Chapter 4
reston turned his back on her and walked away, his words hanging in the air like smoke from a scorched field. He didn’t need to say more. His silence was louder than any threat. Georgia stood frozen in place, drained of color, her lips parted but speechless. There were no words left in her—none that would matter. None he would listen to.
The werewolf guard approached her without hesitation, his grip like iron as he seized her arm and dragged her down the corridor. She didn’t resist. What would be the point? Her legs moved on instinct alone, one step after another into the cold, yawning dark. They descended a spiral of stone and silence into the bowels of the compound, where light was a stranger and air stank of mildew and rot.
He shoved her into a cell without ceremony, the sound of the heavy iron door clanging shut behind her reverberating through her body. The finality of it echoed long after it ended.
The prison smelled like blood that had long since dried into the cracks of the walls. The air was thick with dampness, each breath sour and heavy. She pressed her back against the wall and slowly slid down to the floor, the concrete cold and unforgiving beneath her. Her hands still bore the ache of the restraints, wrists raw and stinging from the silver cuffs. Her wolf whimpered inside her—silent, injured, too weak to rise.
That first night, she barely slept. Her body ached, her mind spun, but eventually exhaustion dragged her under. Then, without warning, hands yanked her upright.
She gasped, disoriented, blinking against the dim light as she found herself surrounded by a ring of snarling faces. Werewolves. Not guards—these wore no uniforms, only cruelty. Malice twisted their mouths into vicious smiles.
“What do you want?” Her voice was hoarse, wary. She took a step back, heart racing as she scanned their expressions.
They said nothing, but their silence was more menacing than speech. They exchanged looks, then snickered, the sound rough and mocking.
One of them, broader and meaner than the rest, stepped forward. Her sneer deepened as she pointed a finger in Georgia’s face. “Did I hear that right? You’re gonna call the guards?” she asked, laughing bitterly.
Then, without warning, she struck.
The slap cracked against Georgia’s cheek with stunning force. Her vision blurred. Ears rang. The blow knocked her sideways, and she caught herself with one hand against the wall, breathing hard.
Her head swam, but her pride surged. She straightened. And then, with the fire of fury pulsing through her, she lashed out and slapped the werewolf back.
The sound echoed like a gunshot in the small space.
For one moment, the cell was frozen. The other inmates stared, wide-eyed. No one expected that. Georgia—pale, thin, and visibly fragile—had struck back.
A beat passed. Then fury exploded across the leader’s face.
“You bitch!” she screamed, red flooding her eyes. “You wanna die? Beat her down! Alpha Preston said we don’t have to go easy on her. We’re allowed to break her—just not kill her!”
Georgia’s breath caught in her throat.
‘Preston. He told them to do this. He gave them permission.’
The truth hit like a blade to the chest. A bitter chill swept through her, leaving her trembling.
That’s why no one was coming. That’s why the guards didn’t even stir, no matter the noise. They weren’t ignoring it. They’d been told to.
She stumbled backward toward the gate, panic rising fast. Gripping the iron bars with both hands, she screamed, “Help! Somebody, help me! They’re beating me!”
No one answered.
She shouted again, louder, rawer. “Help me!” The sound tore from her throat, more plea than command. She didn’t believe it would change anything. But she had to try.
Some part of her still hoped—still believed—that Preston wouldn’t let this happen to her.
But then her scalp burned. Someone yanked her hair and dragged her to the ground.
She fell hard, elbows scraping concrete. Pain bloomed in every limb as boots and fists found her. Kicks landed in her ribs, her spine, her thighs. She curled up, sobbing silently, trying to shield her head. She’d never felt so helpless. So animal.
She wanted to shift. Her body cried out for the transformation, for the strength of her wolf. But it didn’t come.
Her wolf was too weak—bruised by rejection, numbed by heartbreak. She had no power now. No protection. She was a shell.
The beating went on.
Still no guards. No one came.
The truth seared into her: Preston wanted this.
The others only stopped once they’d exhausted themselves. When the violence had spent itself, the werewolves stretched out and went to sleep as if it had all been a game.
Georgia lay still on the floor, arms over her head, curled in on herself like a child.
Tears slid down the sides of her face, mingling with blood and sweat and dust. Her body throbbed in places she couldn’t name. Every inch hurt. But the worst pain was inside her.
She hadn’t cried for the pain. She’d cried because she still believed he wouldn’t let it happen.
But he had.
She loved Preston. He was her mate. Chosen by the Moon Goddess. Their bond was sacred.
So why had he turned her into something to be hated?
Why was she enduring this hatred for Giselle’s death?
Over and over, she had said it: “I didn’t hurt Giselle.”
She told everyone. Begged them to believe her. She hadn’t led Giselle into danger. It was Giselle who had been curious, who had begged for an adventure beyond the Silent Forest. The rogues had lurked there, everyone knew that. But Giselle hadn’t cared. She wanted to see it for herself.
Georgia had agreed to meet her, but her car had broken down. She hadn’t made it. She’d been late—and that delay changed everything.
Now, no one believed her.
To them, she was the Alpha’s daughter, headstrong and arrogant. Giselle was gentle. Sweet. Innocent. How could anyone believe that she had gone willingly?
The story twisted itself. They said Georgia tricked her. That she paid the rogues to humiliate her.
Why would she? Giselle had said it herself, time and time again—she didn’t love Preston. He wasn’t her mate.
If Giselle had been his mate, Georgia would’ve stepped back. But she wasn’t.
Georgia was.
The rogues vanished after the attack. They left no trace. No witnesses. No justice.
Georgia wanted them found more than anyone else.
But instead of looking for them, they locked her away.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled herself into the smallest shape she could make. Her shoulders shook.
If Preston believed she was guilty, then maybe it didn’t matter what the truth was. Maybe she deserved this. Maybe everything—the beating, the silence, the betrayal—was his judgment.
He planned it all.
And there was more coming.
What she didn’t know was that her entire identity was being erased. Preston had ordered her records wiped—her link to the Silver Stream Pack, her education, everything. Gone.
To the world, she was no longer Georgia, daughter of an Alpha.
She was a criminal.
A number in a prison ledger.
The cell was colder now. She trembled, head bowed, as if trying to disappear into the stone.
Sleep didn’t come, only silence.
Then morning broke.
A foot nudged her side, hard. “Hey, get up. Time to clean the toilets—”
The voice broke off. A scream rang out.
“She’s dead!”
