Chapter 7: Thane

Chapter

Seven

THANE

A nother chunk of concrete crashes down behind us as we drag the Knight's bleeding form through the flooded tunnel. The impact sends ripples through the putrid water at our feet. My shoulder screams from the strain of hauling the thick chain, but I keep pulling.

I can't tear my eyes away from Wraith. The gentleness in my brother's movements as he guides the Knight's massive bulk through the cramped passage... it's like watching a different person.

This is the same alpha who tears our enemies apart with his bare hands. The same alpha I was afraid would hurt Ivy, even if it wouldn't be deliberate, if he participated in relieving her during her heat.

Now he's following her whispered commands like an eager hound, adjusting his grip on the chains when she signals the Knight needs more support. His sharp teeth flash in the dim light as he turns to check on her, usually so afraid of anyone seeing his face to the point of explosive and lethal meltdowns when it does happen. But she just gives him that soft smile that makes his whole demeanor change.

My chest tightens.

I used to be the one he listened to. The one who could control him, even if only barely. Now our omega has him wrapped around her finger.

And the rest of us too.

"We need to pick up the pace," I say, eyeing the trail of black blood behind us. "They'll be able to follow this."

Ivy's eyes lock onto mine, fierce and unyielding in the phosphorescent glow. I snap my mouth shut, the rest of my suggestion dying in my throat.

One look is all it takes.

When did this happen?

"The structural supports won't hold much longer," Plague mutters, his analytical mind still running scenarios even as he hauls on his length of chain. "If anyone is following us, they won't last long. But at this rate, neither will we. We need an exit strategy."

"Fuck exit strategies," Whiskey grunts, digging his heels in as he keeps hauling the Knight forward. "We need a damn miracle."

The Knight's iron mask turns toward Whiskey's voice, blue eye-slits flaring brighter for a moment. A hollow growl echoes from behind the metal as he tries to lift his head.

Sounds kind of threatening.

"Shh," Ivy soothes, her small hand pressing against the cold iron. "Save your strength."

To my shock, the monster settles at her touch. His massive frame goes pliant as we drag him around another bend in the tunnel. Even dying, he could fuck us up if he wanted to. But he yields to her like a wounded animal accepting help.

Like Wraith did.

Like we all do.

And the Council thinks omegas are supposed to be the weaker class? Everything in those books I've been studying and notating was complete and utter bullshit.

"Left," Plague calls out, his voice cutting through my thoughts. "The tunnel widens ahead."

We adjust our path, chains creaking as we maneuver the Knight's bulk through the narrow passage. His mechanical arm scrapes against the wall, throwing off sparks. More black blood drips from the holes where a few of his iron rods used to be, mixing with the water below. The others dig grooves into the stone, sparking and smoking.

Wraith's head snaps up, blue eyes blazing. He signs one-handed, keeping his grip on the chain.

Guards above. Moving fast.

"How many?" I ask.

He shakes his head. Too many to count.

Great.

An explosion rocks the tunnel, closer this time. Debris rains down, forcing us to press against the walls. Ivy stumbles and five alphas lunge to catch her. But Wraith's already there, his massive frame curled protectively around her smaller one.

The sight sparks something in my chest.

Pride?

Fear?

Both?

This isn't the feral alpha I grew up with. The one who needed constant supervision, who could snap at any moment.

This is... more.

Better.

She did that.

Our fierce little omega with her heart of steel and endless compassion. She saw past the monster to the man beneath. Past all our darkness to something worth saving.

We're all monsters, really, even if we don't look the part.

And despite his appearance and violent temper, Wraith might be the least monstrous of us all. He's the only one who didn't sign up for this shit. I may have been groomed for violence and bloodshed, too, but I wanted to fight for my ideals—for our father's ideals, which are apparently complete bullshit, too—from day one.

But not Wraith.

All he wanted was a home.

A family.

They had to make him that way.

Make him into a bloodthirsty killer.

And I helped.

Wraith lost himself, and Ivy found him.

Not me.

Ivy.

What kind of brother am I?

Sixteen Years Ago…

The grandfather clock in the foyer strikes noon, its deep resonance echoing through the empty halls of our ancestral estate. I stand at my usual post at the top of the grand staircase, watching dust motes dance in the shafts of autumn light streaming through the tall windows. The marble floors below gleam like polished mirrors, reflecting the crimson and gold of falling leaves outside.

This is my favorite spot to observe my father's comings and goings without being seen. From here, I can gauge his mood before he notices me—whether he's drunk, angry, or in one of his rare amenable states. It's a survival skill I've honed over the years.

The heavy oak door groans open on its ancient hinges, spilling late autumn sunlight across the polished marble floor. My father's boots ring against stone as he strides in, but something's different today.

A shadow trails behind him.

I freeze, my hand tightening on the ornate railing until my knuckles turn white. The shadow resolves into a boy, though he towers over me despite looking around my age. His shoulders span impossibly wide, muscles rippling beneath a too-small shirt and standard-issue military coat that's seen better days. A dirty dark blue bandana covers the lower half of his face, but he keeps reaching up to adjust it with hands that could crush stone.

Those hands draw my attention. They're scarred and calloused, yet they move with an odd delicacy, like he's terrified of breaking everything he touches. His fingers brush against the doorframe as he enters, testing its solidity.

"Thane." My father's voice cracks like a whip through the still air. His eyes find me instantly—they always do. "Come down here."

I descend slowly, counting each step as I study our visitor. Seventeen stairs. I know because I've counted them thousands of times, usually while trying to guess my father's mood.

Today, his face gives nothing away, but there's a gleam in his eyes I don't like.

The kind he gets when he's acquired a new weapon.

The boy won't look up, keeping his head bowed and shoulders hunched as if trying to fold his massive frame smaller. His gaze darts around the room, mapping exits, checking corners—the habits of someone used to being hunted. But I catch glimpses of intense blue eyes beneath his dark messy hair, filled with such raw agony it's hard to make eye contact with him.

Not that he's trying, either.

"This is your new brother," my father announces. "His name is Wraith."

No explanation.

No background.

Just another decree I'm meant to accept without question, like everything else in this house.

The boy flinches at the words "brother" and "Wraith," but otherwise remains motionless. Up close, I see the edges of scarring on his cheeks and over his eye peeking out from beneath the bandana. Whatever happened to his face, he's trying to hide it.

Is that why his name is Wraith?

Seems pretty damn cruel.

"Take him to the east wing," Father orders. "Show him his room."

I'm beyond confused, but it's not the first time he's done something unexpected if not insane without explaining anything, and I know it won't be the last. So I nod, gesturing for the boy to follow. He moves with unnatural grace for someone so large, each step carefully measured. Like he's afraid of breaking the floor beneath his bare feet.

The servants scatter as we pass, pressing themselves against walls and ducking into doorways. Their fearful whispers follow us up the stairs.

"Did you see the size of him?"

"Those scars..."

"What kind of monster..."

The boy's shoulders hunch further with each word.

I walk faster, leading him away from their cruel murmurs. The east wing stretches before us, a maze of closed doors and shadowed alcoves.

Perfect for hiding.

"This one's yours," I say, pushing open the door to an unused bedroom. He hesitates at the threshold, those blue eyes scanning every corner before he inches inside. His huge hands drift over everything—the bedpost, the curtains, the dresser—mapping his new territory through careful contact.

"Dinner's at seven," I tell him. "Though you can eat in your room if you'd rather."

He nods once, already retreating into the shadows by the window. I leave him there, closing the door softly behind me.

That night, I lie awake listening to the creak of floorboards as he explores. His footsteps pause outside my door more than once, but he never enters. When I peek out, I catch glimpses of him touching the wallpaper, the picture frames, the furniture. Learning the textures of his new world.

He doesn't sleep.

Days pass. The boy vanishes during daylight hours, finding every possible hiding spot. Closets, crawl spaces, the gap behind the library bookshelf. He acts more like a wild animal than a human. The servants leave food outside his door, but he only eats when they're gone. There's never any sign he even exists.

Father's patience wears thin quickly. He drags the boy from his sanctuaries, forces him to sit at formal dinners even though he just stares at us and refuses to take off the bandana covering his scarred lower face, demands he act "normal." But the more he pushes, the deeper my strange new brother retreats inside himself. Those blue eyes glaze over, no amount of shouting or shaking drawing him back out.

I find him in my closet one night, knees drawn up to his chest. Instead of telling anyone, I sit with my brother until dawn breaks. It becomes our routine. He hides, I keep his secrets. Sometimes I read aloud or talk softly while he listens in silence.

I'm not sure he can talk anyway.

Father never understands that his new "weapon" doesn't need force. He needs time. Space. Gentleness. But healing isn't part of General Hargrove's plan for forging the perfect soldier.

"He's broken," Father declares one evening, pacing his study while I stand at attention. "Useless. I thought he'd be a warrior when we found him covered in blood and guts, not some mute beast that cowers in dark corners."

I say nothing, keeping my face carefully blank. Father doesn't know about the training dummy I found shredded in the garden. About the dents in the stone walls shaped like massive fists. About the raw power contained in that hulking frame, held in check by iron will.

"Perhaps more aggressive methods are needed," Father muses.

"Let me work with him," I interrupt, breaking protocol. "Give me time."

Father's eyes narrow. "Time is a luxury we don't have, boy. War is coming. I need soldiers, not broken toys."

"Two weeks," I press. "If I can't make progress by then..."

" One week." Father sits behind his desk, dismissing me. "Don't disappoint me, Thane."

I find my new brother in the library that night, crouched in his usual spot behind the shelves. Even though he's alone, he's still wearing that bandana. When I approach him, he reaches up, feeling the edge to make sure it's still in place.

What kind of monsters would do this to a child?

I crouch beside him in the shadows of the library shelves. "You're safe here," I say softly, keeping my distance. "No one will make you take it off."

His blue eyes dart to mine, then away. Those massive hands clench and unclench in his lap. Even sitting, he's bigger than me. But there's nothing threatening in his posture. If anything, he's trying to make himself smaller.

"Father doesn't understand," I continue, watching his reactions carefully. "But I do. Or at least, I'm trying to."

A slight tilt of his head. He's listening.

"I know you can fight. I saw what you did to the training dummy in the garden." His shoulders tense. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. But you don't have to hide your strength from me."

His eyes meet mine again, holding my gaze longer this time. There's intelligence there. Pain, yes, but also a sharp awareness that the general seems blind to.

"You're not broken," I say firmly. "You're protecting yourself. There's a difference."

He shifts, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. One hand drifts up to touch the bandana again, an unconscious gesture I've noticed he makes when nervous. His hands are so huge and strong, but he's clearly still capable of small movements.

An idea strikes me.

If he's mute, maybe there's another way he can communicate.

The library stretches around us, shelves upon shelves of knowledge. Father's pride and joy, though he rarely reads anything but military texts.

But somewhere in here...

"Stay," I tell Wraith softly. His eyes follow me as I stand, tracking my movements like a wild animal ready to bolt. "I want to try something."

I scan the shelves methodically, moving deeper into the stacks.

Medical texts.

Historical accounts.

Military strategy.

Finally, in a dusty corner, I find what I'm looking for. A slim volume on military hand signals, used for silent communication in the field. Not exactly what I need, but it's a start.

When I return, Wraith has pressed himself further into his corner. His shoulders hunch as I approach, making his massive frame somehow smaller. The sight sends an ache through my chest.

"Look," I say, holding up the book. He flinches hard, hands coming up to shield his face. The reaction hits me like a punch to the gut.

Does he think I'm going to hit him with it?

I freeze, then slowly lower myself to sit cross-legged on the floor, placing the book between us. "No one's going to hurt you," I say, keeping my voice low and steady. "You're safe."

His hands lower fractionally. Those intense blue eyes dart between my face and the book, calculating.

Assessing the threat.

I open the book to the first page, movements deliberate and slow. "See? It's about hand signals. Ways to talk without speaking." I demonstrate the sign for hello, my fingers clumsy as I copy the illustration.

Wraith's head tilts slightly.

Curious, despite his fear.

I slide the book closer to him, careful not to make any sudden moves. "We could learn together. If you want."

His hand inches toward the page. I hold my breath, not daring to move. His fingers brush the paper, tracing the illustration with surprising gentleness for such huge hands.

Then I make a mistake.

I reach out to turn the page, my hand brushing his arm. He snarls, the sound ripping from his throat like broken glass. I snatch my hand back, but don't retreat completely.

"Sorry," I say quickly. "That was stupid. No touching. I understand."

The snarl fades to a low growl, then silence. His eyes stay fixed on the book, shoulders rigid with tension. But he hasn't run. Hasn't retreated into himself like he does when our father pushes too hard.

I take it as a good sign.

"Let's try this one," I say, pointing to another illustration without touching the page. The sign for "yes"—a fist bobbing up and down. I demonstrate, watching his reaction.

For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, slowly, his hand curls into a fist. The movement is hesitant, uncertain. But he copies the sign perfectly.

My heart leaps. "Good! That's it."

He ducks his head at the praise, but I catch the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. The closest thing to a smile I've seen from him.

I'm not actually sure he can smile, judging from how badly scarred his face is. It's clear even though most of the damage is hidden by the bandana he keeps checking.

We work through more signs. No. Stop. Danger.

Basic military signals at first, then I start improvising.

Making up our own signs for things like "hungry" and "tired." He picks them up with startling speed, his hands growing more confident with each new word.

The candlelight grows dim as we practice, shadows lengthening around us. But I don't want to stop. This is the longest he's engaged with anyone since arriving.

He taps the page, drawing my attention to a new sign. His hands move through the motion—fingers splayed, then curled inward. The sign for 'brother'.

My throat tightens. "Yes," I say roughly. "Brother."

His eyes meet mine, holding my gaze steadily for the first time. Then his hands move again, deliberately forming the signs we've learned.

Thank you, brother.

The words aren't perfect. The grammar is probably all wrong. But I understand. And for the first time since Father brought this strange, scarred boy home, I feel like maybe?—

No. Not maybe.

I know I can help him heal.

One sign at a time.

The training dummy's head snaps back as Wraith's fist connects. His form has improved over the past few days. No wasted movement. Pure, focused power. I circle behind him, studying his technique.

"Good. Now try that combination we worked on."

He nods, settling into a fighting stance. His shoulders roll beneath his shirt, muscles coiling before he unleashes a devastating series of strikes. Left jab, right cross, left hook. The dummy rocks on its base, straw spilling from fresh tears in the canvas.

Father watches from his study window. I can feel his eyes on us, assessing. Judging. But for once, there's no disapproval in his gaze.

Just cold calculation.

"Again," I say. "This time, faster."

Wraith's huge fists blur through the air. The dummy's head caves in, stuffing exploding outward. He steps back, chest heaving, and looks to me for approval.

I can't help but grin. "Well done, brother. Want to try it on a moving target?"

His eyes light up. We've been working toward this. Real sparring. He takes up position across from me, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet despite his massive size.

"Remember," I say, raising my hands. "Control. Power without precision is useless."

He nods, then lunges. I slip his first punch, countering with a quick jab to his ribs. He absorbs the blow like it's nothing, already throwing another combination. I block high, duck low, moving in a constant circle to avoid getting trapped against his superior reach and strength.

We trade blows, finding a rhythm. He's learning to harness his raw power, to think tactically instead of just relying on brute force. Pride swells in my chest. He's come so far from the frightened boy hiding in closets.

Then it happens.

My elbow catches the edge of his bandana as I weave past a hook. The fabric tears loose, fluttering to the ground between us. Time slows as I catch my first real glimpse of his face.

The scars are worse than I imagined. Jagged lines of scar tissue where his cheeks should be. Exposed muscle and sinew frame a mouth full of unnaturally sharp teeth bared in a permanent grin. Like something out of a nightmare.

But his intense blue eyes are filled with pure terror.

I open my mouth to tell him it's okay.

That nothing's changed.

But before I can speak, he's on me.

Raw panic drives him now. His strikes come wild and desperate. I barely manage to block a punch that would have taken my head off. He roars, a sound of pure anguish and rage that freezes the blood in my veins.

"Wraith, stop! It's me!"

But he's beyond hearing.

Beyond reason.

His fist crashes into my guard, shattering my forearm. The bone snaps with a sickening crack. Pain explodes through my body as I hit the ground. Before I can roll away, his massive weight pins me down.

Those sharp teeth flash in the sunlight. I throw up my good arm to protect my throat, but he clamps down on my arm instead. His teeth tear through muscle and sinew like razors. Blood sprays.

I scream, the sound ripped from my throat. "Brother, please!"

He snarls down at me, blood dripping from his exposed teeth. His hands lock around my throat, crushing my windpipe. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as I stare up into wild blue eyes that hold no recognition.

Just blind animal terror.

My fingers scrabble uselessly at his iron grip. Can't breathe. Can't think. The world narrows down to those savage teeth snapping inches from my face, strings of my blood connecting them like crimson spider webs.

Then something flickers in his gaze.

Recognition.

Horror.

His hands release my throat. I suck in a desperate breath as he scrambles back, staring at his bloody hands like they belong to someone else.

"Wait—" I try to say, but only manage a weak croak.

Before I can stop him, he turns and bolts for the woods.

Shouts erupt from the house.

Guards pour out of every door, weapons raised.

"No!" I grab his bandana and sprint after Wraith's retreating form, but he's impossibly fast for someone his size. My boots pound against the manicured grass as I chase him toward the tree line. "Brother, wait!"

The guards fan out behind me, rifles raised. Their boots thunder across the lawn in pursuit. Father's voice booms from the house, ordering them to contain the situation.

To take him down.

Wraith reaches the woods, crashing through the underbrush like a wounded animal. Branches snap beneath his massive frame as he flees deeper into the shadows. I follow the trail of destruction, ignoring the thorns that tear at my clothes and skin.

"Stand down!" one of the guards shouts.

"No!" I yell back. "Hold your fire! That's an order!"

But they don't answer to me.

The first shot cracks through the air. Wraith stumbles, a red stain blooming on his shirt. He doesn't fall. Doesn't even slow down. More shots follow, the sound echoing through the trees.

I put on a burst of speed, my lungs burning.

Have to reach him before they do.

Have to protect him.

My brother may be huge and insanely strong, but right now he's running on pure terror. Not thinking. Not fighting.

Just trying to escape.

The guards are gaining on us. I hear their harsh breathing, their boots crushing fallen leaves.

They're spreading out, trying to flank us.

Boxing us in.

There—a flash of movement ahead. Wraith has hit a ravine, the steep walls blocking his path. He whirls, looking for an escape route, but we're surrounded. Guards emerge from the trees, weapons trained on his massive form.

"On your knees!" one barks. "Hands where we can see them!"

Wraith backs against the ravine wall, his chest heaving. Blood drips from multiple wounds, staining his torn clothes, streaming down his scarred face and sharp teeth and mingling with my own blood.

His eyes dart wildly, looking for any way out.

But there isn't one.

I step between him and the guards, hands raised. "Stand down! He's not a threat!"

"Move aside, young master!" the guard captain says. "This monster is dangerous. We saw what it did to you."

"He's my brother!"

"Step aside, Thane."

Father's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. He strides into the clearing, his boots crushing fallen leaves beneath them. His face is carved from stone as he surveys the scene.

"Father, please?—"

"I said move."

I hold my ground. "He was scared. That's all. He didn't mean?—"

The back of his hand cracks across my face, sending me staggering. "When I give you an order, you obey."

Two guards grab my arms, dragging me aside. I struggle against their grip, but they're too strong. "No! Leave him alone!"

Father approaches Wraith, who has pressed himself further against the ravine wall. His massive shoulders hunch inward, trying to appear smaller. Less threatening. His huge hands come up to shield his face—not to protect himself, but to cover his scars and bloodied teeth.

The sight sends a knife through my chest.

"I had such hopes for you," Father says, his voice cold with disappointment. "But you're nothing but an animal. Unpredictable. Useless."

His fist drives into Wraith's stomach. My brother doubles over with a choked sound. Father follows with a brutal uppercut that snaps Wraith's head back against the stone. Blood sprays from his ruined mouth.

"Stop!" I thrash against the guards holding me. "You're killing him!"

Father ignores me, methodically breaking down the larger boy with precise strikes. He may be smaller than Wraith, but he's a trained killer. Each blow targets weak points, vulnerable areas.

Wraith doesn't fight back.

Doesn't even try to defend himself.

He just takes it.

Like he deserves it.

"Fight back!" I scream at him. "Wraith, please!"

But he won't. His blue eyes meet mine for a split second, filled with such resignation it breaks something inside me.

He's given up.

Accepted whatever punishment they deal out.

Even if it's death.

No !

I slam my head back, catching one guard in the face. As his grip loosens, I drive my elbow into the other's solar plexus. They release me and I sprint forward, throwing myself between my father and my brother.

"Enough!" I yell.

Father's fist stops inches from my face. "Move."

"No." I straighten my spine, staring him down. "You want to hurt him? You'll have to go through me first."

"He's dangerous, Thane. A liability. Look what he did to your goddamned arm!"

I look down at my shattered forearm and realize it's hanging limply at my side. The other arm still functions, and I can make a fist even if it's excruciating, but it looks like it was mauled by a wolf.

"He's my brother." I don't back down, even as my father's eyes narrow dangerously. "So let me handle this."

"He needs to be put down."

"He needs time!" I gesture at Wraith's huddled form. "Look at him, Father. Really look. He's not fighting back. He's not attacking. He's terrified."

Father's jaw clenches.

For a long moment, no one moves.

The only sound is Wraith's ragged breathing behind me.

Finally, Father's hand drops to his side. "Fine. Then he's your responsibility. But if he ever loses control like this again..." His eyes harden. "I won't be so merciful."

"He won't," I say quickly. "I'll work with him. Train him properly."

"See that you do." Father turns away, gesturing for the guards to follow. "Because if he fucks up again—if you fuck up—you'll both pay the price."

They leave us there, my brother bleeding in the dirt while I stand guard over him. When their footsteps fade, I turn to check his injuries.

He flinches away from my touch, trying to make himself even smaller.

"Hey," I say softly, crouching beside him. "It's okay."

His shoulders shake. Whether from pain or fear, I can't tell. Probably both. Blood drips steadily from his wounds and his jaws, soaking into the earth beneath us.

"Here," I murmur, pulling his bandana out of my pocket. He flinches again like I might be drawing a weapon. When he sees it's his makeshift mask, he grabs it from me and hastily ties it back over his lower face. Then he goes back to staring warily at me again.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I continue, keeping my voice gentle. "I just want to help. Will you let me?"

More fearful staring over his hands.

Slowly, so slowly, he nods.

I pull off my shirt, using it to wipe some of the blood from his ravaged face. He growls and winces, so I turn my attention to the wounds on his body from the bullets grazing him. Doesn't look like they hit anything vital, but he'll need stitches. His resilience is… impressive, to say the least.

The whole time, his eyes stay fixed on the ground, shame radiating from every line of his massive frame. He keeps glancing at my wounded arm where he sank his teeth into me.

I'll need stitches myself, but I'll heal.

"This wasn't your fault," I tell him firmly. "I shouldn't have let my guard down during training. Should have been more careful with your mask."

He shakes his head, hands moving in halting signs.

Monster.

Dangerous.

Should kill me.

"No." I grip his shoulder, waiting until he meets my eyes. "You're not a monster. You're my brother. And I'm not giving up on you."

He just keeps staring at me.

I pull him into a careful one-armed hug, mindful of his injuries and what he's done every other time I've touched him. His huge frame quakes against me and he stiffens up like it's taking everything in his power to not shove me off him, but he holds still, frozen in my arms.

I hold him until the shaking stops, until his breathing evens out. "We'll figure this out," I promise. "Okay?"

He pulls back enough to sign with trembling hands.

Why?

"Because that's what brothers do." I stand, offering him my hand. "Now come on. Let's get you cleaned up before those wounds get infected."

He stares at my outstretched hand for a long moment. Then, slowly, he takes it. I help haul his massive frame upright, supporting him as we start the long walk back to the house.

One step at a time.