Page 99 of Chained By the Alpha
“He’s telling the truth?” he asks, and I look at Zayn.
“His word is good,” I tell the man, and he nods slowly before pushing out his stool to stand.
“Okay, I will take you to them, but you can’t hurt them. We are mostly families there, women, children, the only men left were sent here, and your people killed most of us off,” he admits, his lips quivering.
“I’m not about to hurt women and children. I may be an asshole, but I’m not a monster,” Zayn tells him.
Chapter 17
• Cleo •
It took us forty-five minutes for the rogue to lead us to the place they have turned into their own campground—deep into the forest, down an almost concealed hiking trail. The path is narrow and overgrown, with branches whipping at our faces and underbrush snagging at our clothes as we push through the dense foliage. I clutch Zayn’s hand tightly, my heart hammering as we make our way deeper into the wilderness.
Finally, the rogue stopped and gestured toward a fallen tree, indicating we should climb over it. We followed his lead, stepping carefully over the thick trunk and emerging from the tree line into a small clearing. The sight that greeted us was both shocking and heart-wrenching.
A group of men, women, and children, all dressed in tattered clothing, are scattered around the clearing. Some are huddled around small fires. Others are sharpening their knives or tending to their meager possessions. Everywhere I look, there are signs of struggle and desperation—their makeshift tents are falling apart, the firewood is scarce, and there is a distinct smell of unwashed bodies and rot.
As we move closer to the group, I notice the hollow look in their eyes, the weariness that seems to weigh down every movement. This is a wasteland of despair, hidden from theworld’s eyes. And yet, here they are, surviving against all odds, a ragtag community of outcasts and rogues.
I clutch Zayn’s hand even tighter, feeling a surge of sympathy for these lost souls.
How did they end up here, and what have they endured to stay alive in this harsh environment? I can’t imagine the struggles they have faced; it is unfathomable to me that people have been forced to live this way.
The heavy scent of despair saturates the air, wrapping us in a suffocating embrace as Zayn and I cautiously enter the rogue commune. My heart constricts painfully at the sight of dilapidated tents and ramshackle shelters, hastily assembled with desperation etched into every cobbled-together area. My green eyes are wide with a mixture of horror and empathy as my gaze sweeps over the faces of those surrounding us— emaciated figures, their gaze hollow and haunted, mere shadows of wolves clinging to threadbare hope.
Silenced by the overwhelming scene before us, words evade me as I take in the dire living conditions. The ground beneath our feet yields uneasily, akin to swampland, a stark contrast to the city just within reach. The abrupt realization that while we live luxuriously in warmth and comfort, this makeshift community operates with nothing and is forced on the fringes of society shakes me to my core. The very earth seems to cry out in silent protest against such injustice.
“Zayn,” I murmur, my voice trembling with raw emotion. Zayn’s bewildered gaze meets mine, joined by Vance and his men, all struck speechless by the stark variance laid bare before them. Despite being in close proximity to the bustling city, here lies forgotten families living off scraps of what our city discards. Our own kind turns a blind eye to their plight, condemning them to endure inhumane conditions exposed to the elements while trying to care for children.
Amidst this desolation, children flit about with carefree abandon, their laughter piercing through the veil of suffering like fragile rays of sunlight through storm clouds. Their innocence is untouched by the harsh reality that envelopes them—the legacy of neglect passed down through generations within my mother’s old pack, making me realize these kids don’t know any different than how they live now. It saddens me.
Blake waves us forward, urging us toward the center where a group of women are cleaning fish that have been caught. There are hardly any men in sight, those who remain immediately stand as we approach. Zayn raises his hands in a placating gesture, as if he wants to convey to the men he means no one here harm.
Blake rushes ahead, eager to explain why we are there. The men who linger are cautious, aware they cannot stop Zayn’s men who already outnumber what’s left of the men here. “Zayn, they’re not a threat,” I whisper, and he nods slowly, understanding my concern.
“I know,” Zayn replies, motioning for his men to stand down and come over. Vance is the first to join him, he has the same horrified expression I do, as muddy children rush around.
“They’re barely surviving,” I whisper, my heart aching at the sight of the desperate people.
Zayn’s jaw clenches, and the silver of his eyes darkens to a stormy hue as he surveys the place. “This shouldn’t exist,” he growls. The Alpha power in his voice makes the air vibrate around us. I’m sickened that my father would cast out so many, knowing the dangers of rogues—actual rogues—and if all these people hadn’t stuck together when they did, they’d probably be just as crazed as the rest of the rogues. They’ve somehow formed a pack of the packless.
We continue to observe the scene. The desperation they feel is palpable, and it’s clear they have banded together tosurvive in a world where many struggle to do so. The image of the women cleaning fish, the children rushing around, and the men standing guard is one I won’t soon forget. It hits me harder knowing that my father declared me a rogue, and didn’t care if this was the sort of life I lived. If it weren’t for Zayn, I could very well be in their place.
We can’t turn our backs on them now, the challenge of helping them reintegrate into society while ensuring they don’t become a danger to others will be a difficult one as they adjust.
“How many people are here, Blake?” Zayn asks, and he turns around. Only now does he have a child in his arms. She clings to the shirt Zayn gave him, the sweater she wears swallowing her small frame.
“This is Piper, my sister.” I raise my brows, and I glance at Zayn, who seems to come to the same conclusion; if our roles were reversed, we would have all done the same thing, especially when staring into the eyes of a child. Piper appears to be about nine years old; her blonde hair is matted with mud, grass, and twigs.
“Roughly seventy of us are here.”
“All from Alpha Joseph’s pack?” Zayn asks. Blake shrugs, looking at one of the other men.
A man with salt and pepper hair comes closer; he’d have to be the oldest here. “No, some of us are from Alpha Samuel and Alpha Dane’s pack; very few, the majority are from Joseph’s,” he answers.
I tilt my head to the side, staring at the man in front of me. He appears to be in his fifties, with deep wrinkles etched into his face. His eyes are piercing blue. There is something about him that seems familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“You look like your mother, Cleo,” he tells me, and I worry they will hate me for what my father did to them.
