Harper
The walk to Ronan's cell block is a gauntlet of stares. He walks ahead of me, a moving wall of muscle and menace. I follow two steps behind, the required distance for a possession. My pride screams with every step. I am a Devereaux. We are not led. We are not owned.
But here, in this wet, stinking hole, I am what he says I am. The alternative is being torn apart in the main yard. It is a simple, brutal equation. Survival at the cost of self.
This corridor is different from the rest of The Pit. The air is still foul, but it lacks the sharp, acidic tang of desperation. The growls from behind the cell doors are lower, more territorial than hungry. These are not rabid dogs. These are soldiers. His soldiers.
"This is you," Ronan says, stopping before a cell identical to the one we just left. He pushes the heavy iron door inward. It groans in protest.
I look inside. A stone slab for a bed. A bucket in the corner. Nothing else. A cage.
"It is next to mine," he adds. His voice is flat, a statement of fact, not an offer of comfort. "No one will bother you here."
"Except you," I say. It is not a question.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. It is a cold, unsettling thing. "I am the only one who gets to bother you. That was the deal."
I step inside. The cold of the stone floor seeps through the thin soles of my boots. I turn to face him in the doorway. He fills the entire frame.
"And what happens when your protection is not enough?" I ask. "What happens when the warden's son decides he wants his new toy back?"
"He will not," Ronan says with absolute certainty.
"You overestimate your influence and underestimate his cruelty."
"And you," he says, taking a step into the cell, forcing me to take one back, "underestimate my reasons for keeping you alive."
Before I can ask what those reasons are, a new voice cuts through the corridor. A voice slick with unearned authority.
"Look at this. The happy couple, setting up house."
Grant stands at the end of the hall, flanked by two guards. His arms are crossed, a smirk plastered on his face. But his eyes are tight. Angry. He is a boy whose favorite toy has been taken by a bigger dog, and he is here to prove he still owns the yard.
Ronan turns his head slowly, a predator assessing a threat. He does not move from my doorway. He is blocking me in. Or blocking Grant out.
"This block is restricted, Grant," Ronan says. His voice is a low rumble.
"I go where I want," Grant spits back, taking a few swaggering steps closer. The guards stay put, their hands resting on their silver batons. They look nervous. "I am the authority here. Not you. You seem to have forgotten that."
"I have forgotten nothing."
"Good. Then you will remember that all prisoners, and all their little acquisitions, are property of The Pit." Grant's eyes slide past Ronan to fix on me. "Which means they are property of my father. Which means they are property of me. I have come to collect what is mine."
The air goes still. Every wolf on the block is listening. This is a test. A direct challenge to Ronan's claim. To his Alpha status.
"She is under my protection," Ronan says, his voice dangerously calm. "You will not touch her."
"Is that a threat, Ronan?" Grant asks, his smirk widening. He is enjoying this. "Threatening a guard is a serious offense. Solitary. Rations cut. I can make your life so much worse."
"It is a statement of fact."
Grant laughs, a high, barking sound that grates on my nerves. "I do not care. I want the leech. I am taking her to the infirmary for… inspection."
The word hangs in the air, dripping with vile insinuation. My blood, what little of it is moving, runs cold.
Ronan does not move. He does not raise his voice. He simply watches Grant approach.
"Step aside," Grant commands when he is only a few feet away.
"No," Ronan says.
This is it. The explosion. The violence I have been expecting since I arrived.
But it does not happen.
Grant's face twists in fury. He shoves past Ronan's shoulder, reaching for me. "I said, she is..."
What happens next is too fast to follow completely. Ronan's body shifts, not a punch, not a shove, but a precise, fluid movement. His leg hooks behind Grant's. His hand comes up, not to strike, but to guide. Grant's forward momentum is suddenly and violently redirected.
He stumbles, his arms flailing. He crashes face first into the stone wall of my cell, right next to the door. A sickening crack echoes in the corridor, followed by a sharp cry of pain.
Grant slides down the wall, clutching his arm. His shoulder is bent at an unnatural angle. Dislocated.
Ronan stands over him, his expression unreadable. He did not break a single rule. He did not strike a guard. He simply… moved. Grant, in his blind anger, tripped and fell. That will be the official story. But everyone here, every single wolf watching from the shadows of their cells, knows the truth. They just witnessed a masterclass in controlled violence.
"You should be more careful, Grant," Ronan says, his voice devoid of any emotion. "These floors are uneven."
The two guards rush forward, helping their master to his feet. Grant is pale, his face a mask of agony and pure, unadulterated hatred. He cradles his arm, his eyes locked on Ronan.
"You… will… pay for this," he hisses through clenched teeth.
Ronan tilts his head. "Pay for what? Your clumsiness?" He then kneels down, his movements slow and deliberate. He grabs Grant's injured shoulder. Grant screams, a raw, piercing sound.
With another brutal crack, Ronan shoves the joint back into its socket.
Grant collapses against the guards, gasping, sweat beading on his forehead. The immediate, searing pain is gone, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache and the sting of total humiliation.
"There," Ronan says, rising to his full height. "All better. Now get out of my block."
The words are an order, not a request. Grant, supported by his guards, glares at Ronan, then at me. If looks could kill, I would be a pile of ash on the stone floor. He says nothing else. There is nothing he can say that will not make him look even weaker. He turns, his posture stiff with rage, and stalks away, his guards trailing behind him like chastened puppies.
The corridor is silent for a long moment after they are gone. The tension slowly bleeds out of the air, replaced by a new kind of energy. Respect. Fear.
Ronan turns back to me. His eyes are dark, intense.
"Now you see," he says, his voice a low whisper. "He will not touch you."
I stare at him, at the man who just dismantled the prison's authority with a single, elegant move. He did not just protect me. He made a statement. He declared war.
"You did not do that for me," I say.
"No," he admits, his gaze unwavering. "I did it for me. I do everything for me. You are just a part of it now."
"A part of what? A war with the warden?"
"A war for freedom," he corrects. "Grant is just a pawn. But a loud one."
I look past him, down the empty corridor where Grant disappeared. The hatred in that boy's eyes was not the anger of a pawn. It was the fury of a dethroned king.
"You did not just humiliate him," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "You gave him a reason to burn this whole place down just to get to you."
"Let him try."
"He will not come for you," I realize, the cold truth settling in my stomach like a stone. "Not directly. He will come for me. He will use me to break you."
Ronan's expression hardens. For the first time, I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Not fear. But an acknowledgment of the truth in my words.
"My protection will hold," he says, the words a vow.
But I know better. He has just painted a target on my back so large it covers the entire prison. And his protection is only as good as the bars on these cells. My survival no longer depends on just him, or my own wits. It is now a race. His escape, or Grant's revenge.
I am no longer just a possession. I am the battleground.
