Page 119 of Chased By My Grumpy Alpha
The rough rock immediately tears at my skin, sending sharp lines of fire up my arms. I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from crying out, tasting blood as I continue sawing at the ropes. Each movement sends fresh waves of pain through my abraded wrists, but I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
The minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness. My shoulders ache from the awkward position, and I can feel blood trickling down my hands in warm, sticky streams. But gradually—sogradually that I almost don’t dare to hope—I feel the ropes beginning to fray.
Just a little more. Just a little—
The sound of footsteps echoes from somewhere beyond my cell.
I freeze instantly, my heart slamming against my ribs. The paces are measured and deliberate, accompanied by the low murmur of voices. Someone is coming.
I let my body go limp, slumping forward as if I’m still unconscious. I close my eyes just as light begins to flicker beyond the bars. The ropes around my wrists are mostly cut through now—I can feel them hanging by just a few stubborn fibers—but I don’t dare move to complete the job.
The footsteps grow closer, and I can make out two distinct sets now. One heavy and unhurried, the other lighter but somehow more predatory. A woman and a man, from the sound of their voices.
“So, this is her?” The female voice is sweet and gentle, but there’s an undertone to it that gives me the creeps. “Are you sure? She’s rather unremarkable.”
I keep my breathing slow and steady, fighting every instinct that screams at me to open my eyes and see who’s speaking.
“I found her in the room,” comes the male’s response. His voice is coarser, with a slight accent I can’t place. “Just like our intel said.”
“She’s so…ordinary.”
The casual dismissal in her attitude makes anger flare in my chest, but I force myself to remain motionless. Let them think I’m ordinary. Let them underestimate me.
“Maybe she turned to whoring.”
The word hits me like a slap in the face. My jaw clenches involuntarily before I can stop it, but neither of them seems tonotice. The offhanded cruelty in the woman’s voice, the way she discusses me like I’m not even human, makes my blood boil.
How dare she? How dare they?
“Why hasn’t she woken up yet?” the woman continues. I hear the soft whisper of fabric as she moves, perhaps closer to the bars.
“She’s a latent shifter,” the man explains. “They’re weaker than full shifters. The sleeping potion affects them more strongly. Takes longer to wear off.”
They know what I am. They know I can’t shift, that I’m essentially powerless compared to any normal shifter. The information chills me more than the cold, stone floor.
This wasn’t random. It was planned.
“She should be awake in time for the trial,” the man adds, and then I hear their footsteps beginning to retreat.
Trial? What trial?
Questions are blaring inside my head, but I manage to remain perfectly still. I wait until I can no longer hear anything beyond the steady drip of water before allowing myself to move.
My hands are shaking as I carefully work my wrists against the stone again. The remaining fibers of rope give way with a soft snap, and suddenly, my arms are free. I have to bite back a gasp of relief as I bring my hands around to my front, my shoulders screaming in protest after being held in that position for so long.
My wrists are a mess—torn skin and dried blood caked around deep rope burns—but I’m free.
I quickly untie the restraints around my ankles, my fingers clumsy but determined. The moment I’m completely unbound, I surge to my feet, swaying slightly as blood rushes back to my extremities.
I pace the small confines of my cell like a caged animal, my mind racing. Where am I? Who has imprisoned me? And why?
Who were those two people? And what do they even want with me? The woman spoke with the kind of authority I associate with pack leadership, but she isn’t from the Silver Stone Pack; I would have recognized her voice.
The casual way she mentioned my being a whore makes my stomach turn with anger. The insult burns through me, fueling the fire that has been building in my chest. Who was that woman? Why did she call me that?
A trial. They mentioned a trial. What kind of trial? For what crime?
