The Alpha King's Mate of Flames and Cinders

Chapter 5 : Captive

*Saoirse*

The rhythmic clacking of the train had lulled me into a daze. As it slowed, my heart quickened with the promise of freedom, although that was brief. When the announcement chimed through the air, I stood with purpose.

Egoren was still hours away, but the layover was a gift. It was a chance to feel the ground beneath my feet without the weight of Hunter's Glen bearing down on me.

"Next stop, Layton's Hollow," the conductor's voice crackled over the intercom. "Layover for two hours."

I shuffled off the train alongside a few other passengers, feeling the cool kiss of the open air on my skin. The platform was alive with the bustle of travelers and vendors calling out their wares. I drank in the sights—the quaint shops lining the cobblestone street just beyond the station, the vivid tapestries hanging from stalls, and the array of unfamiliar faces that passed in a blur.

This town was twice the size of Hunter's Glen.

Aching to stretch my legs, I wandered past a bookstore with its musty charm and a florist whose blooms perfumed the air. Finally, I was enticed by the sizzle and scent of a nearby diner.

The bell above the door jingled as I pushed my way inside. I was greeted by the aroma of fried delicacies and freshly baked bread. My stomach growled louder than the engines of the train I had just departed.

"Can I get you anything, miss?" a waitress asked, her smile warm and welcoming.

"Um, what would you recommend?" I inquired, feigning confidence I didn't quite feel in this foreign environment.

"First-timer, huh? You've got to try our classic burger. It's a favorite around here."

"Sure, that sounds great," I said, settling into a booth by the window. The diner hummed with conversation and clinking cutlery.

When the plate arrived, I was surprised at the burger that towered before me. I had never had one before. I picked it up, feeling the greasy heft in my hands, and took a bite. Flavors exploded across my tongue. This must have been what decadence tasted like.

As I savored another mouthful, my attention drifted to the television mounted in the corner. A news anchor was discussing local events, but then the screen flickered to a breaking news segment. My heart stopped mid-chew as my face filled the screen. It was a picture from last summer, but it was very clearly me.

"Local woman missing," the anchor intoned, her voice distant through my shock. "If you have any information about Saoirse Strider's whereabouts, please call the number below. A reward has been offered for her safe return."

My breath caught in my throat, and the burger suddenly tasted like ash. The number belonged to Conall. I should have known he wouldn't just let me slip away. He wanted his defiant fiancée back under his thumb, where he believed I belonged.

"Hey, isn't that…" someone at the counter murmured, squinting toward the screen and then shifting their gaze toward me. I ducked my head, pretending to be engrossed in my meal, my fingers trembling as I gripped the edge of the table.

"Probably just someone who looks like her," another patron dismissed, but I didn't wait to hear more. I slid from the booth, tossing a few bills onto the table for the meal I could no longer stomach, and then I was off.

I pulled my hood closer around my face, casting a shadow that concealed my features.

"Keep moving, Saoirse," I murmured to myself. The urgency propelled me forward. It wasn't exerting making my heart pound but fear. Each step was measured, meant to be unnoticed, as I weaved through the crowd, anxious to return to the safety of the train.

"Excuse me, miss," a gruff voice called out behind me. I didn't stop, hoping the call wasn't for me. But then a firm grip on my shoulder spun me around, and I stared into the eyes of a man whose intent was as clear as the ice of Egoren's winter lakes. Two others flanked him, their presence menacing.

"Let go of me," I snapped, my voice taut as a bowstring. My mind raced, recalling every self-defense move I had ever learned.

"Easy now," one man sneered, reaching toward me with hands that spoke of greed and something darker.

I lashed out, my foot connecting with his shin, eliciting a grunt of pain. These men underestimated me, a mistake I intended to use to my advantage.

"Got a wild one here," the other chuckled, lunging at me.

But I had fought off Conall's advances enough times to know how to handle unwanted attention. My elbow found the soft hollow beneath his ribs, and he doubled over, gasping. I pivoted, ready to sprint and flee back to the train and away from these mercenaries who sought to claim the bounty on my head.

"Get her!" the first growled, recovering from my initial strike.

A hand darted out. Before I could evade it, a rag clamped down over my mouth and nose. A pungent, earthy scent invaded my senses, the unmistakable tang of a paralysis potion. Panic flared within me, but my limbs were already betraying my will to fight, growing heavy and unresponsive.

"Gotcha," the man whispered triumphantly in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. My vision tunneled, darkness creeping in from the edges as I struggled to stay conscious and remember why I could not succumb.

"Conall…" His name was a plea, a curse. My thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, and then there was nothing but the embrace of oblivion, sweeping me into its depths.

***

Consciousness crept back in, and my eyes fluttered open to an unwelcome reality. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow seeping through a barred window high on the wall. My mouth was dry. Some fabric was wedged between my teeth, stifling any attempt to make a sound. With wrists chafed raw, I was bound tightly to a chair.

I didn't know how long I had been there. The air was stale, thick with the mustiness of neglect and the sharp tang of fear, my fear, clinging to the walls like mildew.

A muffled voice broke through the silence, grating and guttural. "Yeah, we got her all trussed up nice and pretty," a man boasted.

"Untouched?" The question came from another tinny voice, one chillingly familiar and laced with possessive arrogance. It was Conall, my fiancé.

"Of course," the captor assured. I could almost hear the sneer in his tone. "Wouldn't dream of spoiling the goods."

"Good. She's worthless to me otherwise," Conall replied, ice crystallizing around each syllable. "Make sure she stays that way until the exchange."

Anger ignited within me, hot and fierce, scorching through the numbness of the paralysis potion. I was not cargo to be bartered, a prize to be kept pristine for the highest bidder. Despite the rage that threatened to consume me, a cold shard of relief pierced my heart. His demand, his claim on my untouched state, would protect me from worse fates.

But gratitude was a bitter pill, and I choked on it.

The conversation on the speaker faltered and faded to nothing more than the crackle of a disconnected line. Silence reigned again, save for the echo of my ragged breathing and the distant hum of the town beyond these walls.

Conall's words circled in my mind like vultures over a carcass. I was worthless unless untouched. The implication stung, a reminder of the cage I had been placed in. It was not just these brutish kidnappers caging me. It was also the man who claimed to want me as his mate. I seethed at the thought, fury mingling with determination.

I would not be passive. I would not be broken. The Saoirse Strider who fought tooth and nail against her capture was still there, every bit as fierce and unyielding. I tested the ropes that bound me, my muscles straining with silent promise. I might have been caught, but I was not yet defeated.

When I broke free, and I would break free, Conall would learn that my worth was not defined by his terms or anyone else's.

I had to stop struggling as the door creaked open. The guard's heavy footsteps lumbered toward me. He set down a tray with a clatter, cold sandwiches wrapped in clear plastic and sodas sweating with condensation.

"Here," he grunted. "Eat."

I turned my head away, pressing my lips into a thin line. I couldn't afford to be drugged or weakened. My stomach churned at the thought, my hunger momentarily forgotten. I wondered what Conall would do with me once I was back in his grasp.

As the guard left, I noticed the carelessness of their security. It was almost a joke. The door was left ajar. Voices carried loudly from the other room. They didn't see me as a threat.

Hours crawled by, marked only by the shifting shadows across the walls. I feigned sleep, breathing steady and deep, waiting for the night to tell its tale. It wasn't long before the guards' snores filled the space. This was my chance.

Carefully, muscles coiling like springs, I edged my hands toward the tray. Fingers brushed against cool metal. It was a knife hidden beneath a napkin. A surge of adrenaline coursed through me as I gripped it, tucking it away and out of sight.

I would have to wait and bide my time until we were out in the open. The knife was my secret, my promise of a fighting chance. Escape was near. I could feel it in my bones.

It was only a couple of hours later when the guards roused and started gathering their things. I was carelessly hauled up and dragged between two of them before being tossed into the back of a dark van.

As the van rumbled down a bumpy road, I tried to catch sight of our surroundings, but it was useless. They finally pulled to a stop, but we didn't exit the vehicle. Instead, we waited…

And waited…

And waited…

"Conall's testing our patience," growled one of the men, pacing like a caged animal. "Let's give him a proper incentive."

A second man, bulky and brutish, ripped open the back doors and approached me with a glinting knife in his calloused hand. He seized my wrist, fingers biting into my flesh.

"A severed finger will probably speed him up."

Panic flared, hot and blinding. I wouldn't go down without a fight.

With a swift, desperate twist, I lunged forward, the concealed knife sliding into my palm. The edge met a brief, wet resistance and then nothing. A scream pierced my ears, not my own, as blood bloomed like a grotesque flower over the man's shoulder.

"Damn wench!" he howled, clutching his arm.

I was on my feet now. Rough hands grabbed me and slammed me to the ground. The impact rattled my bones and stole my breath.

"Finish her off!" someone barked orders from the shadows.

My cheek pressed against the cold concrete, and despair swelled within me. This was it. This was the end of Saoirse Strider. I didn't know who would save Hunter's Glen now.

The world seemed to hold its breath. A roar, guttural and fierce, rolled through the alley like thunder, vibrating through the soles of my feet. Time seemed to slow down.

I turned my head just enough to see past the blur of my captors. There, framed by the gaping maw of the warehouse door, stood an impossible creature. It was a wolf, massive and monstrous, its fur a void against the dimming light and its eyes two crimson beacons burning through the gloom.

Fear should have seized me. I should have felt ice in my veins, but all I felt was an inexplicable pull, a connection that tugged at my very soul. The wolf's gaze locked onto mine, and something within me recognized a kindred spirit, a shared fury.

"Wh-what the hell?" stammered one of the kidnappers, his grip on me loosening.

"Shoot it!" another cried out, but his voice trembled, betraying his terror.

The wolf crept forward, a shadow come to life, a promise of retribution.

"Wolf," I whispered, though I could not say whether it was a curse or a prayer.