Page 50 of Dawn of the Pack

It only takes a few minutes to rinse the spatter from the walls, rivulets of water turning pink as they race across the floor and circle the drain. When Nielsen’s satisfied with my work, Jessup claims the hose and replaces it, along with the club, and locks the ‘tool box’ up tight.

“You get cleaned up, Leaf. One of the boys will be in with your dinner soon.” Nielsen tugs on the cage door, leaving it slightly ajar. “I’m ready for the game. Do you know what time they’re playing?” He and Jessup discuss some local sports team as they head for the door, as if forgetting me immediately.

That he’s so blase about this entire process still strikes me as incredible. How does a person spend hours torturing someone, then act like it’s just a regular day at work?

The grim realization that to him this probably is a regular day at work hits me like a brick to the face, and I sigh, resigned, heading for the bathroom with stiff, painful steps.

After dinner they’ll leave me alone til morning, and that will give me time to experiment.

I have to get out of here. I have to. There’s no way I can just wait this out. The only way Nielsen’s letting me out is by forcing me to shift, and that’s looking less and less likely.

I need to take matters into my own hands.

Over an hour goes by, and I’m still waiting in my room, restlessly, for one of the Montrose thugs to deliver my dinner.

It’s depressing how quickly I’ve turned into a trained animal. My body is stiff, every part of me screaming in protest at the smallest movement. So I sit on my bed, with my back resting against the wall, and wait. The overhead lights are too bright; I’d turn them off if I could, but they appear to be in some kind of external control. Nielsen decides when I wake up, when I take a leak, when I eat, and when I sleep. This treatment seems eerily similar to the sort of torture covert operatives would use against terrorists they don’t plan to release, ever. I can only hope he means it when he says it’ll stop when I shift.

At least I’m clean and wearing clothes again. Even cold, the shower was nice. In fact, it probably helped relieve some of the pain. I shouldn’t have been so quick to gratitude for not being sprayed with the hose. My skin is roasting, and the heat seems to radiate out of me from my very core. Never having been beaten this way, I’m not sure if it’s a normal response or a wolf thing. I’m certainly swollen, particularly on my face and ribs, so that could be it.

The one consolation I have with the abuse is knowing that by tomorrow, my body will more or less repair itself. I never had these abilities before, but I just assume that was because my mom bound my magic so tightly it overrode mystical wolf healing as well.

However, I wonder if it gives them free license to brutalize people even more, knowing that it won’t affect their victims the next day.

Just as my stomach rumbles angrily, the door creaks open and the sound of footsteps reaches my ears. With a groan, I drag myself away from the wall and open my one functional eye.

“I have to say, I’ve seen you in better shape, Leaf.” Azalea’s tone is sarcastic as usual, but there’s a flatness to it, as if her heart really isn’t in it.

She sets the tray on the low table by my bed and steps back, watching me.

Given my inability to make a single sound, I choose to ignore her and focus on my food.

If I had to say one nice thing about this place, it’d be that they don’t skimp on the menu. The tray is laden with a thick steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, a pile of roasted carrots, and several dinner rolls. I’m certain it ties into the healing; from the times I remember Mom treating members of the pack, she always advised them to eat well, more than they’d ordinarily consume, if they could. She told them their innate healing would take over where she left off—typically she only saw someone if they had a severe injury like a broken bone—but that it consumes a large quantity of energy to do it. If they were half starving, they wouldn’t be able to heal as quickly.

Despite the similarly large breakfast this morning, I feel as though I haven’t eaten for days. I lean over the tray and shovel the food into my mouth as quickly as I can swallow it.

Azalea, unfortunately, still hasn’t departed. “Well, I think they’re already achieving some success with this little program, don’t you? You may be dressed like a man, but you’re acting like a caged animal.”

My hand tightens on the soft buttered roll, and I clench my teeth against the urge to reply. The collar is as sealed to my flesh as ever, and it’s reminded frequently what happens if I so much as growl.

Angrily, I shove the roll into my mouth and continue eating.

My lack of response spurs her to continue. “Look at that. It seems you can teach an old dog new tricks. Should I say congratulations, or ‘good boy’?”

I raise my head to glare at her with my one partially open eye and finally realize something’s off with her. She’s changed her hair from hot pink to a shocking purple color, but that’s not it. Despite her smirk and wide-legged stance, something’s leaking through the façade. I study her, the food before me temporarily forgotten.

What is it? What’s changed? What am I picking up on?

It takes several minutes of staring at Azalea, with her gazing indifferently back at me, before I realize it. What I’m noticing has nothing to do with her appearance.

It’s her scent.

The food distracted me at first, filling my senses and triggering the powerful need to fill my belly.

But as I grew accustomed to it, I started noticing other smells. I haven’t left this room for days, so every fragrance here is intimately familiar and I’ve grown to ignore them without conscious effort.

I draw in a deep breath, closing my eye to focus on the nuances.

Of course, there’s the immediate hit of the sickeningly sweet perfume she wears, and beneath that, the scent of herbs I associate with Grannie’s house; she must have been there recently.

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