Chapter 4

The Dungeon’s Truth

The iron door clanged shut behind me, sealing me in with the dark.

I was pushed forward by the guards and stumbled, landing on a damp, cold stone.. My knees scraped raw, the scent of rust and mildew clawing at my throat. Chains rattled somewhere in the shadows, a low moan echoing through the corridor.

The dungeons.

Every pack had them—hidden beneath the grandeur of their halls, away from the polished marble and gleaming windows. They were the underbelly, the graveyard for the forgotten.

“One guard shoved me into a cell and grunted, "Stay here.". The iron bars screeched as they closed, the lock clicking with brutal finality.

I spun, clutching the bars. “Please—listen to me! I’m not—”

The guard sneered. “Save your breath, rogue. You won’t last long.”

Their footsteps faded, leaving me with nothing but dripping water and the slow, suffocating weight of silence.

I pressed my forehead against the cold bars, my chest heaving. Goddess, what have I done?

My wolf whimpered, pacing inside me. She hated cages, hated the press of iron, hated the distance between us and him.

Him.

Damon.

The thought of his name sent a shiver through me, equal parts fury and longing. He had dragged me here. He had condemned me. And yet every fiber of my being still pulled toward him, desperate for his nearness, for his scent, for the electric hum of his touch.

I put my arms around my knees and curled up against the wall. I couldn’t cry. I wouldn’t. Crying meant breaking, and I refused to give him that satisfaction.

Hours passed—maybe more. Time didn’t exist in the dungeon. Only the drip of water, the scurry of rats, the groans of prisoners whose faces I couldn’t see.

Then—footsteps.

I stiffened, heart thudding. Heavy. Purposeful. Commanding.

Him.

I knew before the torchlight even broke across his face.

Damon stopped outside my cell, silver eyes gleaming in the dim. He looked carved from shadow, untouchable, infuriatingly calm.

“You’re still alive,” he said flatly.

I glared at him. “Disappointed?”

Something flickered across his face—something sharp, almost pained—but it was gone before I could name it.

“I should be,” he admitted. His gaze swept over me, lingering on the dirt streaked across my arms, the defiance still burning in my eyes. “But I’m not.”

My chest squeezed. I hated that part of me lit up at those words, hated that my wolf wagged her tail, eager for more.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice brittle.

“Answers,” he said simply.

“I told you the truth.”

“You told me a story,” he corrected, stepping closer to the bars. “But your eyes tell me something else. You’re hiding, little rogue. And I will find out what.”

I stood, pressing against the bars to meet his gaze. “And then what? You’ll kill me?”

The heat of his breath touched my lips as he leaned in so close. “If you’re lying—yes.”

My pulse roared. My wolf whined, caught between terror and longing.

“And if I’m not?” I whispered.

His gaze darkened. “Then you’re mine.”

The words vibrated through me, sinking deep, shaking the foundations of my resolve. I hated him. I wanted him. I feared him.

And worst of all—I believed him.

A clang echoed down the corridor, breaking the moment. Damon’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. Another prisoner stirred, whispering words I almost missed.

“They’re coming for her… she’s the one…”

I froze.

“What did you say?” I demanded, my voice sharp.

The prisoner—a gaunt man with eyes too wild to be sane—pressed against his bars. “The rogue girl… the survivor… the last of them…” His gaze locked on me, unblinking. “They’ll kill you before he can claim you.”

My stomach dropped, ice flooding my veins.

“Enough,” Damon snapped, his voice a whip of dominance. The prisoner shrank back instantly, trembling.

I turned on Damon, panic clawing at my throat. “What does he mean? Survivor of what?”

His jaw clenched. “Nothing you need to know.”

“You know something,” I accused, gripping the bars tighter. “Tell me.”

For a heartbeat, he just stared at me, conflict burning in his eyes. Then his mask slammed back into place.

“You’ll tell me first,” he said coldly. “Who are you really, Ella? What are you hiding?”

Fear and rage fought in my chest as I took a deep breath.

“I’m no one,” I lied.

His eyes narrowed, as if he could peel the lie straight off my skin. He stepped back, voice cutting like a blade.

“Then no one will care when I execute you.”

The words knocked the air from my lungs.

He turned, his cloak sweeping with finality.

“Tomorrow,” he said, not looking back. “At dawn. Confess the truth, or face the blade.”

I was left in the dark with only my racing heart and the sound of his command as the door slammed behind him.