Page 12 of His Mate

We kept moving, past more girls, more guards, all of them marching forward with that same vacant, hollow look, and I felt something inside me harden, something that refused to die, even as they tried to strip it away.

I wouldn’t let them take that from me. Not yet.

We reached another door, this one larger, with reinforced steel and a keypad beside it, and the second man punched in a code, the lock buzzing as it slid open. He shoved me through, and I stumbled into a small room, my heart pounding against myribs. He slammed the door behind me, and I was left alone once again.

The walls weren’t made of the same cold, hard steel I’d seen in the other rooms. They were padded, thick and soft, covered in a worn, grayish fabric that gave way beneath my touch. The floor was the same, yielding slightly as I shifted, my bare feet pressing into the padding. Even the ceiling was lined with that same material, dull and featureless, like it was designed to muffle sound, to swallow any scream or cry before it could escape.

Immediately, a bad feeling simmered in the pit of my stomach, and it wouldn’t go away.

I sat down on a bench against the wall, drawing my knees closer to my chest, and tried to ignore the ache in my bones, the way my skin still felt raw from their rough hands. I focused on the door instead, that single metal slab set into the wall. There was a small slat at the bottom, just big enough for a tray to be slipped through, and I watched it like it might suddenly spring open, like it might spit out something that would finally make sense of all this.

As if on cue, the slat opened with a soft metallic scrape, and a tray slid through, the smell hitting me all at once—warm, rich, savory. My stomach twisted, a loud growl escaping before I could stop it, and I hated myself for it.

I stared down at the tray, at the plate of food they’d given me, and felt my mouth water despite everything. There was a piece of roasted chicken, the skin golden and crispy, with juices pooling around it, a pile of mashed potatoes that looked so creamy they might melt in my mouth, and a slice of bread, with butter already melting into the surface. A small cup of something dark and sweet sat in the corner—probably juice, or maybe even wine—and I could see steam rising from it, curling up into the air like smoke.

I reached for it, my hand trembling, then froze, pulling back. No. They couldn’t just expect me to sit here and eat, like some kind of animal waiting to be fattened up. I thought about kicking the tray away, of letting the food rot, of proving to them that I was stronger than this.

But then I thought about the two men from before, about the way they’d grabbed me, the strength in their hands, and I knew if I didn’t eat, they’d make me. They’d force every bite down my throat until I choked on it, until I had no choice but to swallow. This wasn’t a game I could win by starving myself.

So I picked up the fork and knife with shaky hands, my heart still racing, and cut off a piece of the chicken. The meat practically fell apart under the blade, tender and juicy, and when I brought it to my mouth, the flavor exploded across my tongue. I’d forgotten what food could taste like, what it could feel like to eat something warm, something seasoned. It was so good, so unbelievably good, that I nearly cried, my eyes stinging as I took another bite. And then another.

The potatoes were creamy, buttery, with just a hint of garlic that made my taste buds come alive, and the bread was soft and warm, perfectly chewy, the butter salty and rich as it melted on my tongue. I ate like I was starving, every bite more precious than the last, my hands shaking as I shoveled it into my mouth, desperate to fill the empty pit that had been gnawing at me for as long as I could remember.

I didn’t want to enjoy it. I didn’t want to give them that victory. But as I scraped the last of the potatoes from the plate, licking the fork clean, I couldn’t deny it—this was the best meal I’d everhad in my life. I hated them for giving it to me. Hated how much I wanted more.

When I finished, I sat back against the padded wall, staring at the empty plate, the tiny drops of sauce that clung to the edges, and I felt a tear slip down my cheek, hot and bitter.

They wanted me to feel grateful. They wanted me to think this was a gift.

But it wasn’t. It was a reminder that they owned me now. And no matter how good the food tasted, it didn’t change that one simple, undeniable fact.

I was theirs. I belonged to the wolves now.

CHAPTER 4

Rowan

The wind whipped past me, howling through the shattered remains of the city as I sprinted over broken pavement and crumbling concrete, my feet pounding against the ground in a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of my heart. My breaths came in short, ragged bursts, and I could feel the cold air biting at my lungs, but I couldn’t afford to slow down.

Not now. Not when they were so close.

I glanced back, just for a second, and caught a glimpse of them—dark shapes moving in unison, their eyes glowing faintly in the gloom. They were faster than I’d expected, more organized, and the realization sent a spike of adrenaline racing through my veins.

I pushed myself harder, my muscles burning, the ground blurring beneath me as I took a sharp turn down a narrow alleyway, vaulting over a rusted dumpster and slipping through a gap in a crumbling brick wall. I could feel my heart hammeringin my ears, a frantic, desperate rhythm that drowned out everything else.

Ahead of me, the alleyway split into two paths, and I veered left, ducking under a low-hanging beam and sprinting across an overgrown lot. Broken glass crunched underfoot, and I cursed the noise, knowing it would only draw them closer. I could hear them behind me now, their footsteps echoing off the walls, the low growls rumbling in their chests, and I knew they were gaining on me.

“Come on, Rowan,” I muttered to myself, forcing my legs to move faster, ignoring the burning in my lungs. “Just a little further.”

The city loomed around me. It was a graveyard, a monument to everything that had been lost when the virus tore through the population, transforming some into wolves and leaving the rest to fight over the scraps.

It wasn’t long after the first outbreaks that the wolves took control, forming their own hierarchy, a twisted version of the government that had collapsed in the chaos. The strongest took over, and those who had been among the earliest infected—the ones who were nearly immortal, the ones who didn’t age, who had survived the worst of the mutations—sat at the top. They called themselves the Primals, and they’d spent the last several decades carving out their kingdom from the bones of what used to be.

I’d been one of the first, too. The first, actually. The virus had twisted me into what I was now. Like them, I was nearly immortal, but I’d never wanted to rule.

For years, I’d refused to kneel to those that governed. Refused to bow to their rules, to their idea of what the world should be. And for the most part, they’d let me be. I kept to the outskirts, slipping through the cracks, always one step ahead, always just out of reach.

Until now.

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