Page 3 of Rising Reign

I lifted my chin, refusing to be cowed by his flair for the dramatic. I would meet whatever he had planned head-on. I would not cower.

Marcelle shoved me toward the dais. I stumbled, but I didn’t fall.

Bastian’s gaze skimmed over me. “Little Flower, you’re looking a little worse for wear.”

I didn’t make a sound; just stared at him.

His lips twitched. “Such defiance in you. Such fire. It’s surprising, really. Maybe there is hope for the line that comes from you yet. But you’ll have to prove yourself.”

Marcelle scoffed, but I pretended I couldn’t hear.

Bastian’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair, his many rings glittering in the firelight. “If you succeed, you’ll receive a shower, a meal, and a bed for the night. If you fail, it’s back to the pit for another week.”

I didn’t let hope show on my face. It would bring Bastian too much pleasure.

“But you’ll have to win it,” he growled.

Dread pooled low in my stomach. Win it.

I knew what that meant. The torches. The bonfires. The gathering pack.

They lived for these nights—the bloody battles that entertained Bastian and could earn them favor for a fleeting moment. But I was a submissive, and the past three days of torment had left me weak, my strength fleeting.

Bastian reached out a hand to grab the kneeling woman’s chin and lifted it. “Tell me, pet. Will you fight for my honor?”

“Yes, Alpha,” she whispered demurely. But I saw her muscles ripple as she spoke. Everything about her was a finely honed machine.

“Rise, Lilli,” Bastian commanded.

She did so gracefully, and my mouth went dry. The woman had at least a foot on me, and as she stretched, I saw that I’d been right about that muscle. The scars across her knuckles told me she was no stranger to a fight.

Bastian leveled his stare at me. “You will fight for the privilege of my shelter. You will fight until death itself comes knocking.”

2

KINGSTON

I stared into the fire as it crackled. It should’ve been too warm to have one, but the Colorado mountains had turned bitterly cold surprisingly early this year—as if the mountains, too, were grieving the loss of Wren, crying out for her return. My wolf howled inside me, raging against the walls I’d constructed around him.

There was no way I could set him free right now. I didn’t trust him not to turn feral and run straight for Louisiana. He’d head right to Wren and get us all killed in the process.

The pacing footsteps behind me grated, with their panicked quickness and desperate back-and-forth. I didn’t think Puck had stopped moving since Wren disappeared. “We need to move,” he growled.

I didn’t turn; I just kept staring into the fire as if it held all the answers in the world. “We need a plan. We need to know for sure if Wren is on pack territory, and we need reinforcements.”

To anyone else, my voice would sound as if it held no emotion at all. Only I knew that each word was filled with agony. Failure. Guilt. Emotional destruction of the highest order.

The clicking sound intensified, spurred on by my words. “I’m trying,” Locke growled. “Their system is good, but if I can hack into their security cameras, I’ll at least know what we’re walking into.”

After the fire, we’d tracked the Red River wolves to the airstrip north of town. But that’s where their scents—and Wren’s—had disappeared. Locke had done his thing and hacked into the flight records. They’d tried to cover their tracks by flying to Texas and then Kentucky, but the private plane’s final destination had been a small town several hours outside New Orleans. I knew in my bones that Bastian had taken her back to Red River.

A fresh wave of agony slammed into me. Wren, at the hands of a monster, the same man who had done such damage to my sister that she’d taken her life. My mind couldn’t help but invent the worst images of Wren enduring all that and more.

My fingers tightened around the edge of the stone fireplace mantel. A crack sounded, and the rock beneath my hand crumbled to dust.

A palm landed on my shoulder, fingers squeezing. I knew by scent that it was the one person I least expected, Brix, the man Wren had healed in untold ways. Someone who’d been so averse to any touch that wasn’t painful now sought to comfort me.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered.