until even that reminder of him started to disappear, just another scar among many. A part of me liked that his bite left a scar, because it wouldn’t let me forget what had happened between us.

Sometimes, when the silence of my cell grew too thick, I could feel him through the mark, like a faint pulse that thrummed beneath my skin. It was as if some invisible thread tied us together, a tether that twisted with his emotions, sending them rippling through me in waves I couldn’t ignore.

In those moments, it was impossible to tell where I ended and he began. I would lie there, eyes closed, and sense him—his anger, intense and blistering, burning through the connection like a live wire. I didn’t know where he was or what had stoked that fury, but I could feel the edges of it clawing at my insides whether I wanted it to or not.

I thought of him often.

I replayed the way he’d looked at me, those eyes shifting between amber and blue, wild and fierce, but with something softer hidden beneath the feral heat. It was maddening how vividly I could recall the warmth of his breath against my neck, the scrape of his teeth when he’d bitten me, the feeling of his cock erupting deep inside of me.

Everything.

At night, when I lay alone on the cot, staring up at the cracked ceiling, I let myself drift, let myself imagine what it would be like if he were here with me. I pictured his hands on me, demanding, possessive, like he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else touching me. I imagined the way his body would feel pressed against mine, the heat of him filling me up completely and making me scream for him as I came for him over and over again until I passed out.

I fantasized about the way he’d whisper my name, the way his voice would drop into that low, rough growl that sent shivers racing down my spine, telling me that I belonged to him, that I was his and his alone.

I touched myself many times thinking about that. It broke up the day bit by bit. At first, I was embarrassed that someone might see me reaching my fingers between my thighs, touching my needy little clit until I came with a shout, but the more I did it, the less I cared.

It was one of the only things that made me feel good.

Two days later, the men came again. The same two that had dragged me into this place when it all began. I’d learned to recognize their heavy footsteps, the way they never bothered to knock before opening the door, as if I were nothing more than an animal to be herded around.

My loathing coiled deep inside me like a living, breathing thing.

I stood as they entered, refusing to cower, even as I felt that familiar twist of dread coil in my stomach. They didn’t bother speaking to me—just nodded to each other, grabbed me by the arms, and marched me out of the cell and down another dimly lit corridor.

We entered a different room this time, one I hadn’t seen before. It was bare, almost clinical, with padded walls and a single fluorescent light that buzzed audibly overhead. In the center was a sawhorse—a sturdy, padded wooden structure with straps dangling from each side.

My breath hitched as they led me to it, and I tried to dig my heels into the floor, tried to yank my arms free, but they were too strong, too practiced at handling women like me who still had some fight left. Plus, there were two of them and only one of me.

“Please,” I started, my voice rough, desperate.

“Quiet,” one of them muttered, not even glancing at me. They pushed me down onto the sawhorse, forcing my stomach to press against the padded wood, my arms stretched out in front of me as they fastened the straps around my wrists and ankles, binding me in place. I struggled, testing the restraints, but they held firm, leaving me face down, staring at the cold, unforgiving floor.

Then one of them flipped up my dress, exposing me completely. If anyone walked in the door right now, they’d be able to see every bit of my pussy and probably even between my ass cheeks.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what was going to happen next.

I was going to be fucked again. Maybe my first breeding hadn’t taken the first time, but there was a sick and twisted part of me that leapt at the chance to do something other than stare at the ceiling of my cell for another day. There was an even more deranged part of me that hoped this time wouldn’t take either, that the wolf that had bitten me would come back and breed me over and over again.

My pussy clenched just thinking about his thick cock sinking deep inside me and a lightning bolt of desire struck straight down to my clit.

One of the men grunted as he tightened the last strap, standing back to admire his work, and then they started talking, as if I wasn’t even there.

“I heard the higher-ups are getting antsy,” the first man said, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “They’re saying production’s down. Way down.”

The second man nodded, leaning against the wall with a tired sigh. “Yeah, I heard the same. They’re starting to worry. Said we might have to change the age limit soon.”

My heart skipped a beat, and I craned my neck to look at them. “What do you mean?” I demanded, my voice harsher than I intended, cutting through the air like a hot knife through butter. “What are you talking about?”

But they ignored me. It was as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

“Eighteen,” the second man continued. “That’s what they’re saying. Start taking them at eighteen instead of nineteen. See if that boosts the numbers.”

The first man shook his head, letting out a low chuckle. “Used to be twenty back in the old days, you know. But I guess they can’t afford to wait anymore. Not with how things are going these days.”

I swallowed hard, my mind reeling.

Eighteen .

My blood ran cold at the thought, the realization that women even younger than me would soon be dragged into this nightmare, stripped of whatever small pieces of themselves they still had left, that Mariah and Lia could be taken even sooner than they anticipated.

It wasn’t fair.

“This is wrong,” I spat out, my voice trembling with anger, with fear. “You can’t just?—”

The first man shot me a bored look, then turned back to his partner as if I hadn’t even spoken. “Either way, it’s not our problem. We just do the job we’re paid for, right?”

“Yeah,” the second man agreed, pushing himself off the wall. “We just do the job.”

And with that, they walked out, leaving me bound to the sawhorse, the door slamming shut behind them, the sound echoing in the empty room like a final, damning death sentence.

I lay there, facedown, my skin prickling against the cold air, the rough wood biting through the fabric of my dress into my stomach. I tried to steady my breathing, tried to focus on something—anything—other than the helplessness of my situation, but it was truly impossible.

My clit pulsed and I tried to ignore it.

The straps dug into my wrists and ankles, and with every tiny movement, the leather chafed against my skin, a constant reminder that there was no escaping this.

Outside the door, I could hear muffled voices, the clatter of boots on concrete, and the faint hum of machinery from somewhere deep within the facility. Occasionally, laughter would cut through the noise, coarse and unfeeling, and I felt my nails dig into my palms, my fingers curling into fists as I fought to keep my emotions in check. I had no idea how long I’d been lying there—minutes, hours. Time had lost all meaning in this place.

Then the door creaked open.

I tensed, straining against the straps, but they didn’t budge. My heart pounded in my ears as I tried to turn my head, to see who had come in, but the way I was bound made it impossible. I was left staring at the floor, at the pattern of dust and dirt that covered the concrete, as I listened to the heavy footfalls approaching, slow and deliberate.

I could smell him before I saw him—something foul, musty, and tinged with sweat. It was sharper than the others, more animalistic, and I felt my pulse quicken, my throat tightening with fear.

In an instant, I knew it wasn’t the same wolf that had come for me before.

“Well, look at what they’ve left for me,” a low, gravelly voice drawled from behind me. There was a roughness to it, a growl that sent a shiver down my spine.

I didn’t recognize it.

I felt my stomach twist, my muscles tensing as I fought the urge to struggle. It wouldn’t help, I knew that, but every instinct screamed at me to fight, to run, to do something. But I couldn’t. All I could do was lie there, completely exposed and vulnerable, all while his presence loomed behind me.

Shame billowed up from the very depths of my core.

I heard him move toward me, felt the warmth of his breath as he leaned in close, just inches from my skin.

“They told me you’ve been giving them some trouble,” he muttered, his tone amused, like he found my defiance funny, like it was some kind of joke. “Is that true? You think you’re something special, hmm? Think you’re worth more than the others?”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to answer, refusing to give him the satisfaction. But he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made my blood turn to ice.

“I’ve seen dozens like you,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if sharing some dark, intimate secret. “Girls who think they’re different. Who think they’re not just another piece of meat to be bred. But you’ll learn.”

His hand brushed against the back of my leg, and I flinched, a gasp escaping before I could stop it. He paused, and I could feel him smirk, could sense the satisfaction radiating off him like heat.

“You’re nothing more than a breeder,” he said, and there was no mistaking the hunger in his voice now, the way it deepened.

And he was right…

I waited for the inevitable.

Then, suddenly, there was a noise outside the door—a dull, thudding sound, followed by a muffled shout. I strained to listen, to make sense of what was happening, but all I could hear was the rising commotion outside, voices raised in alarm, footsteps pounding against the concrete floor.

“What the hell?” the man behind me muttered, his attention shifting away from me for the first time since he’d entered the room. My pulse quickened, fear curling in my gut, and I swallowed hard, every instinct screaming that something was wrong, that something was about to happen.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall, and I twisted my head as far as the straps would allow, trying to see who it was and what was happening. But all I could make out was the indistinct outline of a figure, the light behind them turning them into a silhouette, shadowed and hazy.

Then I caught his scent. That familiar, musky, earthy scent, tinged with something darker, something feral and wild. My heart skipped a beat, my thoughts spiraling.

Him. It had to be him. The wolf that had marked and fucked me that very first time…

But I couldn’t be sure. The uncertainty gnawed at me, made my throat tighten, and I felt my breath catch.

Then everything happened at once. I heard the scuffle of feet, the sound of a body slamming into the wall with a bone-rattling crash, and I flinched, my body instinctively trying to curl in on itself despite the restraints holding me in place. There was a grunt of pain, a snarl, and then the unmistakable sound of bone meeting bone—a punch, I guessed, quick and brutal.

My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out everything else, and I bit down on my lip, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth as I tried to keep myself from crying out. The fight raged on behind me, each impact loud and violent, reverberating through the small room.

A growl tore through the space, deep and feral, and I knew it was him.

The wolf. My wolf.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my fingers clenching into fists, and prayed for this to be over, for him to win.

“This one’s not yours,” my wolf snarled, his voice rough, defensive.

“Get out,” the man behind me snapped, but there was an edge to his voice now, a sliver of fear threading through the anger. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Then, in one swift, decisive moment, I heard the sickening snap of bone, loud and final. The room fell silent, save for the ragged breathing of whoever was left standing.

Whoever had won had just snapped the other’s throat.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, every inch of me trembling as I tried to catch my breath, tried to make sense of what had just happened. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the musk of sweat and adrenaline, and I felt my chest tighten with anxiety.

Footsteps approached me, slow and deliberate, and I tensed, waiting, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Who had come out the victor?

Then he reached out, and his fingers brushed against the bare skin of my ass, so gentle it was almost like a warm breath against my skin. I shivered, my muscles tightening instinctively, but his touch didn’t press harder, didn’t demand anything from me. It lingered there, light and careful, as if he was afraid that I might break right then and there.

My breathing hitched, and I dared to open my eyes, to glance back as far as the restraints would allow. There was something different in the way he touched me. It wasn’t possessive—it was reassuring in a way, a tether pulling me back from the fear that still gripped my chest.

And then I knew.

“It’s you,” I whispered, more to myself than to him, my voice trembling with the realization. The scent was unmistakable now—it was him.

His hand moved up the length of my body, trailing along my spine, and I felt the heat of it, felt it seep into my skin. I took a shuddering breath, and as he continued to touch me, the fear slowly began to ebb, replaced by something else, something that simmered just beneath the surface—a longing that made my pulse quicken for reasons entirely different from before.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice low, roughened at the edges, but with a softness that sent a thrill through me. I could feel his breath, warm against the back of my neck, and the gentle rumble of his voice seemed to vibrate through every inch of me. My core squeezed tight with simmering need.

I shifted against the restraints, trying to see more of him, but all I managed was to feel his touch even more keenly, the way his fingers seemed to linger against my skin. My burning desire was there, unmistakable now, building with each soft, careful touch, and I couldn’t stop myself from arching into him, needing more, wanting more.

“I don’t even know your name,” I said, and my voice broke, trembling on the edge of something I couldn’t quite identify.

He was silent for a moment, as if considering me, and I felt his fingers curl slightly, the pads of his fingertips pressing into the sensitive skin along my upper thigh. It ached just a little, but I didn’t cry out.

“Rowan,” he said finally, and the sound of it was like a missing puzzle piece sliding into place. “My name is Rowan.”

“Rowan,” I repeated, tasting the syllables on my tongue, letting them settle. It felt right, somehow, like it had always been there, just waiting for me to reach out and find it. “I’m Kendra.”

“Kendra,” he echoed, and there was something in the way he said it, something that made my breath hitch, that made my heart stutter in my chest. He dragged his fingers down the full expanse of my back, slow and deliberate, teasing the curve of my spine, and I felt my whole body begin to tremble, heat pooling low in my stomach, my inner walls fluttering with need.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, and I could hear the smile in his voice, the faint edge of amusement that made me want to melt and lash out all at once. “Are you afraid, Kendra?”

“No,” I lied, and the word came out as a breathless whisper. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through my bones, and his hand moved lower, skimming over the curve of my hip, tracing just below the line where the rough cloth of the dress hem fell on my skin.

“Is that so?” he teased, and I felt his fingers dip beneath the fabric, just enough to make my pulse quicken, to send a jolt of electricity shooting through me.

“Yes.” I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry, and I closed my eyes, trying to gather the courage to admit to myself what I truly wanted. That a part of me had been yearning for this ever since he’d been dragged out of my cell the first time.

“Well, you should be, my little mate,” he growled, but it rolled down my spine like a droplet of cool water on a hot summer’s day.

My breath caught in the back of my throat.

Mate?

The word hung in the air between us, echoing in my mind like a bell that wouldn’t stop ringing. It felt heavy, foreign, like something I should have understood but couldn’t quite grasp. My mind raced with questions, each one more frantic than the last, and I could feel my pulse quicken, my heart hammering against my ribs as I tried to make sense of what he’d said.

I would have dwelled on that term a bit more, but what he said next took my attention by storm.

“You don’t really have a choice about taking it like a good girl today, do you?” he murmured, his voice rough and laced with a tension that made my heart stutter.

The thing was…

He was right .