Page 4 of Ruthless Reign

"You remember," he says fondly.

Of course I remember him. He's the asshole that knocked me out with the rock. His face was the last thing I saw before I blacked out, as he mentioned his pack killing Maverick.

"Fuck you," I shoot back.

"Still dramatic," he murmurs, rolling his eyes. "If only you had listened."

"And come willingly?" I scoff. "No, thanks."

Giving me a quick cold smile, he looks at the younger man. "Help me lift her. Marie will ensure that she's unable to shift."

My eyes dart back to the woman, wondering why a witch would waste her time helping a pack.

When I met Lydiana, she made it perfectly clear of her distaste for wolves. Besides the lone wolf that she lived with, she had no desire to even be near any wolves—let alone the alphas. The only reason she even allowed me to meet with her was because of a stupid premonition.

But this witch, even though she appears to share Lydiana's tastes, doesn't look to be under duress. If she's able to block my ability to shift or mind link with her magic and the moonstones, she could easily free herself from any restraints that the wolves may have.

So, why is she involved?

My thoughts are cut-off as I'm suddenly hoisted off the ground, the two males grabbing an arm each as they yank me across the floor. There's little I can do to resist since my arms and legs are still bound together. I'm at risk of falling face-first flat on the ground if these two let me go.

They carry me up the stairs with ease, my feet dangling with the occasional drag as we exit the basement.

Even though there were lights in the basement, it still takes me a few seconds to adjust to the burning sunshine that blinds me the moment we step outside the door. Blinking rapidly, I notice that the house we are in is painted in the same color scheme as downstairs—large splashes of white and gray, with black doors and frames as an offset.

It's oddly tidy too. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but art portraits, low-hanging crystal chandeliers, and doilies weren't it.

I hate the fact that these savages clearly have some level of respect and structure. It would have been easier seeing a broken home and ruins of violence—something to help me distinguish from the fact that they appear humane.

To see a tidy residence, decked out in furnishings and items of value, that makes it that much sadder. Normal packs, not barbarians, fighting for survival.

If they weren't squeezing the fuck out of my arms and leaving finger shaped bruises, I'd almost pity them.

We round a corner, entering a large dining room, and I'm surprised to see the table is full. Every chair is occupied at the twelve-seater set; paperwork laid in front of them as they have some kind of meeting. They all glance over when we enter, not alarmed in the slightest that they have a captured prisoner, bound by large chains, being dragged by two men and a random witch.

"Ezra, we're just about to wrap up the meeting. Which one is this?" a man asks, standing up from his chair at the end of the oval table. His green eyes gaze over me with curiosity.

Next to me, the older man speaks.

"The one from the Shadow Pack," he answers.

"I have a name, you know," I snap at them, pissed off that I'm being referred to asthis one.

A few eyebrows raise at the table at my outburst, but the man on his feet doesn't appear fazed. "Ah, yes. From Daxton's pack. She's the one with dual mates, correct?"

The mere mention of my alpha and mates sends a rush of anger through me.

"Just you wait until Alpha Daxton gets his hands on you!" I shout. "The threat of vanishing will be the least of your problems!"

I was wrong. It's not the fact that their house looks homely and loved, or the fact that they are anormalpack. It's the fact that they know so much information about me—and they still chose to take me.

I'm not only somebody's mate—well,two of them—but a member of a pack family, a daughter. You'd think that humanizing me would make it harder, but they don't care at all. They know exactly what they are doing and have no remorse.

That is the absolute worst.

What kind of savages are they?

"She's feisty," the man with green eyes and blonde hair says, still on his feet. There's nothing sinister or concerning about his comment—it's a simple observation, similar to if he was pointing out that I have black hair.

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