Chapter 21
title: "The Holding Cells" wordCount: 2913
The silver burns through my palms before I can pull my hands away from the bars, and the scream that tears out of her throat is entirely human.
No growl underneath it. No wolf rising to heal the damage.
Just pain, sharp and clean, and the smell of my own flesh cooking.
I stumble backward, cradling my hands against my chest. The burns are already blistering, angry red welts crossing both palms like I've been branded. My wolf should be surging forward, should be knitting the skin back together, should be snarling at the silver-laced bars that cage me in this concrete box.
Nothing.
The silence inside my head is so complete it makes my ears ring.
I press my back against the far wall—cold concrete, rough enough to catch on my shirt—and force myself to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The way my mother taught me when I was seven and had my first panic attack after a nightmare.
Yeah, no. Not thinking about her right now.
The cell is maybe eight feet by ten. Single cot bolted to the wall, thin mattress that smells like bleach and fear. No window. One door, solid metal, with a slot at the bottom for food trays. The bars run floor to ceiling along the front wall, and they're not just silver-plated—they're woven through with it, thick veins of the stuff catching the fluorescent light.
I look down at my arms.
Four injection sites on my left forearm, three on my right. Small puncture wounds, some fresh enough that dried blood still crusts around them. They've been dosing me. Repeatedly.
How long have I been out?
I try to reach for my wolf again, that instinctive internal stretch that's as natural as breathing. It's like reaching into a void. No response. No presence. Just emptiness where she should be, and the wrongness of it makes my stomach turn.
The watch on my wrist is still there. Still stopped at 11:47 PM.
I don't know what time it is now. Don't know if it's been hours or days since Garrett's guards stuck that needle in my neck and the world went dark.
Don't know if Declan is—
The door opens.
I'm on my feet before I register the movement, hands up despite the burns screaming protest. But it's not Garrett who steps through.
Tobias Crane fills the doorway, his silver hair catching the harsh light. He's wearing formal robes—deep burgundy with gold embroidery along the collar and cuffs. Conclave ceremonial dress. Behind him, two guards in tactical gear flank the entrance, hands resting on weapons I can't quite see.
"Sloane Carrigan." His voice is exactly as I remember from the trial. Formal. Archaic. Like he learned to speak from reading Shakespeare. "I trust you are... comfortable."
"Yeah, no." I lower my hands slowly. "Not really the word I'd use."
He steps fully into the cell. The guards remain outside, but they're watching. Always watching.
"You have been unconscious for thirty-seven hours." Tobias clasps his hands behind his back. "The substance we administered is a concentrated silver solution designed to suppress your wolf entirely. It is necessary, given the... unusual nature of your condition."
"My condition."
"The blackness in your eyes. The complete loss of control." He tilts his head slightly. "We cannot risk another incident while you are in our custody."
The burns on my palms throb in time with my pulse. I want to lunge at him, want to make him explain what the hell he means by 'another incident,' but without my wolf I'm just human. Breakable.
"Where is Declan?"
"Alive." Tobias's expression doesn't change. "Recovering from his injuries in the medical wing. He will survive."
The relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle. I lock them, force myself to stay upright.
"I want to see him."
"That is not possible at this time."
"Then make it possible."
Tobias regards me for a long moment. His eyes are pale gray, almost colorless, and they don't blink as often as they should.
"I am here to inform you of the charges brought against you by the Conclave," he says. "And to offer you a choice."
I wait. My nails dig into the burns on my palms and the pain keeps me focused.
"You stand accused of the attempted murder of Declan Thorne, Alpha of the Thorne Pack. The evidence is substantial—your own confession, witness testimony, physical evidence of your attack." He pauses. "Your trial will be held in three days' time. If you are found guilty, the sentence is death by silver."
The words should terrify me. Maybe they do. But all I feel is a cold, spreading numbness.
"However." Tobias takes a step closer. "There is an alternative."
"Let me guess. Garrett's idea?"
"Mine, actually." Something flickers across his face—too quick to read. "If you confess to being a rogue alpha who lost control of her wolf, if you accept responsibility for the attack and agree to permanent exile from all pack territories, the Conclave will commute your sentence. You will live."
I laugh. The sound is harsh, ugly. "Exile."
"You would be stripped of your pack status, forbidden from entering any territory under Conclave jurisdiction, and marked as rogue." His voice remains perfectly level. "But you would be alive, Sloane Carrigan. That is more than most in your position can claim."
"And Declan?"
"Would be free of any obligation to you."
The way he says it—so careful, so precise—makes my skin crawl.
"Why?" I move closer to him, close enough that I can see the fine lines around his eyes. "Why are you offering me this?"
Tobias is silent for three heartbeats. Four.
"Because your father once showed me mercy," he says finally. "And I have carried that debt for twenty years."
The air leaves my lungs.
"You knew my father."
"I did." He meets my gaze without flinching. "Marcus Carrigan was a good man. A fair alpha. When I made a mistake that should have cost me everything, he gave me a second chance." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I am attempting to do the same for his daughter."
My father. Marcus Carrigan, who died with his throat torn out in our living room while I hid in a closet and listened to my family scream.
"What mistake?"
"That is not relevant to your current situation."
"Bullshit." The word comes out sharp. "You owe him, you said. So tell me what you owe him for."
But Tobias is already turning toward the door.
"You have until tomorrow evening to decide," he says. "I suggest you consider the offer carefully. Death is permanent, Miss Carrigan. Exile is merely... inconvenient."
"Wait."
He pauses, one hand on the door frame.
"I need to see Declan. Before I decide anything, I need to see him."
"That is not—"
"You owe my father." I take another step forward, ignoring the way my burned palms scream. "You said it yourself. So pay the debt. Let me see him."
Tobias turns back slowly. His expression is unreadable.
"Five minutes," he says. "Tomorrow morning. That is all I can arrange."
"Fine."
He nods once, sharp and formal, and leaves. The door closes behind him with a heavy metallic thunk, and the lock engages with a sound like breaking bones.
I sink onto the cot and stare at my ruined palms.
My father showed Tobias mercy. Twenty years ago, which means it happened before the massacre. Before everything went to hell.
What could Tobias have done that warranted mercy from an alpha?
And why does he look at me like he's seeing a ghost?
I don't sleep.
Can't sleep, not with the silence in my head where my wolf should be. It's like missing a limb, this absence. Worse, maybe, because a limb is just flesh and bone. My wolf is part of my soul, and without her I feel hollowed out. Incomplete.
The fluorescent lights never turn off. They hum constantly, a low buzz that sets my teeth on edge.
I count the injection marks again. Seven total. They must have been dosing me every few hours to keep the silver concentration high enough to suppress my wolf completely.
How long will it last?
How long can they keep me like this before it does permanent damage?
I'm testing the burns on my palms—pressing my thumbs into the blisters to see if they're healing at all, even slowly—when the door opens again.
Not Tobias this time.
Two guards enter first, weapons drawn. Then Tobias, looking exactly as he did before except now he's carrying a small black case. Behind him, supported by another guard, is Declan.
I'm off the cot before I can think.
"Do not approach the bars," Tobias says sharply.
But I'm already there, hands wrapped around the silver-laced metal, and the pain is immediate and excruciating and I don't care because Declan is alive, he's standing, he's—
"Sloane." His voice is rough, scraped raw. "Let go."
"I am fine."
"You are burning yourself." He moves toward the bars despite the guard trying to hold him back. "Please."
I release the bars. My palms are worse now, the blisters broken and weeping. The smell of burned flesh is thick in the small space.
Declan looks like hell. His left arm is in a sling, and there are bandages visible under his shirt collar. His face is pale, drawn, and there are shadows under his eyes that weren't there before. But he's standing. Moving.
Alive.
"You have five minutes," Tobias says. He gestures to the guards. "We will wait outside."
They file out. The door closes.
Declan and I stare at each other through the bars.
"You look terrible," I say.
"You look worse." He takes another step closer, careful, like I might bolt. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been drugged and caged." I hold up my hands. "And apparently I am an idiot who cannot stop grabbing silver bars."
"That does seem to be a pattern with you."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
Something in my chest loosens.
"Tobias said you are recovering," I say. "Is that true, or is he lying to keep me compliant?"
"It is true. The wounds are healing." He touches his shoulder gently. "Slowly, but healing."
"Good."
Silence stretches between us. There's so much I need to say, so many questions I need to ask, but the words tangle in my throat.
"I am sorry," I finally manage. "For what I did to you. For—"
"Stop." His voice is firm. "You were not in control. I know that."
"You do not know that. You cannot—"
"I saw your eyes, Sloane." He moves closer to the bars, close enough that I could touch him if I reached through. "They were completely black. No recognition. No awareness. That was not you."
"It was my body. My claws. My—"
"Something else was controlling you." He says it with absolute certainty. "I do not know what, or how, but I know it was not your choice."
The watch on my wrist ticks. Loud in the quiet.
"Tobias offered me a deal," I say. "Confess to being a rogue alpha, accept exile, and they will let me live."
Declan's expression hardens. "You cannot accept that."
"It is better than execution."
"It is a lie." His hand comes up, fingers curling around the bars despite the silver. I can see the skin reddening, blistering. "You are not a rogue. You did not lose control. Someone did this to you, and if you accept exile, they win."
"And if I refuse, I die."
"No." The word is flat. Final. "You will not."
"Declan—"
"I have invoked the mate-bond law."
The world tilts.
"You what?"
"It is an ancient law, rarely used, but still valid under Conclave jurisdiction." He's still gripping the bars, still letting the silver burn him. "If an alpha claims another wolf as their mate, they share all legal consequences. Your trial, your sentence—whatever the outcome, it applies to both of us."
I can't breathe.
"You tied yourself to me."
"Yes."
"If I am convicted—"
"Then I share your sentence." His eyes are steady on mine. "Including execution."
"You fucking idiot." The words come out strangled. "Why would you do that?"
"Because you are my mate."
"I am not—we are not—" I'm shaking now, hands clenched into fists. "You barely know me. You cannot just decide—"
"I am not deciding anything." He finally releases the bars. His palms are raw, blistered. "I am acknowledging what already exists. The bond between us is real, Sloane. You feel it. I know you do."
"That does not mean you throw your life away for me."
"I am not throwing anything away. I am fighting for what is mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should piss me off. Should make me want to punch him through the bars.
Instead, it makes my knees weak.
"If I am convicted, you die too," I say. "Do you understand that? You die because of me."
"Then we will ensure you are not convicted."
"How? The evidence—"
"Can be challenged. Explained. We have three days to find out who did this to you and why." He takes a breath, winces slightly. "Tobias believes someone orchestrated the entire attack to frame you. We need to find proof."
"And if we cannot?"
"We will."
The certainty in his voice is almost painful.
"You should not have done this," I whisper. "You should have let me face this alone."
"That was never an option." He reaches through the bars, careful this time, and his fingers brush my cheek. "Not for me."
The touch is gentle. Warm.
I want to lean into it. Want to let myself believe that maybe, somehow, this could work.
But I've learned better than to trust in maybes.
"Tobias said I have until tomorrow evening to decide about the exile deal," I say. "If I take it, does the mate-bond law still apply?"
Declan's hand drops. "No. Exile would sever any legal connection between us."
"So you would be free."
"I do not want to be free. I want you alive and here."
"You cannot have both."
"I refuse to accept that."
The door opens. Tobias steps inside, his expression neutral.
"Your time is concluded," he says.
Declan doesn't move. "We need more time."
"You have had your five minutes. That was the agreement." Tobias gestures to the guards. "Please escort Alpha Thorne back to the medical wing."
"Sloane—"
"Go." I step back from the bars. "I will be fine."
"Do not accept the exile." His voice is urgent now, almost desperate. "Promise me you will not—"
"I promise nothing." I meet his eyes. "But I will think about what you said."
The guards move forward. Declan resists for a moment, then allows them to guide him toward the door. He looks back once, and the expression on his face—raw, open, terrified—makes my chest ache.
Then he's gone.
Tobias remains.
"That was cruel," he says quietly. "Letting him bind himself to you when you know you will likely accept exile."
"I did not ask him to do that."
"No. But you will use it." He tilts his head slightly. "You will use his feelings for you to ensure he survives, even if it means sacrificing yourself. That is what your father would have done."
"You do not know what my father would have done."
"I knew him better than you think." Tobias moves toward the door. "Consider the offer, Miss Carrigan. You have until tomorrow evening."
He leaves.
I sink back onto the cot and stare at my burned palms.
Declan invoked the mate-bond law. Tied his life to mine. If I'm convicted, he dies.
If I accept exile, he lives.
The choice should be obvious.
So why does it feel like I'm being torn in half?
The lights never dim, but I can feel time passing in the ache of my body, the way my burns slowly—too slowly—begin to heal. Hours, maybe. Long enough that my throat is dry and my stomach is cramping with hunger.
No one brings food. No one comes at all.
I'm starting to think they've forgotten about me when I hear footsteps outside the cell.
Not the heavy boots of guards. Lighter. Quicker.
I'm on my feet when a face appears at the bars.
Mira.
She's wearing dark clothes, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight braid. Her eyes are wide, darting to the door and back to me.
"Sloane." Her voice is barely a whisper.
"What are you doing here?"
"I bribed a guard. Five minutes, that is all I have." She grips the bars, and I can see the silver burning her palms but she doesn't let go. "I need to tell you something. About the night your family died."
My heart stops.
"What about it?"
"I was there." The words tumble out fast, desperate. "Not at your house, but nearby. I saw—" She glances at the door again. "I saw who led the attack. Who gave the orders."
"Who?"
"I cannot say his name here. The walls—they listen, Sloane. The Conclave has ears everywhere." She leans closer, her knuckles white around the bars. "But I can tell you this: Declan was not the one who killed your brother."
The world stops.
"What?"
Mira grips the bars tighter despite the silver burning her palms and whispers, "Declan wasn't the one who killed your brother."