They brought her back through the eastern wing of the fortress—where the walls were darker, colder, and everything smelled like wet stone and steel. Mildew clung to everything.
The guards didn't speak to her directly. But they didn't need to.
They spoke around her, over her, like she wasn't even a person. Like she was meat tossed into a lion's den, and they were all just waiting for permission to take a bite.
"She's smaller than I expected," one said, not bothering to lower his voice.
"Delicate," another added. "Probably untouched."
Opal's stomach twisted.
"She screams, I bet," came another.
A different voice laughed, low and rasping. "You think she's still a virgin? Moon goddess, that'd be fun."
"How much of a fight do you think someone that tiny can put up."
There were chuckles—vile, greasy sounds that crawled along her skin like cockroaches.
She kept walking, head high, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. But inside, her heart beat like a war drum, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood.
She'd faced witches. She'd faced death. She would do anything to get out of here.
But this?
This kind of slow, casual degradation… this belittling of her spirit and body?
It made her feel filthier than blood ever had.
And then—
"Move aside."
The hallway quieted instantly.
Alpha Marcus stepped into view at the far end of the corridor, flanked by two of his most loyal guards. He wore his usual tailored uniform—crisp black with silver buttons—but his eyes were anything but polished.
They raked over Opal like a butcher inspecting a cut of meat.
"Well," he said, smiling faintly. "The little runaway returns."
Opal didn't flinch. Didn't drop her gaze.
"You'll find I'm not so little when I'm angry," she said coolly.
Marcus smirked. "Oh, I love a wolf with bite. Makes the taming so much more satisfying."
The air in the hallway thickened with anticipation. The guards shifted subtly, some grinning, some watching silently like this was a show they'd seen before.
"You touch her, Alpha?" one guard asked, his voice hungry.
Marcus turned to him slowly. "If anyone touches her, it will be me." His voice was quiet. Final.
He turned back to Opal, stepping closer, his breath warm and wrong as he leaned in.
"You know," he murmured, "if you had just stayed in your room and played nice, you might've gotten out of here without anyone getting hurt."
"You mean you getting hurt," Opal said.
He laughed. "Feisty and naïve. What a combination."
Her lip curled. "You have a mate."
Marcus raised a brow, surprised. Then he laughed again, louder this time.
"My mate failed to give me an heir. That was her purpose. And she failed."
Opal's jaw tightened.
Marcus went on. "If I want to enjoy myself with a young little wolf who happens to be pretty, unmarked, and irritatingly defiant—then I'll do as I please. You are almost of age. Maybe I won't return you to your father."
Opal didn't back down. "You're disgusting."
"No," he said. "I'm in charge."
He stepped in again—too close. She could smell his cologne, the arrogance soaked into his skin. He reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face.
She slapped his hand away.
Gasps echoed down the corridor.
But Marcus's smile only widened. "That's the problem with daughters of alphas," he said softly. "No one ever teaches them how to kneel."
Opal's heart pounded.
But she stood tall.
"I'd rather die on my feet," she said, "than live on my knees under a man like you."
A beat of silence.
Then Marcus's eyes narrowed, the amusement in them replaced by something colder.
"Put her in the eastern cell," he snapped at his guards. "Alone."
One of them stepped forward. "But Alpha—shouldn't she be watched? If she tries to run again—"
"She won't," Marcus said. "Not after tonight."
His eyes flicked to Opal one last time.
Then he turned and walked away, the echo of his boots vanishing down the stone corridor.
The guards grabbed her arms again, rougher this time, dragging her toward the east wing. But Opal didn't fight.
Not yet.
Because every time one of them touched her like she was nothing, every time they looked at her like prey—
She memorized their faces.
Because one day soon, they would see her again.
But not as a prisoner.
As the storm they never saw coming.
The cell door slammed shut behind her with a jarring clang, the sound bouncing off the stone walls like the ring of a final bell.
And then—silence.
Opal didn't move.
Couldn't.
Her bare feet pressed against the icy floor, and her arms wrapped tightly around herself, fingers digging into her sides as if she could hold her own ribs in place. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each one fogging in the air before her. The room was cold—bone-deep, cruel cold—not the kind that bit, but the kind that settled into you, like it wanted to live there.
The stone walls around her were damp, stained with things she didn't want to think about. The only light came from a thin crack in the iron-barred door, where flickering torchlight from the hallway cast long, trembling shadows across the floor.
And still—nothing.
No footsteps. No sounds of guards laughing or talking. No taunts.
Just silence.
It was worse than the noise.
It let her think.
And thinking was dangerous.
She pressed her back to the wall and slid down until she was sitting, knees tucked to her chest. The dampness soaked into her leggings instantly, and the cold seeped through her skin like frost on glass.
Her arms shook. Whether from cold or fear, she didn't know anymore.
The fear felt different now. It wasn't the adrenaline-laced panic from running through the forest, or the furious defiance she'd felt when Marcus touched her. This was quieter. Heavier. Like drowning beneath still water.
What if no one found her?
What if Marcus did whatever he wanted?
What if no one ever knew what happened in this cell?
Her heart pounded.
She tried to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
But her chest was tight. Her throat, tighter.
And still—her thoughts wouldn't stop.
She remembered the way those guards looked at her. Like she was a thing. A possession. A prize for someone else's amusement. Not a Luna. Not a daughter. Not a sister.
Not a person.
One of them had said it out loud. Wondered if she was still a virgin. Said it like it was a challenge.
Another had laughed. Said she'd scream nicely.
She dug her nails into her arms to shut the memory up.
But it was all she could hear.
And worse—Marcus's voice. Calm. Calculated. Entitled.
"My mate failed to give me an heir."
"If I want to enjoy myself with a young little wolf…"
"I'll do as I please."
She curled tighter into herself, her head against her knees. Her teeth chattered, but she didn't notice anymore.
It was so dark.
So quiet.
She wished Forrest would barge in with one of his terrible jokes and throw glitter in Marcus's face. Or Brooks would sit beside her and explain why damp stone conducts emotional trauma. Or Ridge would punch a wall just to see if it helped. Or Ash—Moon Goddess above, Ash—would rip the cell door from its hinges and tell her she wasn't alone. He would kill anyone who looked at her. Ash would burn the place down.
But no one came.
No one even knew she was here.
And that truth hit harder than Marcus's words.
She was truly, terrifyingly alone.
A single tear slid down her cheek, hot against her frozen skin. She didn't wipe it away.
Because there were more.
And she wasn't pretending anymore.
Her body shook as sobs tore from her throat, silent at first, then louder. Ugly. Desperate. Her hands covered her mouth as if she could keep the sound inside, but it poured out anyway.
She cried for her brothers who couldn't protect her.
She cried for herself, because no one else would right now.
And eventually, she just… stopped.
Not because she felt better.
But because her body ran out of tears.
And all that remained was the dark.
And the cold.
And the silence.
Until—
A whisper.
So faint she almost thought she imagined it.
"Opal…"
Her head snapped up.
She blinked, eyes wide, straining to hear.
Nothing.
Then—again.
"Opal."
It wasn't a guard.
It wasn't Marcus.
It was familiar.
Her body surged forward, crawling across the icy floor toward the wall where the voice had come from.
She pressed her ear against the stone.
"Who—who is it?" she whispered.
Silence.
Then—
"Don't be afraid."
A pause.
"I'm going to get you out."