Chapter 20
title: "The Cell and the Confession" wordCount: 2698
The silver burns into my wrists before I'm fully conscious, and the first thing I smell is my own blood.
I jerk awake. Metal scrapes against stone. My arms are stretched above my head, shackled to a bolt in the concrete wall. The restraints are lined with silver—I can feel it eating into my skin, smell the char of burned flesh mixing with the copper tang of blood.
The cell is small. Eight feet by eight feet. No windows. One door, reinforced steel with a silver inlay that makes my wolf recoil even from across the room.
I try to remember how I got here.
The explosion. Declan on the ground. Matthias emerging from the smoke with those wrong, black eyes.
Then nothing.
A gap. A void where memory should be.
My stomach lurches. I've had blackouts before—small ones, moments where time skipped forward and I couldn't account for the missing seconds. But this is different. This is hours.
The watch on my wrist is still ticking. 2:17 PM.
The last thing I remember, it was barely past midnight.
"Fuck." The word comes out hoarse. My throat feels raw, like I've been screaming.
The door opens.
Garrett Voss steps inside, and he's smiling. Not the polite, corporate smile he wears in pack meetings. This one reaches his eyes, makes them crinkle at the corners.
That's how I know I'm fucked.
"Sloane Carrigan." He says my full name like he's savoring it. "You have had quite the evening."
"Where's Declan?"
"We will get to that." He's carrying a tablet. The screen is dark. "First, I think you should see something."
"I don't want to see anything. I want to know where—"
"Declan Thorne is in the medical wing." Garrett's smile doesn't waver. "Whether he survives the next twenty-four hours remains to be seen."
The silver burns deeper. I can't feel the mate bond. Can't feel anything where that constant pull used to be, that awareness of Declan's presence like a second heartbeat.
Either the silver is blocking it, or—
"What did I do?"
"You do not remember?" Garrett sounds delighted. He taps the tablet screen. "That is fascinating. Truly."
The video starts playing.
Security footage. Black and white, grainy, but clear enough. The timestamp reads 12:47 AM. The location tag says NORTH PARKING STRUCTURE.
I'm on screen. Standing over someone.
Declan.
He's on the ground, bleeding. His shirt is shredded. Four parallel gashes across his chest, deep enough that I can see bone even through the pixelated footage.
The me on screen has her claws extended. Blood drips from her fingers—his blood—and she's just standing there, watching him bleed.
Her eyes are black.
Not wolf-gold. Not human. Black from edge to edge, like someone filled them with ink.
"Turn it off."
"In a moment." Garrett's voice is soft. Almost gentle. "Watch what happens next."
On screen, Declan tries to speak. His mouth moves. The me-that-isn't-me tilts her head, listening. Then she crouches down, brings her claws to his throat.
She's going to kill him.
I watch myself prepare to slit my mate's throat, and I can't remember any of it.
"Turn it off!"
Garrett taps the screen. The video stops. "You attacked Declan Thorne with intent to kill. You very nearly succeeded. The only reason he is still breathing is because Marcus Thorne arrived and managed to subdue you."
"That wasn't me."
"The footage suggests otherwise."
"My eyes—did you see my eyes?"
"I saw a wolf who lost control." Garrett sets the tablet on the floor, just out of reach. "The Conclave has very clear laws about this, Sloane Carrigan. When a wolf attacks their mate, when they attempt to sever the bond through violence, the penalty is death."
The silver bites deeper. I can feel my skin trying to heal, failing, burning again. "I didn't—I wouldn't—"
"The evidence is quite compelling."
"Then why am I still alive?"
Garrett's smile widens. "Because I convinced the Conclave to grant a seventy-two-hour investigation period. I argued that your recent trauma—the loss of your pack, the stress of the alpha challenge—might constitute extenuating circumstances. They were not inclined to agree, but I can be very persuasive when I choose to be."
"You want something."
"I want the truth." He moves closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and cloying. "What are you, Sloane? Because that thing on the video, the one with the black eyes and the complete disregard for the mate bond—that is not a normal wolf."
"I don't know what I am."
"I think you do." His voice drops. "I think you have always known there was something wrong inside you. Something that does not belong."
The watch ticks. 2:23 PM.
"Get out."
"I will leave you to rest." Garrett picks up the tablet. "But I suggest you think very carefully about your next moves, Sloane Carrigan. Because right now, the only thing standing between you and a Conclave execution is my goodwill. And we both know how quickly that can evaporate."
He leaves. The door locks behind him with a sound like a coffin closing.
I don't know how much time passes. Could be minutes. Could be hours. The silver makes everything blur together, pain and exhaustion and the constant, gnawing absence where the mate bond used to be.
I try to remember what happened after Matthias appeared.
Nothing.
I try to remember attacking Declan.
Nothing.
Just that gap, that void, and the video footage of someone wearing my face doing things I would never—
The door opens again.
Mira slips inside. She's wearing scrubs, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. There's blood on her sleeve—fresh blood, still wet.
"Jesus, Sloane." She crosses to me in three quick steps. "What the fuck did you do?"
"I don't remember."
"You don't—" She stops. Studies my face. "You're serious."
"I blacked out. I don't remember anything after Matthias showed up."
Mira's expression shifts. Something flickers behind her eyes—calculation, maybe, or recognition. "Matthias was there?"
"With five other black-eyed wolves. They came out of the smoke after the explosion."
"And then?"
"And then nothing. I woke up here." The silver burns. I grit my teeth against it. "Is Declan alive?"
"Barely." Mira glances at the door. "He lost a lot of blood. The wounds were deep—you hit major arteries. If Marcus hadn't gotten there when he did..."
"I didn't do it."
"The security footage says otherwise."
"My eyes were black, Mira. Did Garrett show you that part?"
She goes still. "What?"
"In the video. My eyes were black. Like Matthias. Like those other wolves." I lean forward as far as the chains allow. "Something took control. Something that isn't me."
Mira's quiet for a long moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is careful, measured in a way that makes my skin crawl. "Garrett didn't mention that detail in his briefing, which means he's either blind or he's choosing not to see it, and Garrett Voss doesn't miss details like that unless they don't fit his narrative."
"What's his narrative?"
"That you're unstable. Dangerous. That giving you the alpha position would be a threat to the entire pack." She pulls something from her pocket—a key. "I'm risking everything coming here, Sloane. If Garrett finds out I helped you—"
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I don't think you tried to kill Declan." She holds up the key. "And because I think if you stay in this cell, Garrett's going to make sure you never leave it alive."
The key glints in the fluorescent light. Small. Silver-plated.
"You want me to run."
"I want you to survive." Mira moves closer. "Look, I know we haven't exactly been friends. I know you don't trust me. But right now, I'm the only person in this pack house who's willing to help you."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch."
"Yeah, no. There's always a catch with you."
Mira's jaw tightens. "Fine. You want the truth? If you run, you forfeit your alpha claim. Garrett becomes alpha by default. The pack stays stable. Nobody else has to die."
"And you get to keep your position as his second."
"I get to keep the pack from tearing itself apart." She holds out the key. "Take it or don't. But decide fast, because Garrett's going to be back in twenty minutes with a Conclave representative, and once they formally charge you, there's no walking away."
I look at the key. At Mira's face, searching for the lie.
She's good. I'll give her that. Her expression is open, earnest. Almost convincing.
Almost.
"If I run, Garrett wins. He gets the pack, he gets to bury whatever the fuck is happening with the black-eyed wolves, and he gets to spin this whole thing as proof that I was never fit to lead." I meet her eyes. "Not my circus."
"Sloane—"
"I'm not running."
"Then you're going to die." Mira's voice rises. "Is that what you want? To die in a cell because you're too stubborn to—"
"I want to see Declan."
The words come out before I can stop them. Mira goes quiet.
"He's in the medical wing," she says finally. "Under guard. Garrett's orders."
"Has he been conscious?"
Something flickers across Mira's face. "I shouldn't tell you this."
"But you're going to."
She hesitates, and in that hesitation, I see it—the real reason she came here, the information she's been holding back, waiting for the right moment to deploy. "He's been asking for you. Every time he wakes up, your name is the first thing out of his mouth."
The absence where the mate bond used to be aches.
"Garrett won't let me see him."
"No." Mira pockets the key. "He won't. Not unless you give him something he wants."
"Like what?"
"Like a confession."
Garrett returns exactly twenty minutes later, just like Mira predicted.
This time, he's not smiling.
"Mira tells me you have refused her very generous offer of assistance," he says, and there's something cold in his voice now, something that wasn't there before. "That is unfortunate."
"I want to see Declan."
"That is not possible."
"You're holding me for attacking my mate. I have a right to see him."
"You have no rights." Garrett's voice is flat. "You are being held under Conclave authority for attempted murder. The only reason you are not already dead is because I have argued for leniency."
"Then let me see him. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
"And what will you give me in return?"
There it is. The trade. The deal.
I should have seen it coming.
"What do you want?"
Garrett pulls out a piece of paper. It's already typed, single-spaced, official Conclave letterhead at the top. "I want you to sign this."
"What is it?"
"A confession. Stating that you lost control of your wolf, that you attacked Declan Thorne without provocation, and that you accept full responsibility for your actions." He sets it on the floor next to the tablet. "Sign it, and I will allow you one supervised visit. Fifteen minutes. That is my offer."
"If I sign that, you'll use it to destroy my alpha claim."
"If you sign that, you will get to see Declan Thorne before he dies." Garrett's voice is soft. "Because he is dying, Sloane Carrigan. The wounds you inflicted are not healing the way they should. Something in your claws—some toxin or venom—is preventing his body from repairing itself. The pack healers estimate he has perhaps forty-eight hours left. Maybe less."
The silver burns. The absence aches.
"You're lying."
"I wish I were." Garrett crouches down, brings himself to eye level. "Sign the confession, see your mate one last time, and perhaps find some measure of peace before the Conclave passes judgment. Or refuse, and spend your final hours wondering if he died calling your name."
He leaves the paper on the floor. Leaves a pen next to it.
Then he walks out, and I'm alone with the choice.
I sign it.
Not because I believe Garrett. Not because I think it will save me.
I sign it because the alternative—dying in this cell without seeing Declan, without knowing if he's alive or afraid or in pain—is worse than whatever Garrett plans to do with my confession.
The guards come twenty minutes later. They unlock the shackles, replace them with silver cuffs that burn just as badly. My wrists are raw, blistered, weeping clear fluid that smells like infection.
They don't speak. Just grab my arms and haul me upright.
My legs don't want to hold me. I stumble, catch myself against the wall. One of the guards—a woman with a scar across her jaw—steadies me with surprising gentleness.
"Easy," she murmurs. "Medical wing's on the third floor."
We walk through corridors I don't recognize. The pack house is bigger than I thought, sprawling and maze-like. We pass other wolves—pack members who stop and stare, who whisper behind their hands. I catch fragments of conversation.
"—tried to kill him—"
"—black eyes, Marcus said—"
"—never should have challenged—"
The medical wing smells like antiseptic and blood. The guards lead me to a room at the end of the hall. There's another guard posted outside—Marcus Thorne, Declan's cousin, who looks at me with something that might be pity or might be disgust.
"Fifteen minutes," he says. "I'll be right outside."
The door opens.
Declan is on the bed, propped up on pillows. His chest is wrapped in bandages, but I can see blood seeping through. Four parallel lines, exactly where my claws would have landed.
His eyes are closed.
"Declan?"
They open. Gray-green, clear, focused.
Alive.
"Sloane." His voice is rough. Weak. But it's his voice, and hearing it makes something in my chest crack open. "You should not be here."
"Garrett gave me fifteen minutes." I move closer. The silver cuffs make it hard to walk, but I manage. "I signed a confession."
"You did what?"
"I had to see you." I reach the bedside. Up close, he looks worse—pale, drawn, his skin clammy with fever. "I don't remember what happened. I don't remember attacking you."
"I know."
"You know?"
"It was not you." Declan's hand moves, reaches for mine despite the silver cuffs. His fingers are cold. "Your eyes went black. Completely black. And when I tried to speak to you, when I said your name—there was no recognition. Nothing."
"What does that mean?"
"It means something else was in control." His grip tightens. "Something that wanted me dead."
"The black-eyed wolves. Matthias—"
"Is connected to whatever is inside you. I am certain of it now." Declan's breathing is labored. Each word costs him. "When the explosion happened, when those wolves appeared—I saw Matthias look at you. And I saw him smile."
"Why would he—"
"Because he knew what was about to happen. He knew you would lose control." Declan's eyes hold mine. "This was planned, Sloane. All of it. The explosion, the black-eyed wolves appearing, your blackout—someone orchestrated this to make you look unstable. To give Garrett grounds to have you executed."
The watch ticks. 2:47 PM.
"Who?"
"I do not know yet. But I will find out. I promise you—"
The door opens.
Garrett steps inside, and behind him are two people I don't recognize. They're wearing Conclave insignia—silver pins shaped like crescent moons.
"I am afraid your time is up, Sloane Carrigan." Garrett's smile is back, wider than before. "But before you return to your cell, we need to talk about what is living inside you."
The Conclave guards move forward, flanking me.
Declan tries to sit up. "You cannot—"
"I can, and I will." Garrett's voice is pleasant. Conversational. "The Conclave has granted me authority to conduct a full investigation into Sloane Carrigan's nature. Which means we are going to find out exactly what she is."
One of the guards grabs my arm. The other produces a syringe filled with something that glows faintly silver.
"What is that?"
"Insurance," Garrett says, and nods to the guard.
The needle slides into my neck.
The world tilts, blurs, and Declan's voice—shouting my name, raw with fury and fear—follows me down into the dark.