Page 93 of The Monster You Made
And in the silence that follows, I feel Declan’s laughter coil like smoke.Choose, Wolf. Whatever you say, the leash is mine.
***
The military compound looms on the horizon by dusk. Its black walls rise from the snow like a scar, towers bristling with rifles, banners snapping in the wind. Fires burn along its ramparts, a warning to all who dare near. Even from miles away, the sight steals breath. The freed whisper prayers. The rebels fall silent.
We camp in the shadow of pines, the military compound visible through every gap in the branches. The council gathers close, voices hushed as though the walls might hear us.
Elira’s jaw tightens, her scarred hand gripping the breaching axe at her side. “We strike before dawn. If we wait, they will march out and crush us. Better to bleed on their walls than starve circling them.”
Rourke shakes his head, flask dangling useless in his grip. “Strike? Against stone? Against guns? We’ll break our skulls before we crack a gate.”
The rebels mutter, fear thick. Some nod at Elira’s fury, others at Rourke’s caution. The freed sit huddled, eyes darting between us like prey caught in the open.
I stare at the military compound, its shadow burning in my vision.This is his, Declan whispers.Every stone laid with chains. Every gate forged for your leash. Enter, and I close it around your throat.
My breath hitches, my chest tight. The firelight flickers, shadows crawling like hands. For a heartbeat, I see myself kneeling inside those walls, chains biting deep. The rebels watching. Belief turning to horror.
Then Vera speaks. Her voice cuts through the silence, clear, fierce. “We do not throw ourselves against stone. We cut around it. We strike what it hides. There will be supplies, there will be prisoners beyond those walls. We move fast, we take them, and we vanish before its gates can open.”
Elira bares her teeth, ready to snarl, but Vera’s fire holds. Rourke exhales, muttering curses, but relief softens his shoulders. The rebels shift, uneasy but listening.
I seize the moment. “The military compound stands. Let it stand. It is not our victory. Not yet. We break what chains we can, where we can, until its walls fall from within.”
The decision holds. Thin, fragile, but it holds.
***
That night, I cannot sleep. The military compound glows in the distance, a wound in the snow, its lights burning like eyes. I walk the perimeter, my hand tight on my sword. His voice coils in the silence.Run, fight, choose; it makes no difference. You move, I bind. You speak, I own. You are mine, Wolf.
I dig my blade into the frozen ground, my breath ragged. For a moment, I want to scream just to drown him out.
Then Vera comes, her cloak brushing frost, her eyes steady. She stands beside me, silent at first. Then she whispers, “You are not his. You never were. Not while I breathe.”
Her hand finds mine, firm, unyielding. Her fire burns through the dark.
***
At dawn, we march again, skirting wide around the black walls. The freed stumble, the rebels mutter, but they follow. The military compound looms behind us, silent, watching, waiting.
The jaws close tighter. But we still move.
Chapter 46 - Vera
Snow falls thicker as we move north, flakes clinging to cloaks, to lashes, to the ragged breaths of those who stumble in our wake. The rebels march with grim resolve, the freed clutching scraps of bread and each other. Behind us, the shadow of the military compound still looms, a black weight on the horizon, even as distance swallows it. None of us speak of it. None of us need to.
The path narrows through a ravine, stone walls rising on either side. The sound of boots echoes sharp, too loud in the hush of snow. Fear prickles the back of my neck. I keep Marta’s satchel pressed to my chest, her words a heartbeat against my own.
***
By midday, scouts return with grim faces. A village lies ahead, occupied. Crown banners hang over its roofs, soldiers patrolling the streets. Smoke curls from chimneys, but not the smoke of hearths. The scent of burnt wood carries even here.
The council gathers in the shelter of pines. Elira spits into the snow. “We strike and tear them out by the roots.”
Rourke shakes his head, exhaustion deep in his eyes. “Strike, and we slaughter the villagers with them. Crown garrisons towns like this for a reason. They want us to bleed in front of those we’re trying to free.”
The rebels murmur, torn. Hunger gnaws, fear sharpens. Every eye flicks to Lucian. Always him.
He stands silent, his gaze fixed on the smoke rising from the village. Shadows drag across his face. When he speaks, his voice is low, steady. “We do not burn homes to save them. We strike only what chains we can break. Not this.”
