Alpha Santo! Juan? There is no other Santo pack in these parts, and his resemblance isn’t coincidental. Why Colton kept coming to mind is now glaringly obvious. This is Juan’s facility, which can only mean one thing. Deacon is a Santo; it explains the asshole’s lousy attitude and shitty behavior. And possibly, Sierra is not an invading dream because of Colton telling me about her before I left him. She’s been calling me somehow, from these four walls, and led me right to her. There’s no other explanation for how this all ties up like this. The Fates wouldn’t just let this casually happen.
I don’t understand why or even how she managed to do it from inside an isolation tank, but there’s no other logic for this kind of crazy coincidence. This is a Santo building, a facility, so many miles and days away from the mountain, but close enough for Juan to have his reach. Doubt he has many facilities in our lands, and I didn’t just come upon this by chance. I wonder how much of this the Fates orchestrated, and I don’t mean from the second I turned East. I mean, all of it, and how I was led here from the day of my turning.
I’m so screwed, though. Once Juan knows I’m here, it will be game over. He might actually send me to the same fate as Sierra, wherever she is, and leave me to rot in here along with her for the next ten years. It’ll be the answer to the dilemma of my pairing with his son. Keep me locked up, and keep Colton safe. It’s not like anyone will miss me if I disappear for a decade.
The doctor moves over me as soon as Deacon leaves us alone, his face apologetic, with a softness to his gray eyes that I overlooked before. He has kindness in the wrinkles and lines around his eyes and mouth, which suggest he genuinely smiles a lot in his life. With a worried glance at my face and a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he whispers in a shaky voice, revealing his fears.
“Please, don’t react when I remove these. I don’t want to sedate you again, and I don’t know if I’ve got the strength to match you, even in human form. I swear, I mean, you no harm. Let’s keep this civil. You play nice. We play nice. It doesn’t have to be hostile.” He doesn’t trust me, and even though I have no gifts here, he’s wary of me. He’s human for sure, and he knows what we are capable of, which means he’s probably witnessed it to be this kind of afraid. I find it weird they even have a mortal here, but I guess the wolf world has a shortage of crazy doctors to keep Juan’s mate hidden with. Packs are family, and it’s rare to find sub packs that keep secrets from the rest, especially among one as big as the Santos. I guess humans are easier to keep quiet.
I nod and relax my body, showing him I’ll behave, and he seems to pick up on it, his smile strengthening, and his face softens. I can almost taste the tension seeping out as he leans in to undo the first buckle.
He makes fast and light work of releasing me from the bed
and jumps back cautiously when he unties the last ankle strap, eyeing me from a distance as I slowly sit up and regain my bearings. It takes a minute, and my head swims as I level up, aware I have only this gown on to cover my modesty, and it falls forward off my shoulders as I move, telling me it’s not even tied at the back. They must have thrown it on before restraining me, and I reach back to pull it together again.
“Just let me go. I’m not interested in this place or your work. I have plans of my own and a route. I’ll happily get back to that.” I point out, trying to sound sincere, but the older man’s eyes narrow, and he frowns at me, shaking his head apologetically.
“Oh, my dear, I’m afraid I’m not the one who makes those kinds of decisions, or I would show to the door with a wave and a sandwich. The problem is, we can’t let you go without being sure all of that is true. No one’s come up here in ten years without invitation, yet you are not just a regular silly trekker or lost hiker—but a wolf. A solitary femme, which is quite unusual in itself, given pack hierarchy and the female role in your world, but a rare white form, at that. Remarkable. I’m afraid it’s all a little too suspicious given the circumstances.” His voice is hushed, as I guess he doesn’t want Deacon or whoever watches the camera to hear, and the genuine serious concern etched in his eyes shines out. He has a trusting quality about him that’s tingling my sixth sense and telling me he’s not one of the bad guys.
“What circumstances would that be?” I match his expression, a little churning of suspicion of my own as I take in his manner and how he seems to deflate a little, his posture sagging as he turns towards the wall. He stops at the food trolley and pushes it towards me with a fake smile.
“We’ve been testing such unusual DNA for years, and a rare specimen falls right in my lap. It’s almost like the Fates ordained it, or maybe a little spy came to gather Intel for a rival pack? My work until now has been a secret and protected, but you found us. An elusive, rare white.” He raises his brows suspiciously, and I fiercely glare at him as his tiny accusation filters through and offends me on a deep level.
“I’m no spy, and I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m white because, much like my mother, I lack pigment. It’s not rare because it’s special. It’s a flaw! Diluted bloodline, or some nonsense, and not desirable at all.” My inferiority issues piquing and taking the form of rage. It’s an angry outburst with a basis in old wounds and heartache and I croak with a raw, harsh tone in my voice, biting back a surprising tear as it comes out. “In my world, I’m an outcast because I’m inferior, so screw your theory. No one cares about that kind of intel, least of all me.”
Like I said something ridiculous, he laughs, his wide eyes startled; his expression completely unnerves me and throws me off.
“A flaw? By whose standard, dear child? Hybrid blood is spectacular and a masterpiece of engineering science, my dear. I don’t know who’s kept you in the dark all these years with such nonsense, but being white is not a flaw. In a breed where you own physical perfection and can self-heal the worst of wounds and illnesses. Do you think your DNA would allow such atrocity by defect? No, of course, it wouldn’t, it couldn’t. Your gifts work out the kinks in your makeup from the second you’re born. It’s the bonding perfection between two species and happens only when the biochemistry of a particular set of genes lines up magically. Two species, two blood types, merging beautifully in one captivating dance that produces a new third, equally magnificent species. You, my dear, are what I have been dying to test for the last decade! It’s a near-impossible combination to make work without awful deformities or even loss, and your kind is few and far between. Whoever first engineered your astounding DNA must have been incredibly talented. Tell me, are you a first-generation, or are you a natural-born?” That grand speech, and whooshing of excitable words, floors me. I try to absorb half of what that word junkie threw at me, and I’m still sitting blinking at him as my brain catches up the translation from freak talk to plain English.
“You’re lying. I don’t know what you’re talking about or half of what you said, but I know hybrids aren’t a thing.” Terror overtakes me as his words filter in, and my mind refuses to digest what he’s saying because it’s simply wrong. The wolves pride their bloodlines and purity; it’s a massive part of our being and hierarchy.
Mixed breeds don’t exist because, if they did, the purebloods would destroy them. They don’t want dilution and mongrels among our blood. They’re bad enough when weak DNA, like my family’s, infects a pack, and those people become calm land workers with no urge to fight and dominate. It’s why the Whyte pack never had any kind of claim to the mountain as a ruling pack, and the Santos own it. Our kind thrives on dominance. We need alphas and purity to survive.
The doctor clutches a flat hand to his chest, aghast. Eyes wide, an expression that translates offense.
“Lying? I never lie when it comes to science, my dear. I’m a biochemist of the highest order with a special interest in your kind. I’ve dedicated my life to it, and it’s all I research. Hybrids are my specialty! I would so love to get your samples under my microscope and see if the stories are true, and show you for yourself the absolute wonder of your genetics. Warring species in one body, yet they seem to have completely bloomed! I mean, look at you ... utter perfection.”
My blood runs cold, my eyes raking him and trying to understand what he’s saying, so many questions forming and gathering on my tongue. My head is scrambling with the uncertainty that he might be telling the truth. But that would make my mother ... I can’t.
Deacon reappears unexpectedly, interrupting with the beep of the door before he enters, and throws us both a strange look that suggests he doesn’t like whatever feeling we just gave him. The atmosphere is tense, and the doctor seems to lose his enthusiastic energy and slinks back out of the way, probably afraid to admit he told me way too much. Despite co-habiting in this place, I can tell that there’s no genuine bond between them, and he is as wary of my prison guard as I am.
“Alpha Juan will be here in two days. This one ... her name is Alora and, interestingly, from our own mountain, so take from that what you will. She isn’t going anywhere.” Deacon turns to me, a look of disgust rippling across his face as he scowls at me, and everything inside me seems to disperse in a wave of numbness. The fear claws through me that Juan knew precisely who I was with just one call and is coming here personally to decide my fate. That’s not a good sign.
“The mountain …” The doctor whispers it so lightly under his breath I doubt Deacon hears him, but I do and catch the slight hint of recognition flitter across his brow before he pushes it away, replacing it with a blank expression.
Damn me for being a white wolf! That had to be the defining detail that gave it away. Maybe also the fact he knows I’m missing now, and one lone femme, this close to home, was probably a no-brainer.
I raise my brows at Deacon with false bravado, saying, ‘so what?’ His eyes narrow at mine, and the scowl gets more prominent.
“So ... You’re a runaway from our pack? Juan said he’s been looking for you, traitor. How coincidental you end up here. Clearly looking for something you shouldn’t be! You’re going down to isolation until he gets here, and then you can be someone else’s problem. Hopefully his, and I’m sure he’ll find the perfect punishment for a flawed failure who betrayed her kind.” I don’t doubt Juan has conducted a whole new story about why I’m public enemy number one and arguing it will be futile. Deacon is a believer, loyal to Juan’s sub pack, and it’s boringly obvious. He was put here, probably because he is one of the brainwashed who does exactly as they are told and questions nothing.
Deacon grabs me by the upper arm ruthlessly and hauls me off the bed forcefully. My body is still dead weight, and I almost fall on the floor with the sudden demand to use my limbs. Grabbing out to catch myself and instantly overwhelmed with dizziness at being bolted upright.
“Careful, careful. She’s an exceptional specimen and still a young lady. Kindness does not cost extra, Mr. Deacon. Compassion. A little human dignity. If we have her for two days yet, then I need to harvest samples for my studies and could use the time to learn more about her very unique blood. I can’t let this opportunity go to waste, and I certainly can’t stand and watch you damage her.” The doctor is torn between genuine human concern for a person and that of a scientist with his eye on a prize lab rat. I can’t even be mad about it, as it opens a window of opportunity.
“Doc, she’s our prisoner, not a study volunteer. She’s a betrayer of my blood, and I’ll handle her as such. The only place this chick is going is down beside that mindless corpse they keep in bay two and out of bounds for you and your quack colleagues in the lab. If we’re lucky, she’ll stay as quiet as her new roommate and gone before she messes up any more of my week.” Deacon is an asshole, for sure. He pulls me with him, not waiting for my legs to catch up, and, despite my inner desire to not touch this idiot, I have to grab onto him or be dragged along behind him.
“Sierra is not mindless. She’s sedated and detained by you thugs and your lack of vision. She’s a work of art, a person with feelings and thoughts, and if Juan would only allow me to awaken her and ….”
“Enough!! Shut your mouth!! That’s a dead name. Just like you will be if you talk about her again.” Deacon barks at him hatefully with a harsh tone and pins him with a fierce glare.
The doctor recoils, scolded, and red-faced, but I can feel his simmering anger at the mention of Sierra. The spark of absolute rage in him before he was shut down and paces off to bubble under the surface, grabbing a nearby rag and twisting it between his hands as we pass him. I can tell he’s trying so hard to hold his tongue.
I’m speechless, though, my mind racing at the confirmation she’s here, and my mouth runs dry. I don’t fight Deacon as he bodily hauls me out the door at speed. No consideration that his grip is leaving marks on my skin or that I’m tripping over every step as I try to regain control of my legs. His fingers bite into my arm as my legs, like jelly under me, try to keep up with his long, fast stride. I end up clinging to his side like a needy child, aware my gown is sliding off, and I catch sight of the doctor one last time as he follows us out into the hallway, and I strain back to see.
He looks sad, defeated, and as he watches me get dragged away, I lock my eyes on him one last time as I piece together a plan of sorts in my head that might give me a tiny hope of getting out of this. I throw him a desperate backward glance in an attempt to communicate.
“I volunteer. Take your tests. I want to know why I’m white, and I’m not going to be doing anything else for two days.” I lie impulsively, loud enough for my voice to echo this hall. The doctor is a soft touch and knows something about Sierra. Maybe I can convince him to let me go or see her and determine why she brought me here. It’s clutching at straws, and my brain is trying to figure how this will help, but it’s all I have now. Deacon falters, stopping us with an exaggerated exhale of annoyance. He turns us back around.
The doctor’s face lights up with a glow that tells me he might be my key to getting out of here before Juan shows up in two days, or at the least, he may be a valuable ally if I can keep him latched onto my unique so-called ‘hybrid blood.’ Might be able to manipulate him into revealing more or getting lax with keeping me locked up. Deacon, I can tell, is a lost cause, but the doc might just be the weak link.
I don’t believe anything he said about being a hybrid, though. I think he’s a crackpot scientist who has sampled too many of his test tubes from being in underground isolation, but if it gets me an angle to lever a possible way out, then I’m going to play on it. I’ll play along, nod my head, and let him stick me with as many needles and swabs as it takes to win him around.
“See, see, she has no objections, and it’s only some blood and smears and such. I will barely touch her, and it won’t interfere with her time here. Juan will never know.” His enthusiasm and surge of newfound joy are energizing and solidifying my plan. Deacon scowls at him for the longest, tensest moment as I hold my breath and pray.
“She stays in bay one. You don’t take her anywhere else, and you are to be done before Juan gets anywhere near here. Not a word to him about it, at all!” Deacon lays down the law, relenting, probably for a quiet life, and it’s not like he’ll have to do anything.
The doc nods enthusiastically, like an excitable puppy, and I remain calm and neutral, shielding the sea of nerves rippling up inside me. My heart is pounding, my insides trembling, but I’m cool and calm on the outside. I have a chance of breaking out, and it’s keeping my wits about me.
I allow Deacon to turn me manually and haul me off through the door ahead of us to a second hallway, pushing through the swing door with haste. I blink at the drastic change to lighting, opening my eyes onto a white sterile passageway with glossy surfaces that shine bright, blinding with the force of the daylight LED lights. It creates an optical illusion of a vast white wall-less space that blinds your corneas half to death with the intensity of the snow-white environment.
It’s like being in my dream, creepily so. The one in which I saw Sierra, and I’m dazed a little by its surrealness. My heart rate escalates, my eyes raking around us as it pieces together and brings back memories and details of that light space where I met her. Being pulled along mindlessly as my thoughts repeatedly drift to her standing ahead of me, with no real sense of boundaries around us. It’s too striking a resemblance to ignore.
The Fates brought me here for a reason; they pushed me to run from Colton and hauled me east, so I can’t ignore it. Meadow always said the Fates were never wrong, and all of this is way too coincidental to be an accident or to keep me as a nonbeliever. I’m here for a reason, and the dreams I’ve been having about her suddenly make so much sense.
Save us.
She meant it ... she meant us … her and me. And Colton. He’s wavering without his mom.
We’re both here, and I seem to be the only one that can do anything about getting us out.