Page 9 of Alpha's Rejected Warrior
Okay, pull yourself together.
I know I need to find Thea. She might be in this God-forsaken place too. Maybe she’s also being held captive by the sexy Commander. I won’t be able to figure out what the hell is going on from inside this cell.
On my feet, I move toward the bars, the echo of my steps bouncing off the stone walls. The iron rods feel ice-cold against my fingertips as I inspect them carefully. They’re set in stone above and below me, with rust flaking off where moisture has eaten away at the metal. Very medieval. And I’d need a tank to even bend them.
But maybe I don’t. I reach between the bars and feel around for the keyhole. They didn’t take my clothes, so I bet they never checked my pockets. I reach into them, and sure enough, I find my pen. When you work at a diner, you always keep an extra pen since customers like to run off with them after signing their bill.
I move the chair over to the bars and break off the tiny clip on the pen cap. Kneeling on the chair, I reach through the bars and find the keyhole.
Time to blow this joint.
Chapter 4 — Rhiannon
Who the fuck does he think he is?
I slam the door behind me, nearly breaking the hinges in the process. The guards on duty straighten at my approach, but I wave them off. I need space.Now.
My boots stomp against the stone floor as I storm away from the dungeons.Ethan. Even his name sets my teeth on edge.The absolute nerve of that human.Saying my name like we’re friends. Trying to charm information out of me whenI’mthe one conducting the interrogation.
Pressing my forehead against the cool stone wall, I let the cold seep in. This isn’t about him. It’s about me. Hardened criminals, enemy pack spies, even rogue Lycans driven half-mad by bloodlust — none of them rattled me like this.
“So, Rhiannon, right?”The memory of his voice uttering my name makes my wolf stir. I growl, shoving her down.
What is wrong with me?I couldn’t even maintain control of the conversation. He kept redirecting, questioning, observing.Those green eyes seeing too much. And that scent. That scent makes my wolf pace beneath my skin.
That’s the reason I haven’t told Xander or Thea about our...prisoner. I need to understand his pull first. Is it some kind of human trick? Some sorcery I don’t have a name for? Thea was raised in the Outer Lands too, but she never affected me this way. She was never this... infuriating. Thisperplexing.
I roll my shoulders back and smooth my hair. This is ridiculous. I am Commander of the Lycan Guard. I’ve fought in battles that would make that human’s blood freeze in his veins. I will not be undone by some quick-witted man with pretty eyes and a disarming smile.
I can’t delay it any longer. Word travels fast in Kortan. Between the dungeon guards and Olcan’s assistants who examined his wounds, half the compound probably knows we’re holding a human already.
I check my watch. I’m not too late, but close. The longer I wait, the worse it gets. If Xander hears about Ethan from someone else first, I’ll be lucky to keep my rank. Time to get this over with.
My wolf throws herself against the idea of others deciding Ethan’s fate.
He’s not ours to keep.
The oak doors give way under my hands as I step into the courtyard. Polished marble stretches beyond my boots, torchlight glowing on its surface in uneven stripes. The bright scent of beeswax and pine from the fresh torches cut through the sweet rot of perfumed oils.
The sound of feminine laughter echoes off the vaulted stone ceiling. A small group of ladies huddle together near the grand staircase with its ornate wolf carvings. Their heads are bent close, voices hushed but animated, the soft rustle of their silk garments carrying across the cavernous space.
The moment they spot me, the giggles die. They straighten, exchanging meaningful glances before dispersing in different directions like scattered birds.
They were talking about me.I’ve seen that look a thousand times since Xander chose Thea, wondering how his long-time former mate, unworthy of being his Luna, copes with seeing them together. At times, it’s out of pity. Other times, it’s a twisted satisfaction in witnessing someone else’s downfall.
My chin lifts higher as I pass two guards stationed at the corridor entrance. Their conversation halts mid-sentence. They pound their fists to their chests in salute, but their eyes don’t quite meet mine.
“Commander,” they say in unison.
I nod curtly and keep walking. Three steps later, whispers resume behind me, stabbing at my back. My wolf wants to turn and snarl, to assert dominance. I shove her down.
A pack elder crosses my path, bowing slightly. “Commander.” His eyes find the floor rather than my face. “Fine evening.”
“Indeed,” I reply, but he’s already moving past me, as if prolonged conversation might be contagious.
This is my reality now: respected for my rank, avoided for my shame. The almost-Luna, a cautionary tale they whisper to younger wolves about presuming your place.
I remember how different it used to be. Eyes lighting up when I walked in. Conversations that didn’t die the moment I joined them. Now I move through my own home like a ghost. Present, but separate. The loneliness is its own kind of wound.
