Page 37 of Of Wolves and Wives

On the third day, I’m sitting next to the door. Throughout the last day, Heath has appeared long enough to slip slices of bread, chunks of cheese, and a handful of grapes to me. I find myself looking forward to the moments that I know he’s there. My stomach settles then, and my head clears for just a moment knowing that I’m not completely alone here. I hear approaching footsteps, but they’re too light to belong to Heath. For a moment, I let myself hope that it’s Helena come to free me.

“Rose?”

“Go away,” I hiss.

Rage fills me at the sound of Lyra’s voice through the door.

“Please, Rose, let me explain. You have to listen to me.”

“No,” I snap. “If Peirce dies, I blame you. Hell, I blame you for everything anyway. He protected me, and you had him punished for that. I want nothing to do with you.”

“Please.”

Her voice cracks, and I can imagine tears staining her cheeks. Good. She should feel as bad as she does. After all, if she hadn’t attempted to strike me, then Peirce would be fine. If she hadn’t gone running to the prince after ignoring my warnings, then everything would be okay. Yet, here we are.

“I never want to hear from you,” I tell her.

I hear her sob as I stand. For just a moment, my anger pulls back as guilt surfaces. But I’m quick to shove that away. She doesn’t deserve that from me. Gritting my teeth, I pace away from the door and my emotions. Let her suffer. She’s only brought it upon herself. The traitorous creature that she is. It’s clear she never would’ve lasted a day on the streets of our city.

After that, the days begin to blur together. I’m not entirely sure how many pass. Each time I open my eyes, I find a new level to my hunger and desire. Heath’s visits have slowly trickled off. I’m worried about him when two days pass without him coming to whisper assurances and slip me food.

I worry that with Helena out of the picture for now that the prince will be unable, or unwilling, to stay his hand. He doesn’t strike me as the type that truly cares about this Blood Law. I wouldn’t be surprised if he found a way to kill off my mates. The thought sends shudders of horror through me. Shaking off thoughts of any of them being dead, I take to pacing.

More days pass, and without Heath or the others nearby, I begin to spiral. My stomach protests more and more as I spend hours dry heaving. Not only that, but there’s a fire in my core that I can’t extinguish. My desire seems to be growing along with my hunger. It feels as though I’ve gone into heat, and I have no idea how to handle it.

Until finally, I have no choice but to take matters into my own hands. The temporary relief I find isn’t enough, though. I need one of my men. Desperately. Just the thought of them sends me tumbling into a maze of lust and need.

I’m also starved. Each time I crack my eyes open, my stomach lets out a deep growl to remind me that I’m ignoring it. My days are spent daydreaming of being reunited with my men and eating. I find myself longing for a steak. The juices dripping from my chin as I devour it. Really, raw meat is the only thing that sounds any bit appetizing to me. Everything else turns my stomach sour.

Soon, my dreams are filled with me running through the trees. I’m hunting, I realize in my waking hours. Stalking down my prey before sinking my teeth into its flesh. I often wake with disgust on my tongue. The threads of what remains of my human leaving me horrified. But the rest of me longs to be free. To move quietly through the trees as I hunt birds. The movement of their squirming bodies just before I bite into them becomes almost too real that I stop letting myself sleep.

I’m terrified of whatever is happening to me. Deep down inside me, I can feel something new unleashing. Something primal and wanton. So, unlike myself that I’m not sure what to do about it. I want to ask Heath, or Peirce, or Rykker. To hear their voices, to feel their arms around me as they assure me that everything is fine.

All I can think about, without my stomach protesting, is raw meat. It doesn’t take long for thoughts of it to consume even my waking hours. Early into my imprisonment, I realize that I can sip from the tap in the wall. It’s enough to keep me alive, for now. But it does nothing to satisfy my hunger. My need for raw meat. Even if it’s a small relief that I won’t die of thirst, I’m starting to think I might succumb to starvation instead.

22

Rose

Slowly, the days become weeks. I’m surprised that I’ve lasted so long without food. Alone in the room, I keep waiting for my last breath to come. But it never does. Loneliness slowly begins to eat at my sanity, though. And my hunger for my mates and food has reached new heights.

Still, I’m alive. I suppose I should be thankful for that. The last thing I want is for the wolves to be my demise. I hate that I’m trapped here. Unable to leave even though I know that each day ticks closer and closer to the day when the prince remembers I exist and comes to finish me.

I find myself staring more and more out at the balcony. One dark night I even stepped into the crisp air. Peering over the edge, I hated how tempted I’d been. The fall would’ve been enough to end me. But I didn’t let myself do anything more than look at the ground below. My hand protectively on my stomach. I couldn’t end myself, not when I was carrying this child. For their sake, I have to survive.

This child has to live, for more than just me. I have a small hope that what Heath said is true. That if this child is the Grey Prince, it can lead to the end of the suffering. Women won’t have to be pulled from their homes. The future suffering of hundreds could be erased with this child’s birth. At least, I hope so. This hope is often the only thing getting me through the long days.

I do my best to avoid the balcony, the pull of ending this endless torture. The loneliness starts to weigh on me by the third week. Or maybe fourth. I’m not too sure. My mind has stopped keeping track of the days and nights. I only know that my stomach has begun to swell, proof that the child inside me is still growing despite the lack of food. I suppose what Peirce mentioned about shifter pregnancies being quicker wasn’t a lie. It seems that this one has progressed faster than I expected.

More than just my stomach has changed, though. The few glimpses I’ve braved of myself in the mirror has confirmed that I’m no longer the woman I was when I first came here. For the first time in my life, I have curves, thanks to the pregnancy. I hate it. Nothing feels right on me anymore. My movement is slower as well, thanks to the added curves. And my stomach. Soon, I’ll be unable to move quick enough should I need to. That thought worries me the most.

It doesn’t take long for my body to begin to ache. Specifically my breasts. They’re painfully tender. Any wrong movement, and I’m left a whimpering mess. I’m thankful that the few dresses left in the room are flowy enough that I don’t have to worry about a corset or anything. Sleep is a battle, though. I can’t curl up comfortably anymore. Nor can I ever seem to find a position that relieves the pressure on my back. I can’t wait for my curves to disappear once I’ve given birth.

But it’s more than just my body that’s changed. My hair is thicker than normal, shiny in the sun as I let it dry after using the faucet to clean myself. Despite the scars that dot my skin, it’s radiant and glowing. Hell, I even think my scares and imperfections have faded. One afternoon, I catch my reflection just right, and I realize that my features have sharpened as well.

While I at least appreciate my glowing skin and hair, I could do without my nails. No matter what I do, they grow long and sharp. I’m reminded of claws each time I glance at my hands. No matter how often I scratch them along the rough stone of the walls, they don’t seem to file down. It feels like most of my days are spent attempting to tame my nails. Not even enough of a task to keep my mind engaged enough to stop worrying about my mates or my hunger.

Eventually, boredom has me filing my nails into sharp points. They’re strong though I doubt they’ll help me when the prince comes for me. I’m sure that he will. Unless he hopes that I take care of that myself with the edge of the balcony. Too bad I’m determined to see this child born in the hopes that it can take his throne from him.

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