Page 1 of Rising Reign

1

WREN

Rain pelted my skin, feeling like tiny knives slicing into me. But, still, I tipped my face to the darkening sky. Water. I needed this water. Opening my mouth, I caught as many drops on my tongue as possible.

I kept my eyes closed. It was easier that way, trying not to take in the surrounding walls of the pit. The towering way they enclosed me. The occasional snake that made its way down. The countless creepy-crawlies.

Breathe, Wren.

I forced my inhale to slow. No jerky, stuttered breaths that would feed my panic. As I brought the muggy air into my lungs, I scented the bayou water—the thick heaviness of it—and the rotting aromas that seemed to cling to my father’s territory.

No. Not my father. Bastian. The bastard who’d taken everything from me.

My back screamed, and the memories of the whip slicing into my flesh rose. A lash for every month I’d been away. My wolf pressed at my skin, wanting out, wanting to rid the world of every being who had caused us harm.

“With time,” I whispered. “With time.”

I lifted the shirt that had been given to me after the lashing, letting out a whimper as it peeled away from my blood-caked skin. Keeping my eyes closed, I called on my wolf—not for a full transition, but enough to bring on some healing.

My skin tingled as I felt fur ripple over my limbs, torso, and then my face. My breaths turned into those short pants I was trying to hold off—pain-filled ones—as my knees finally gave way, and I hit the muddy ground with a thud.

The healing was necessary but took far too much energy. Especially when I hadn’t been given food or water in at least seventy-two hours. As my fingers dug into the mud, I pictured the guys in my mind. I painted each of their faces in such detail that it felt like I could reach out and touch each one.

A keening noise left my lips, my wolf crying out at being separated from her mates. My human half was just as devastated. Everything in me ached, and it was from more than just the beatings I’d taken. It was a soul-deep pain.

But I kept breathing. For the guys and for myself. I refused to let Bastian Boudreaux win. He wouldn’t break me.

I slowly forced my eyes open. It was getting darker, ramping the panic inside me higher. But then I pictured Locke—the way he held me and soothed my touch-hunger, how his voice sounded with his gentle reassurances—and the panic eased a fraction.

Leaning back on my heels, I studied my surroundings: mud and stone held in place by what looked like heavy-duty chicken wire or something similar. It was the only thing keeping the pit from collapsing since it was so close to the water.

The rain eased a bit, but as it did, a shiver racked me. Not a good sign. My shifter nature should’ve protected me from the cold. If it wasn’t, my energy stores were running on empty.

I didn’t let the fear of that realization in. I let logic reign. Because Bastian didn’t want me dead. Not yet, anyway. He wanted me to feel every ounce of pain that he and his minions dished out.

A shudder ran through me at the memory of Marcelle’s snarling face as he took his turn with the whip. The way he’d grabbed my hair afterward and whispered, “Just wait until you’re in heat. I’m going to make you pay in ways your nightmares can’t even imagine.”

Breathe, Wren. Just breathe.

This time, I pictured Kingston. The way his callused hands felt as they framed my face. How he promised that everything would be okay and made it so. The sweet, thoughtful gifts he left for me to find.

My panic eased again. Because the guys were my talismans, my guiding lights. And I would find my way back to them.

Footsteps sounded in the distance, and I instantly launched to my feet, every muscle and limb crying out in protest. I might’ve healed myself, but that sort of pain lived on like an echo you couldn’t wash away.

I tipped my head back, watching, waiting, listening. The steps were heavy, likely male, and carried anger.

Steeling myself, I tapped into my empath gift ever so slightly.

Pure darkness slammed into me, making me stumble. I instantly threw up my walls, but the darkness still slid inside. Nausea rolled through me as sheer agony raged.

Then, a face appeared over the side of the pit, and Marcelle sneered. “Enjoying being back where you belong, bitch?”

I struggled to pull air into my lungs. The rotting bayou scents of the Red River and Marcelle’s stomach-turning stench filled my nose.

“Nothing to say?” he snarled. “Good. I like my women silent and obedient. You’ll be trained as such.”

I nearly vomited then but managed to keep a hold of myself. Losing any water from my system now could be catastrophic.