Page 20 of Enemies By Fate

“You’re not giving us much information to make this easier for you,” he reminds me. “How can we give you answers if you don’t even know who you’re talking about?”

His even tone and logic put me at ease. Unlike Malachi, he’s not being condescending, but I get the sense that my lack of answers is bothering him, too.

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“I appreciate that. Please eat. It’s getting cold.” He gestures to the plate again, his movements leaving no room for protest.

Sighing, I pick up my fork and oblige him, wanting to make something of an ally of him at least. Besides, the food is excellent.

“But I don’t know what you expect us to do with what you’ve told us,” Asher continues when I take another bite of the melt-in-your-mouth roast beef. Swallowing, I again set my cutlery down and stare at him imploringly, sliding closer to him.

“What about the prisoners?” I ask.

Baffled, he gapes at me. “What about them?”

“What can you tell me about them?”

A shadow crosses over his beautiful amber irises, skepticism straightening his spine. “What doyouknow about them?” he asks.

“Nothing!” I promise him. “But they seemed to know something about me—the one especially. He kept looking at the mark behind my ear.”

Asher’s face softens at the mention. “I noticed that mark. What is it?”

I shake my head. “I really don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “It may have been there all along, but like the dreams, I only noticed it a year ago.”

Asher gnaws on the insides of his cheeks pensively. “A lot seems to have happened a year ago,” he muses. “I wonder what the catalyst was.”

“Me too,” I agree, nodding vehemently. “I mean, besides turning twenty-two.”

Asher’s gaze locks on mine, his expression losing the rest of his hardness as he studies my face.

“They’re political prisoners,” Asher explains. “Rebels.”

“Rebels?” I repeat. “What are they rebelling against?”

Asher grimaces lightly, his fingers reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair out of my face. “The Apex Alphas and our hierarchy.”

Dumbfounded, I stare at him. “I… I don’t understand,” I say, feeling lost.

He grunts and laughs humorlessly. “I’m not sure I do either at this point. It’s a practice that’s centuries old, but some still fight for the old way. Heretics, relics—I don’t even know what the hell we call them anymore. There are fewer and fewer of them with each passing year, but they still exist. They fight against the triads of Apex Alphas and want the old way of rule.”

My next question sticks to the roof of my mouth, the answer frightening me, but Asher responds to it, even before I can pose it.

“You want to know why we don’t just kill them?” he asks.

I dart my eyes away, blood draining from my face.

“I don’t really know how pack business works,” I mumble. “I’ve never belonged to one.”

“Normally, that’s exactly what we would do with traitors,” he explains. “But in the case of these rebels, we keep them alive for two reasons; one, in hopes that they give us more names as their months and years get more dismal. We can offer perks if they give up other members of their organization. But truthfully, it’s to make an example of them for anyone else who is thinking of defecting. Life in the underground cells is a fate worse than death. They have no access to their loved ones or packs. They just waste away down there, day and night, going crazier.”

Appalled by the cruelty and the conversational way Asher says it, I can only gawk at him.

“They were once your pack members, weren’t they? Your friends?” I ask, aghast.

Sadly, Asher shrugs, his fingers lingering on my cheek. I feel his pulse through his fingertips, synching with mine, and suddenly I’m conscious of how close our faces are to one another.

How does this keep happening?

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