Page 8 of Wolf Proclaimed

Just as I had feared, his sharp gaze followed our every move. As we wandered toward the exit, his voice rang out, crisp and clear, "Theon, bring her back."

The room fell into a sudden hush, all eyes turning to Bastian. His tone had no room for argument, a clear reminder of his status as the alpha. Although the command was directed at Theon, it also served as a warning for me. It reminded me that my attempts to escape were being observed.

Theon, ever the loyal pack member, looked torn. His gaze flitted from me to Bastian, conflict apparent in his eyes. But the authority in Bastian's voice was undeniable. With a curt nod, he turned back to me, a trace of regret flickering in his eyes.

"Bastian's orders, Mira," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper as he guided me back to the dining room. I clenched my fists as I realized my plan had been thwarted. Yet, I was undeterred. This was just a minor setback, I told myself. I was far from giving up.

Fierce anger ignited within me as I found myself guided back to Bastian. It was a blazing inferno, threatening to consume me. Still, I managed to keep it hidden behind a veneer of feigned intoxication. With a wild laugh, I staggered towards Bastian and plopped onto his lap.

Theon and Dmitri joined in my laughter, their amusement ringing loud and clear in the room. "Bastian," Theon jeered, a grin splitting his face, "Why don't you take her back to your room? And if she wears you out, give us a call!" Dmitri chimed in with a chuckle, the mood in the room lightening considerably.

Through the fog of my pretended drunkenness, I watched Bastian. His face remained stoic, a sharp contrast to the joviality of the others. Silently, he lifted me from his lap, cradling me in his strong arms. With one last lingering glance at Theon and Dmitri, he began to carry me out of the room, his firm and gentle hold on me.

As we moved through the corridor toward his bedroom, I draped my arms around his neck, my fingers dancing through his hair. My laughter had faded, replaced by the steady thumping of my heart against my chest. I planted kisses along his neck, each a step closer to my plan and escape.

In the quiet solitude of his bedroom, he laid me down on the bed. As he turned to leave, presumably to make some tea or find something to ease my supposed drunkenness, my mind was already racing. This was it. This was my opportunity. With Bastian out of the room, I could implement my plan.

The thought of what I was about to do was terrifying, but I was beyond fear now. It was replaced by a desperate determination, an unwavering resolve to reclaim my freedom. This was a matter of survival.

As I rose from the bed, readying myself for what was to come, I could feel the room walls closing in on me. But I wasn't going to let fear control me. Not this time. I had a plan. And I was ready to see it through. No matter what.

The room was bathed in a deceptive serenity as I stood there, the cold iron of the fireplace poker gripped tightly in my hands. The flickering flames cast long, dancing shadows, turning the room into a theatre of anticipation. My heart pounded like a drum; each beat a ticking countdown to the moment of confrontation.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, each a thunderous declaration of his return. He was coming back, oblivious to the storm about to break. The handle of the door turned, a creak echoing through the room, slicing the silence like a knife.

As Bastian stepped into the room, a cup of hot tea in his hands, his eyes met mine. We were frozen in time for a moment, two statues caught in a dance of deception and desperation. Then, reality came crashing down.

With a roar that ripped through the silence, I lunged at him. The fireplace poker swung through the air, a deadly arc of vengeance and freedom. Bastian's eyes widened in shock, the cup slipping from his grasp and crashing onto the floor, hot tea splashing across the cold wooden planks.

The room, once a sanctuary of comfort, was now a battlefield, and I was a soldier on the verge of her most important fight. As I moved towards Bastian, my eyes locked onto his, and I felt a rush of determination. I was not the prey here. I was the hunter. And I was ready for the fight!

Chapter Five

The Art of Rebellion

Mira

The first light of dawn was still just a promise on the horizon as I sat on the edge of the bed, my mind caught in a relentless loop. The memory of my failed assassination attempt was as fresh as the cool morning air seeping through the window. I could still feel the weight of the fireplace poker in my hands and the shock of being disarmed so easily.

"Fool," I muttered to myself, staring blankly at the wooden floor beneath my bare feet. "Thought you were clever, didn't you?"

I was talking to myself again, like two people trapped in one body. There was Mira, the planner, the strategic thinker, who had always been good at considering all possible outcomes. And then there was Mira, impulsive and desperate, the action-taker who had attacked Bastian without thinking through the consequences.

"You had a chance," I mumbled, the words barely escaping my lips. "One chance and you blew it."

My fists clenched as the reality of my situation sunk in deeper. I had tried to kill Bastian, and I had failed. Now I was stuck here, under his watchful eye, with his guards lingering outside the door like shadows that never faded.

A surge of frustration bubbled up within me, heating my veins. I was angry at myself for my failure, for my impulsive move, for the situation I was now in. But most of all, I was angry at Bastian. I was a captive in his cabin, an animal in a cage, and all my cunning and strategy had come to naught.

"Next time," I said aloud, a determined glare in my eyes as I glanced up to meet my reflection in the mirror across the room. "Next time, it won't be so easy for him."

My failure would not be my end. It would be the beginning of my path to victory. I had lost a battle but had not yet lost the war.

The sound of the cabin door opening broke me from my introspective haze. I didn't need to look up to know it was him. Bastian. He had a way of invading a room, of bending the atmosphere around him until it was as stormy and volatile as he was.

"I see you're awake," he noted, his voice radiating an unmistakable touch of amusement. I pictured the smug, self-satisfied grin he was likely sporting—the expression of a man who mistakenly believed he had the upper hand.

"Surprised I'm not weeping in the corner?" I retorted, lacing my words with as much venom as I could muster.

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