Page 116 of Unhinged Alphas
Finally, we reach my destination. A small, bare cell with nothing but a thin white mattress on the floor and a toilet in the corner. They toss me inside like a sack of garbage, and I hit the ground hard, unable to catch myself.
The door closes with a resounding hiss, and I'm alone.
I lie there for what feels like hours, waiting for the drug to wear off. Slowly, agonizingly, feeling returns to my limbs. The fog in my head begins to clear. I push myself up on shaky arms, fighting the urge to vomit.
The cell is maybe eight feet by ten, with smooth white walls and a single overhead light that never turns off or even flickers. Thewall facing the hallway is solid glass several inches thick, offering no privacy.
This place is designed to disorient, to break the spirit.
But I've been in places like this before. They didn't break me then, and they won't break me now.
And this time, I have more than I had before. I have a pack looking for me. I know they are. I don't have to wonder. It's not something I have questions about. As much as I hate my heart for betraying me, the Ghosts are my mates.
And one of my mates is within these very walls.
Walls that can't hold us forever.
I drag myself over to the mattress, collapsing onto it with a groan. My whole body aches, my burned arm stings and tingles, and my head pounds. If I don't rest for a bit, I won't be able to think and plan.
Won't be able to escape.
The sound of screams and wails further down the hall should make it impossible to even consider closing my eyes, but my eyelids still grow heavy as exhaustion seeps into my bones. I fight to stay awake, knowing I need to stay alert, but my bodybetrays me.
Just as I'm about to drift off, a flicker of movement catches my eye.
I blink, forcing myself to focus on the cell across from mine. At first, all I see is shadows, but as my vision clears, I make out a massive figure chained to the wall.
My breath catches in my throat.
The beast before me is unlike anything I've ever seen. Easily eight feet tall, with corded muscles rippling beneath heavily scarred skin. The worst is a Y-shaped scar from his collarbone to the waistband of his tattered gray pants that suggests they performed the equivalent of an autopsy while he was still alive. Some of the other scars resemble claw marks, and it takes me a moment to realize they were likely self-inflicted. They match the shape and size of the curved steel talons on the iron gauntlet on his right hand. The spiked plates continue all the way up his arm to his shoulder, embedded in the scarred muscle.
Iron rods pierce through his upper back, jutting out like grotesque spears. Each movement must send ripples of agony through his massive frame, and I can't help but wonder if that's why he remains unnaturally still. His face—if he even has one beneath—is hidden behind an iron mask. It's afeatureless slab of metal, save for two holes for eyes I can't see.
My stomach churns as I imagine the constant pain he must be in. How is he even alive?
As if sensing my scrutiny, the mask's eye holes suddenly flare to life. An eerie, pale blue light flickers behind them, only partially obscured by the choppy white hair falling over his mask and brushing against his broad shoulders.
He's watching me.
I freeze, unable to look away. There's an intensity to that gaze that pins me in place, even through the impersonal barrier of his mask. Is there anything human left behind those glowing eyes? Or has whatever they did to him stripped away everything but rage and pain?
The silence stretches between us, heavy and oppressive. I want to say something, anything, but my throat closes up.
"Hi," I finally manage, offering a tired smile. It's not much, and it probably means nothing to him. But it's all I have.
He shifts slightly, and the movement sets off a cascade of reactions. The iron rods in his back scrape against the wall with a bone-chilling screech. The chains wrapped around his muscled neck and torsoclank and rattle ominously. Pistons in his mechanical arm hiss and click as he flexes the clawed fingers of his iron gauntlet. Each talon is easily the length of my forearm, wickedly curved and razor-sharp.
But he doesn't lunge at the glass or thrash against his chains.
He just... watches. Waiting.
For what, I don't know.
My eyes drift back to those horrific spears protruding from his back. I try to imagine the kind of mind that could conceive of such torture, let alone carry it out. Even the rumors of the experiments that go on in this region don't come close to the reality before me.
Valek's words flood back to my memory in a rush.
This must be the Knight. He certainly looks the part.