Page 2 of Rising Reign

Marcelle threw a rope ladder down, and I scurried to get out of its path.

“That’s it. Run, little bitch.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back my retort as the ladder clattered against the side of the pit.

“Start climbing. Your father wants to see you.”

It took everything in me to hold back my shudder. I didn’t want to give Marcelle or Bastian the satisfaction. Instead, I began to climb.

I’d tried refusing as a child, curled into a ball at the bottom of the pit, and hoping for death. Instead, I’d gotten the worst beating of my life. Then Bastian had brought a healer to fix me, only to do it all over again. I’d learned to never refuse.

But something about choosing to climb to my own punishment was even more painful. It made me feel weak and pathetic.

“You’re strong,” I whispered to myself. “You survive. That’s what matters.”

“What’d you say, little bitch?” Marcelle snapped.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I pictured Brix in my mind. The way he’d shielded himself and his emotions for so long. How strong he’d been through his pain. And the way he’d let me in—the gift that was. If he could make it through, so could I.

My entire body cried out in pain as I climbed. Muscle. Skin. Bones. Everything felt like it was a second away from irrevocably breaking.

“Faster,” Marcelle demanded.

I tried. My muscles screamed, but I pushed harder. The second I was within arm’s reach, he grabbed me by the hair, dragged me out, and threw me to the ground. I slid through the mud like some disgusting Slip ‘N Slide.

Marcelle’s nose flared. “You stink.”

No shit, Sherlock.

I refrained from giving voice to that thought. But whose fault was it that I smelled? It wasn’t as if they’d given me access to a shower.

“Get up,” he barked.

I struggled to my feet, my muscles quaking.

Marcelle was on me in two long strides, grabbing me by the hair again. “Start walking.”

I did as I was ordered. The pit was on the outskirts of the pack territory, with small cabins belonging to the lowest-ranking members surrounding it. Bastian didn’t want to listen to his prisoners scream all night long.

As Marcelle marched me along, a few people poked their heads out of their houses, curious to see the alpha’s traitorous daughter. There was a mix of reactions. Those loyal to my father sneered and spat. Others looked fearful. And a few looked sad—one or two even angry.

Something pricked my awareness: the realization that none of the women wore shoes. My stomach cramped. I didn’t have shoes on either. I never did on pack territory because my father thought it would keep me from running. But now, none of the women were allowed?

Marcelle’s lip curled as he followed my line of sight. “You cost them that privilege. You, and you alone. They all despise you.”

My shoulders curled in as if wings could spring from my back and protect me from the onslaught of the words. It did no good. The knowledge that the women of this pack were being hurt because of me sliced me to my bones.

“Keep it moving,” Marcelle said, shoving me forward by my head.

I stumbled, my feet sticking in the mud, but I kept moving. I took in the cabins through the mossy trees. They got nicer and larger the closer we got to the main house—Bastian’s home. It loomed in the distance.

It stuck out like a sore thumb against the more rustic cabins: white paint and columns that gleamed amid the swampy backdrop. It didn’t fit. Just like my father didn’t—fake and not true to its nature.

But Marcelle didn’t guide me toward it. Instead, he turned me. That’s when I saw them—torches lighting the darkening sky and forming a circle.

That twisting sensation was back in my stomach for a whole new reason now.

Two massive bonfires roared on either side of the circle, with a dais of sorts behind it. A chair like a throne loomed highest, snarling wolves carved into the posts and battle scenes playing out on the legs as my father sat impassively atop it, a woman kneeling at his feet.