17. Shya

Chapter seventeen

Shya

T ime crawled in the cage. Hours bled into days, days into weeks. I had no idea how long I'd been there, how much time had passed. The world had shrunk to the cold metal bars and the stale air of the tent. After my dream of Mason, I'd made myself exercise at least twice a day. Push-ups, squats, lunges, dips, anything to keep my muscles working and loose, but as the days wore on, it became harder to do. Tristan was keeping me fed, but just the minimum to survive. I had been hoping to build up my strength, starting at a hundred reps and going up, but the calories Tristan gave me weren't enough to sustain that. I found myself going from one hundred to fifty to ten, and even that left me feeling weak and dizzy. Even my wolf had gone quiet. She had shut down, retreated so deep inside of me that I knew she was there, but that was all I could get from her.

Tristan's visits became the only thing breaking the monotony. I hated myself for it, but I couldn't deny that I looked forward to them. To the food he brought, the sound of another voice. It was fucked up; I knew this, I really did, but it was all I had.

I slept a lot. I don't know if it was the exhaustion or if Tristan was putting something in the food, but I suspected I was sleeping at least three or four times each day, and thinking it was a new day each time I woke up. It was a known torture tactic designed to make someone feel disoriented and soften them up for interrogation. I tried not to think about why Tristan was doing it to me.

The dreams of the witch came every time I slept now. Chanting in my head, drowning out everything else. It filled my skull, pushing out any other thoughts … of Mason, of my family, of exercise, of getting out of here. I couldn't escape it, even in sleep.

Mason never returned, but the wolf had been there too, at first. He was my one glimmer of hope. But each night, the wolf became harder to find, and when I did find him, he had faded a little more. Last night, his howls were in the distance, and I couldn't find him at all.

I chased him through the dreamscape, calling out for him and for Mason. But my voice was lost in the chanting as it got louder and louder, and the wolf slipped further away. I woke up reaching for something that wasn't there. Like always these days, when I woke, I struggled to remember what Mason looked like, his face blurring when I thought of him. The same happened when I thought of my family. I remembered Mom's scent as she curled up with me in the night when I had a bad dream as a child. Dad's voice, so authoritative in front of the Pack but so gentle and loving when he talked to me, or Henry, or Tucker. My brothers, their squabbling and jokes, the way Tucker was so full of life and adventure, and Henry so determined to be serious and grown up. These things I remembered, but their faces? Were Henry's eyes blue or brown? Did Tucker have a freckle just below his left eye or not? Was Mom's hair long or short? I had to think really hard to bring up the details, and sometimes, I couldn't find them at all.

Tristan's small kindnesses took on new meaning now. The blankets, the bowls of stew and chili, the gentle words. In the void of the cage, they shone like beacons as his words wormed their way into my brain. With his talk of fate, of being meant for each other, I'd started to wonder if there could be some truth to what he said. Some part of me recoiled at the thought. But another part, small but growing, considered his words more thoughtfully. He was here, bringing me food, looking after me. And he was so sure that we were fated mates. Why would he be so convinced of it if it wasn't true? What if I'd been wrong this whole time? What if my fated mate was right in front of me, and all I needed to do was accept it, accept him? He had the power to make me happy. I looked forward to his visits, didn't I? Didn't that tell me that maybe a part of me recognized that I was supposed to be his?

I found myself clinging to the thought of Tristan. He was the only thing solid in a world turned to smoke and mirrors. The only one who seemed to care whether I lived or died.

I paced the small space, my bare feet hating the feel of the cool metal, trying to find some sense of connection, of grounding. My nose wrinkled at my own scent. Dirt, sweat, grime; it was all caked on me now.

But it was all so insubstantial, so fleeting. The only real thing was the gnawing hunger in my belly and the relentless chanting in my head. There was no escaping it now. Day and night, the chanting continued. I knew I was losing myself, piece by piece. Forgetting who I was, who I had been. But Tristan was my anchor, my one constant in this shifting, shadowy world.

The rustle of the tent flap jolted me from my thoughts. I looked up, heart leaping as Tristan ducked inside, a plate of food in his hands.

"Hungry?" he asked, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

I nodded eagerly, scrambling to my feet. The scent of the food hit me, making my mouth water and my stomach clench. But it was more than just hunger that drew me to him.

It was the promise of connection, of someone who saw me, who cared. In this lonely, twisted reality, that meant something.

He waited until I said the magic words, "Yes, please, Tristan." I couldn't remember why I had to say those words anymore, just that if I said them, he would feed me and call me a good girl. He smiled as he passed the plate through the bars, and I knew I'd pleased him. I grabbed the plate eagerly. The aroma of roasted chicken and spices filled my nostrils.

"I brought your favorite today," Tristan said. "Thought you might need a little pick-me-up."

I tore into the food, savoring the rich flavors on my tongue. For a moment, the world narrowed to the meal, to the simple pleasure of a full belly.

But as I licked the last morsels from my fingers, I realized Tristan was watching me intently. There was something in his gaze, a glimmer of excitement or anticipation.

"I've been thinking," Tristan said, settling cross-legged outside the cage. "About the future of our kind. What it could be if we seized our destiny."

I looked at the plate, wondering if he would be mad if I licked it, and tried to focus. "What do you mean?"

"Look at us, Shya. Scraping by on the fringes, hiding what we are. While the humans destroy our lands, our way of life." His eyes flashed. "It doesn't have to be this way."

Something stirred in me at his words; some remembered feelings. "They have their uses, though. It's important to keep the peace between us."

Tristan leaned forward, his face intense. "But why is that peace so important? Why are we always the ones expected to compromise, to hide, to bend to their will?"

I shifted uncomfortably, the question catching me off guard. "Because … because we all compromise, both them and us. We all do it so we can work together for the betterment of all. If we don't, there could be war. Chaos. People, both humans and werewolves, will get hurt, will die horribly. There are more of them than us. They could win, Tris."

Tristan shrugged. "People are already getting hurt. Our people. Forced into the shadows, denied our rightful place, not allowed to be who we really are." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Everyone is so scared of the peace breaking, but would it really be that bad if it did?"

I stared at him. The idea of open conflict between humans and werewolves was unthinkable. It went against everything I'd ever been taught.

But a small part of me wondered if he had a point. How much had we sacrificed, how much had we lost in the name of keeping the peace?

Tristan must have seen the doubt flicker in my eyes. He pressed on, his voice low and persuasive. "Think about it, Shya. A world where we don't have to hide, where we can be open about who we truly are. Where strength and power are something to be celebrated, not feared."

It was a seductive vision, one that tugged at something deep inside me. To be free. Truly free. What would that feel like?

I shook my head, trying to clear the conflicting thoughts. "I don't know, Tris. It's not that simple."

He smiled, but there was a hard edge to it. "Nothing worth fighting for ever is. But I believe in us, Shya. In our potential. We're going to do great things, you and me. We're going to take back our freedom. We're going to make the other Packs listen. Fuck, Shya, we'll destroy the Wolf Council if we have to and rebuild our world, so it works for us. I know we can do this. And I know, deep down, you do too."

"I don't—"

"Think about it, Shya. Think about how we live now. This fear of humans, this misplaced desire to keep the peace, it's stripped us of our pride, our purpose. Made us forget that we are the superior species."

Superior. That didn't sound right. We weren't superior to humans, just like they weren't superior to us. But Tristan had said it, and he always knew best, so it must be right.

"Imagine it," Tristan continued. "Werewolves united, no longer bowing to human laws and limits. Taking back our rightful place."

I could see it, the vision he painted. A world where we didn't have to hide, where we could run free under the moon, hunt as we were meant to. It called to something deep inside me.

"They've taken so much from us," I murmured. The jobs lost to humans, the dwindling forests, the young wolves driven to scavenging in alleys.

Tristan nodded. "And they'll keep taking unless we stop them. Unless we reclaim what's ours. This is our destiny, Shya. Yours and mine. To lead our people into a new era."

I wanted to believe him. Wanted it so badly. To have a purpose, a place where I truly belonged. Where being a werewolf was a source of pride.

Tristan understood. He saw me, saw the potential in our kind. Together, we could forge a new path.

"Sleep well, Shya. You're nearly there. You can nearly see the truth." And with that, he rose and left, leaving me alone with my whirling thoughts and the lingering scent of the meal.

I lay down on the blanket, my mind racing. Tristan's words had struck a chord, had awakened something in me that I didn't quite understand. My eyes felt heavy like they did after every meal these days, and as I drifted off to sleep, the chanting in my head seemed to take on a new rhythm, a new urgency. It was like a drumbeat, a call to action.

And despite my reservations, despite a part of me that was screaming at me, I found myself wanting to answer that call.