Page 1 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
Chapter 1
Fiona
The cold doesn’t bite—it devours.
Every jagged breath carves my throat like glass, and the wind is merciless, needling through the trees as if it knows just how exposed I am.
My legs barely hold me. My feet bleed, slashed open and raw. But it’s the wounds across my stomach that threaten to drag me under, deep and ugly and wet. I don’t look down. I don’t need to. I can feel the pulse of pain with each step I take.
Blood trickles down my thighs. My skin is scraped and torn, my arms streaked red. The night air gnaws at me, but I keep going—because I don’t know how to stop.
I’ve never seen trees like these before.
Branches stretch above me like broken fingers, clawing at the thin moon. The forest smells like dirt and old rain, but under it is something fouler—my blood, my sweat, the tang of rusting metal.
Chains.
I remember.
Not just the pain.
The faces.
Leering. Cold. Some laughing, others watching without blinking. They never hid their eyes. I see them when I close mine. I see their hands, hear their voices, feel their breath against my skin. I hear the heavy scrape of the metal door, the sound of boots on concrete, the thick hush before a scream.
And now, I’m free.
But I don’t feel free. I feel hunted.
And I feel something else.
There’s a pressure building inside me. The thing they wanted to awaken is stirring again. Not asleep anymore. Waiting.
I crash through a thicket and stumble forward. My knees buckle, and I fall hard. My hands dig into cold moss and dirt. I try to rise, but my limbs shake. Everything hurts. My stomach, my legs, my very soul.
A light glimmers ahead, flickering like a dying star.
Voices follow. Male. Low. Unfamiliar. Someone throws something into the trees. Glass shatters. The scent hits me.
Sharp. Bitter. Rotting.
I choke on it.
It’s familiar. Not from this place, though. From before.
My stepfather used to smell like that—just before his fists would find my face.
I stagger closer, limbs trembling. My vision is hazy.
The forest spits me out into a clearing. My legs tremble beneath me, slick with blood and mud. My stomach burns with every shallow breath. I’m barely upright, barely conscious.
But I don’t stop moving.
The light is there—orange and dancing, unnatural in the thick of the woods. Four men sit around a fire, bottles clutched in dirty hands, the stench of them drifting out like rot.
The firelight licks at the trees, casting long shadows. Laughter breaks through the night like that shattered glass. They are not afraid of the dark.
And then, one of them sees me.
