My Alpha Imprisoned Me For Her Lies

The iron door of my cell scraped open with a sound that had become both dreaded and longed for over three years. I didn't lift my head immediately, my fingers still tracing the raised scars on my right leg—the permanent reminder of Maverick's betrayal.

"Stephens," a guard's voice sneered. "Your lucky day."

I looked up slowly, my eyes adjusting to the torchlight in the corridor. Two guards stood there, their expressions a mixture of contempt and curiosity. They'd never seen me outside this cell before.

"Three years," the taller one said, kicking at the thin blanket I'd been given. "And you're still alive. Guess you're tougher than you look."

They didn't bother with gentleness as they hauled me to my feet. My leg buckled immediately—the damage from that night had never healed properly. Silver poisoning from the shackles had seeped into my bones, weakening my wolf until she'd finally gone silent.

"Look at her," the second guard mocked, pointing to the brand on my shoulder. "The traitor mark suits you."

I didn't respond. Words were dangerous here. So was pain. I'd learned to swallow both.

They dragged me through the twisting corridors of the dungeon, past other cells where prisoners called out or reached through bars. Some had been here longer than me. Some wouldn't leave alive.

"Keep up, cripple," the guard snapped when I limped too slowly.

The sunlight hit me like a physical blow when we emerged. I gasped, my eyes watering instantly. Three years without natural light had left me vulnerable. I blinked rapidly, trying to orient myself.

"Alpha's waiting," one guard muttered, his tone changing from mockery to deference.

That's when I saw him. Maverick stood beside a transport truck, his tall frame rigid with authority. His dark hair was shorter than I remembered, his face harder. But his eyes—those piercing blue eyes that once looked at me with love—were now cold as winter frost.

He didn't speak as the guards shoved me toward him. He didn't need to. His expression said everything: disgust, disappointment, a grim satisfaction that justice had been served.

"Alpha," the guard said, "she's all yours."

Maverick's jaw tightened. "Put her in the back."

Not in the cab. In the back, like livestock.

"Can't even give her a proper seat?" one guard dared to ask.

"She doesn't deserve one," Maverick replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "She's lucky to be getting out at all."

The truck bed was metal, cold despite the summer heat. They threw me in like a sack of flour, not caring that my injured leg twisted beneath me. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, refusing to cry out.

As Maverick climbed into the cab, I caught a glimpse of his face through the rear window. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second before he started the engine.

The truck lurched forward, carrying me away from the only home I'd known for years. We drove through pack lands I'd once helped govern, forests and fields I'd walked freely. Now they were a blur of green and brown, meaningless to me.

A particularly rough bump sent pain shooting through my leg. I gripped the metal floor, my knuckles white with effort.

"You should see the healer," came a voice from the cab. Maverick hadn't turned around, but he must have seen my reaction in the mirror.

"Why?" I asked, my voice hoarse from disuse. "So you can pretend you care?"

Silence answered me. Then, "This isn't about care."

"Then what is it about?" I pressed.

He didn't answer. Instead, I saw his eyes flick up to the rearview mirror again. This time, they weren't cold. They were calculating.

The truck slowed as we approached the pack house. Maverick stopped briefly, and a guard appeared with a coat.

"Put this on," Maverick ordered, tossing it into the truck bed.

I pulled it around my shoulders, the fabric rough against my skin. Through the open door of the mudroom, I caught a scent from upstairs—vanilla and rain, my scent, completely gone. In its place was something cloying and sweet. Rose perfume. Viviana's signature.

Three years in a cell, and she hadn't just taken my mate. She'd erased every trace of me.

The walls had been repainted. My belongings burned. Even the curtains—once a soft blue I'd chosen—were now heavy burgundy drapes that blocked out the light.

Viviana hadn't just moved in. She'd made sure nothing of me remained.

As the truck door slammed shut and we continued toward the border, I closed my eyes against the sting of tears I refused to shed. Whatever Maverick was taking me to, it wasn't freedom. It was something else entirely.

And I was ready.