Lynn's POV

Grayson's massive frame blocks the alley entrance.

I spin. Brick walls press in from both sides. A dumpster. A chain-link fence twenty feet ahead—my only way out.

'Run!' Istha screams.

My hand plunges into my bag as I sprint. Fingers close around cold metal—the pepper spray canister. Wolf deterrent. I bought it three years ago after a rogue sighting near Baron's school.

Never thought I'd use it on my own Alpha.

Footsteps pound behind me. Heavy. Fast. Too fast.

He's going to catch me.

I'm five feet from the fence when his hand clamps around my arm like iron. He yanks me backward, and I stumble into his chest.

"Little wolf." His voice is a growl in my ear, rough and possessive. "Where do you think you're running?"

I twist, bringing the canister up between us.

Our eyes meet for a split second. Ice-blue. Furious. Hungry.

I spray directly into his face.

Grayson roars. His grip releases as he staggers back, hands flying to his eyes. "FUCK!"

'GO!' Istha howls.

I don't wait. I'm at the fence, fingers grabbing metal, pulling myself up. My feet find purchase. One hand over the other. Climb. Just climb—

Hands grab my ankles and yank.

I crash down onto the pavement. Pain shoots through my shoulder where I land.

Two men. Rogues. Moving fast.

'Fight!' Istha snarls.

I kick. My heel connects with someone's knee. A satisfying crunch. He howls.

The other one grabs my arms, hauling me up. I drive my elbow back into his ribs. Once. Twice. He grunts but doesn't let go.

"Get off me!" I thrash. My nails rake across his face. Blood wells up in four parallel lines.

He backhands me. "Fucking bitch!"

Stars explode across my vision.

A van screeches to a stop at the alley entrance. Side door already open.

"Get her in!" someone shouts.

They drag me toward the vehicle. I twist, bite down on the arm holding me. Taste blood. The rogue curses and releases me for just a second—

I run.

Three steps before they tackle me from behind.

My face hits concrete. More pain. Blood in my mouth.

"No—NO!" I claw at the pavement. Fingers scraping. Trying to find purchase. Anything.

They lift me—one on each arm—and throw me into the van.

I land hard on the metal floor. The door slams shut. Engine roars.

We're moving.

Two rogues in the back with me. The driver up front. Three total.

'Fight!' Istha screams. 'Don't let them—'

The one on my left reaches for rope. I see a toolbox near the wheel well.

I lunge for it.

My fingers close around cold metal—a wrench. Heavy. Solid.

The rogue grabs my hair, yanking my head back. "Stupid bitch—"

I swing.

The wrench connects with his temple. The sound is wet. Horrible.

He drops.

Blood pools beneath his head, spreading across the van floor. His eyes stare at nothing.

'Good,' Istha growls. 'Now the other one—'

The second rogue's eyes go wide. "You killed him! You fucking killed—"

He pulls something from his jacket. A cloth. White. Wet.

That smell.

Sweet. Cloying. Wrong.

"No—" I swing the wrench again, but he dodges.

He lunges forward, pressing the cloth over my nose and mouth. I hold my breath, struggling, trying to pull away—

Can't. His weight pins me down.

My lungs burn. I can't—I need—

I gasp.

The sickly-sweet smell floods my lungs.

Wolfsbane.

'No!' Istha's howl turns desperate. 'Don't breathe! Fight! Don't—'

Too late. The drug sinks into me like poison honey. The wrench falls from my fingers, clattering against the dead rogue's body.

My vision tunnels, edges going dark and blurry.

'Fight,' Istha whimpers, but her voice is fading, growing distant. 'The pups... protect the pups...'

The van keeps moving. The world tilts sideways.

Darkness swallows everything.

*****

Cold.

That's the first thing I register when consciousness claws its way back. Cold concrete beneath me. Cold air on my exposed skin where my sleeve has ripped.

My head throbs. Skull pounding like someone took a hammer to it.

I force my eyelids open. They feel like lead weights.

Dim light filters through broken windows high overhead. Exposed rafters crisscross the ceiling. The sharp smell of rust and decay fills my nose, mixed with something else—mold, dampness, rot.

Abandoned warehouse.

I try to move.

Can't.

My wrists are bound behind me, rope cutting into skin. My back presses against something hard—a chair. My ankles are tied to the chair legs.

Panic slams into my chest.

'Istha?'

Silence.

Not the comfortable quiet of sleep. The terrible, hollow absence of her presence.

'Istha!'

Nothing. She's there—I can feel the faint, distant echo of her existence—but she's locked away behind a barrier I can't break through.

Wolfsbane. Still in my system.

I pull against the ropes. They bite deeper into my wrists, unforgiving. The chair doesn't budge.

Trapped.

Footsteps echo across the concrete.

My head snaps up.

Three men emerge from the shadows at the far end of the warehouse. They move with that particular predatory gait—loose-limbed, confident. The way rogues move when they know their prey can't run.

No pack scent marking them. No allegiance. Just wolves gone feral, living outside any law.

The largest one grins as they approach. A scar runs down his left cheek from temple to jaw. "She's awake."

"Fuck, look at this piece of ass." The second one—greasy hair plastered to his skull, a missing front tooth—licks his lips. "I'm gonna enjoy breaking her in."

The third circles behind me. I can't see him, but I feel his eyes crawling over me like insects on skin. "Dibs on going second. I want her nice and wet from the first guy."

Bile rises in my throat.

'Istha, please! please—'