The Alpha Who Refused to Let Me Go

The chain allows me exactly twelve feet of movement in any direction from the bed.

I discover this through methodical exploration, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet as I test the boundaries of my prison. Twelve feet gets me to the bathroom door—unlocked, thankfully, though the irony isn't lost on me that he's given me privacy for basic human needs while denying me everything else. Twelve feet gets me to the walk-in closet, where my clothes still hang exactly as I left them three years ago, as if he expected me to return.

As if he knew I would return.

But twelve feet doesn't get me to the bedroom door. I fall short by at least three feet, the chain pulling taut around my ankle with a soft metallic clink that sounds obscenely loud in the silence. I tug at it experimentally, then with increasing desperation, until the metal bites into my skin and draws blood.

Nothing. The chain might as well be welded to the floor.

I sink onto the window seat—the same one where we used to watch sunsets together—and stare out at the familiar landscape of Ravencrest territory. The training grounds are empty in the gray afternoon light, but I can see pack members moving in the distance, going about their daily lives as if the world hasn't tilted off its axis.

As if their Luna hasn't been dragged back in chains.

Everything in this room is exactly as I left it. My books are still stacked on the nightstand, a bookmark protruding from the romance novel I never finished reading. The throw pillow I embroidered with our initials during those first blissful months still sits in the corner of the reading chair. Even the half-empty bottle of perfume on the vanity remains, as if time stopped the moment I walked out that door.

The preservation feels deliberate. Obsessive. Like a shrine to what we used to be.

My reflection catches my eye in the vanity mirror, and I barely recognize the woman staring back. My hair is tangled from sleep and struggle, my eyes red-rimmed and hollow. The mark on my neck throbs with each heartbeat, a visible reminder of his dominance, of how easily he can still control me.

I touch it gingerly, and the contact sends an unwelcome shiver through the mate bond. Even unconscious, even furious, my body remembers his touch. My wolf stirs restlessly, confused by the conflicting signals—mate nearby, but danger, safety but captivity.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway makes me freeze.

Heavy boots on hardwood, the confident stride I know as well as my own heartbeat. My pulse spikes as the footsteps pause outside the bedroom door, and I find myself backing away from the entrance even though the chain prevents me from getting far.

The door opens without ceremony.

Gabriele enters carrying a silver tray, his movements controlled and deliberate. He's changed clothes since the apartment—gone is the dark suit, replaced by jeans and a black sweater that clings to his broad shoulders. He looks more like the man I married, less like the cold stranger who destroyed my life.

The illusion makes my chest ache.

He sets the tray on the small table near the window seat without looking at me, his expression carefully blank. I can smell the food—soup, bread, something that might have been my favorite once upon a time. My stomach clenches with hunger, but I ignore it.

"Why?" The word bursts out of me before I can stop it. "Why did you bring me back here?"

He doesn't answer, doesn't even acknowledge that I've spoken. He simply adjusts the placement of the water glass with meticulous precision.

"Answer me!" My voice cracks with desperation. "You made it clear three years ago that you didn't want me. You couldn't even look at me toward the end. So why drag me back? Why chain me up like some kind of prisoner?"

Still nothing. His silence is more infuriating than any cruel words could be.

"What do you want from me?" I'm on my feet now, the chain rattling as I move closer to him. "Revenge? Is that what this is? You want to punish me for leaving?"

Something flickers across his features—too quick to identify—but his expression remains impassive.

"I had a life!" The words pour out of me in a torrent of pain and fury. "I had a job, friends, a future that didn't revolve around your moods and your cruelty. I was healing, damn you. I was finally healing from what you did to me."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"And that night—" My voice breaks on the words, three years of suppressed grief rising to the surface. "I was in hospital crying for our baby, and you weren't there. You couldn't be bothered to—"

"Enough of lies." The word cuts through my rant like a blade.

I stare at him, chest heaving, tears streaming down my face. "Enough of lies? That's all you have to say? After everything you put me through, after dragging me back here against my will, 'enough' is your only response?"

Something shifts in his dark eyes—a flicker of what might be confusion, or pain, or anger. But it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

He takes a step toward me, and I instinctively back away until my shoulders hit the wall. The mate bond flares between us, responding to his proximity with a heat that makes my skin flush despite my fury.

"Don't," I whisper, but the word comes out breathless rather than commanding.

He doesn't stop. Another step, then another, until he's close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. His scent surrounds me—pine and leather and something uniquely him that makes my wolf whimper with longing.

"You want to know why I brought you back?" His voice is low, rough with an emotion I can't identify. His hands come up to brace against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in. "You want to know what I want from you?"

I can't speak, can barely breathe with him this close. The mate bond thrums between us like a live wire, flooding my system with a cocktail of desire and terror that leaves me dizzy.

His head dips until his lips are a breath away from my ear. "I want what's mine, Primrose. I want what you took from me when you ran."

Before I can ask what he means, his mouth crashes down on mine with desperate, punishing intensity. The kiss is nothing like the gentle affection we once shared—it's all teeth and tongue and barely controlled violence, a claiming rather than a caress.

My body responds despite my mind's protests, the mate bond overriding rational thought with pure, overwhelming need. My hands fist in his sweater, and I can't tell if I'm trying to push him away or pull him closer.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down my throat, his teeth scraping over the mark he left earlier. The sensation sends lightning through my veins, and I bite back a moan that would only encourage him.

"I hate you," I gasp, but the words lack conviction.

"I know," he murmurs against my skin, his hands sliding down to grip my hips. "But you're still mine."