The city smells like burnt coffee, exhaust, and the lingering stench of too many bodies packed too close together. It should be comforting by now, the human world—blaring sirens, neon signs buzzing like angry wasps, the ever-present hum of something alive and restless. But tonight, something is wrong.
I feel it in my bones first. A low, crawling sensation beneath my skin, like my body is trying to warn me before my mind catches up. Instinct. It's always been there, a quiet whisper in the back of my head. Right now, it's screaming.
I force myself to walk slower. No sudden movements. The streets aren't empty yet, but they're thinning. A drunk couple stumbles past me, laughing too loudly, oblivious to the way my muscles coil. The way my senses sharpen.
I'm being hunted.
The realization comes like ice water down my spine. It's not paranoia. It's not my usual hyper-awareness. Someone is here. Watching.
I glance at the glass storefront beside me, pretending to adjust the strap of my backpack. The reflection stares back—a girl with dark hair pulled into a loose braid, hoodie oversized, jeans ripped, scuffed boots. Normal. Forgettable. Just another face in the city.
But behind me—
I see him.
A man in a tactical jacket, hands in his pockets, posture too stiff. He's careful, but not careful enough. He knows how to track, how to blend in, but he doesn't know that I can smell him.
Metal. Gunpowder. A hint of something sterile.
Not human. Not wolf. Something worse.
I turn down an alley. Not because I'm stupid. Because I need to be sure.
The moment I step into the shadowed space between buildings, the noise of the city dulls, swallowed by the thick press of my pulse in my ears. The air is damp, trash bags piled against the walls, the scent of rot and mildew curling in my nose.
Footsteps follow. Steady. Unhurried.
I tighten my grip on the switchblade in my pocket. Not much of a weapon, not against what's coming, but better than nothing.
I exhale, slow and measured, then turn on my heel. "You lost?"
The man stops a few feet away. Close enough for me to see the scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the way his eyes flicker with something cold and detached. He doesn't flinch at my voice. Doesn't even pretend to be caught off guard.
"You're Astra Nyx."
Not a question. A fact. A claim.
I should run. I should fight. But instead, my stomach twists, because there's something in the way he says my name. Like he already owns it. Like I've already lost.
I clench my jaw. "Don't know her."
His mouth curves, a slow, knowing thing. "Right."
A second too late, I catch the shift in the air.
The alley walls press in. The distant sound of the city fades.
More footsteps.
I whip around just as a second figure emerges from the shadows. Then a third. A fourth. All of them dressed the same—dark, tactical, efficient.
A trap.
My pulse slams against my ribs. No. No, I should've noticed sooner. Should've—
Something sharp pierces my neck. A sting, then fire flooding my veins.
I stagger, my vision warping at the edges. My breath comes short, uneven. Poison. Silver.
No.
I drop to my knees, gasping, my body screaming as the toxin spreads, locking me inside my own skin. I reach for my wolf—desperate, panicked—but she's slipping away, drowning in the burn.
The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is the man crouching in front of me.
Smiling.
Like he's been waiting for this moment.
***
Darkness clings to me, thick and suffocating. It's not the usual kind—sleep or unconsciousness. It's heavier. Like something is pressing down on me, keeping me still.
My limbs won't move. My breath is shallow. My wolf is silent.
Panic claws up my throat.
I try again, forcing my fingers to twitch, my muscles to respond. Nothing. It's like I've been buried in my own body, trapped under layers of something cold and unnatural.
Voices murmur around me. Muffled. Distant.
I focus. The air is stale, thick with antiseptic and metal. The scent of wolves lingers, but faintly—diluted by something sharper, something wrong.
Not a hospital. Not a pack den.
A cell.
I open my eyes.
Dim fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow. The ceiling is concrete, cracked and stained. My head throbs as I turn it, scanning my surroundings.
Steel walls. A heavy door with no handle on my side. Chains bolted to the floor.
And across the room, watching me from where he sits against the opposite wall—
A man.
He's lounging like he doesn't have a care in the world, legs stretched out, hands resting loosely on his knees. Shadows carve sharp angles into his face—dark eyes, a mouth curved in something close to amusement, but not quite. There's something feral in the way he holds himself. Controlled, but barely.
My throat is dry. I push up onto my elbows, my body sluggish, muscles aching. Whatever they dosed me with is still clinging to my system.
The man tilts his head. "You gonna make it, or should I call someone to hold your hair back?"
His voice is smooth, edged with something mocking.
I don't answer. My mouth tastes like copper, my tongue thick.
He sighs, stretching like a lazy cat. "They hit you hard. Silver's a bitch the first time, huh?"
I swallow, my throat burning. "Where are we?"
He taps his fingers against the floor. "Well, sweetheart, that depends. You a glass-half-full or glass-half-empty kinda girl?"
I glare. "Just answer the damn question."
His smirk sharpens, but he gestures around us. "Welcome to the Underhold. Not quite a prison, not quite a slaughterhouse. More of a… waiting room for the unlucky ones."
My stomach tightens.
I don't know this place, but I know what it means. I've heard stories—whispers among rogues, rumors shared in the dead of night. Wolves that vanish. Packs wiped out, but no bodies ever found.
The Order doesn't just kill werewolves.
Sometimes, they keep them.
The man watches my expression shift. "There it is," he murmurs. "The realization."
I push myself upright, ignoring the dizziness. My wrists are bare—no shackles. That's worse. If they're not restraining me, it means they don't think I'm a threat.
I meet his gaze. "Who are you?"
He grins. "Silas. Silas Veyne. And you, sweetheart, just became the most interesting thing in this shithole."
I don't react. The name is vaguely familiar, but I can't place it.
Silas watches me like he's waiting for something. "You really don't know, do you?"
I grit my teeth. "Know what?"
His smirk fades, just slightly. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Why you're here."
A chill skates down my spine.
Because I'm a wolf. Because The Order hunts us. Because I was careless.
But that's not what he means.
I swallow. "Then tell me."
Silas studies me for a long moment, eyes flickering with something I can't name. Then, he exhales, shaking his head.
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, almost pitying. "You really don't have a clue what you are, do you?"
My stomach twists, my breath catching in my throat.
What I am? Not who—what.
I force my face into something unreadable, shoving the creeping unease down deep. "I'm a rogue," I say evenly. "Just like you."
Silas snorts. "You think they'd go through all this trouble for just another stray?" He gestures around us, to the cold walls, the bolted doors. "No, sweetheart. You're something else."
My pulse pounds against my ribs. He's baiting me. He wants me to react, to slip up. But there's something in his voice—something sharp-edged, like he's testing the weight of his words.
I shake my head. "You don't know anything about me."
Silas leans back against the wall, his smirk lazy but his eyes calculating. "Maybe not. But they do."
I don't ask who they are. I already know.
The Order.
The bastards who took me. The ones who set the trap, who drugged me, who have me locked in this cell like an animal.
My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. I take a slow breath, steadying myself. "How long have you been here?"
Silas shrugs, stretching his arms behind his head. "Long enough."
Not an answer. But it tells me enough—he's not new to this. He's been locked up before, maybe even broken out before. Which means he's either dangerous or useful.
Maybe both.
I scan the room again, searching for anything I might've missed the first time. There's nothing but concrete and steel, no visible weaknesses, no obvious ways out. The air is stale, thick with the scent of sweat and blood.
The scent of other wolves.
My jaw tightens. "Are we the only ones?"
Silas hums. "For now."
Something about the way he says it makes the hairs on my arms rise.
The door suddenly buzzes, then unlocks with a heavy clank.
I bolt to my feet, my vision still slightly off-balance, but I don't care. My body moves on instinct, muscles tensing, weight shifting into a stance that I can fight from, or run from, if I have to.
Silas stays where he is, watching with mild amusement as the door swings open.
Two men step inside.
Not guards. Not soldiers.
Wolves.
The first is massive—broad-shouldered, built like a war machine. His dark hair is cropped short, his expression unreadable, but his presence is a pressure against my chest, heavy and suffocating.
Alpha.
The second is leaner, quieter. His hair falls messily over his forehead, his dark eyes sharp but empty, assessing me with a detached, clinical coldness. He moves like a predator, but not the kind that chases. The kind that waits.
Silas exhales a low whistle. "Well, look at that. The gang's all here."
The Alpha doesn't acknowledge him. His gaze is locked on me.
"You're Astra Nyx," he says.
It's not a question.
I meet his stare, refusing to look away. "And you are?"
He holds my gaze for a long, suffocating moment before answering.
"Kain Valerius."
Recognition prickles at the edges of my memory. I know that name. Or at least, I've heard it. A fallen Alpha. A wolf without a pack. A war criminal, depending on who you ask.
But why the hell is he here?
My attention shifts to the second man. He hasn't spoken. Has barely moved. But I can feel him watching. Studying. Calculating.
Silas sighs dramatically. "Aren't we gonna introduce the assassin, too? Or is this a guess-who's-gonna-kill-you-first kind of thing?"
The assassin.
The name clicks a second too late.
Ronan Cael.
The Order's pet monster. The wolf they trained to hunt his own kind.
My stomach clenches, but I keep my expression blank.
Kain finally breaks the silence. "You have five minutes to get up to speed." His tone is clipped, low, full of authority despite the fact that he has no pack to command.
I cross my arms. "Or what?"
His gaze hardens. "Or you die."
Silas grins. "Told you she'd make things interesting."
I glance between them. Three wolves, all thrown in a cage together. Three men, all more dangerous than anyone I've met before. And me—the wildcard.
No.
Not a wildcard.
The reason we're all here.
I don't know what I am. I don't know why The Order wants me, or what the hell kind of game I've been dragged into.
But I do know one thing.
I'm not dying in this cage.