You Bet I’d Run From Wolves, Then Four Alphas Followed Me Into the Cage

Inside the reinforced cab of the heavy transport hauler, I booted up the secure feed linked to Moonridge’s internal network.

The academy's underground arena filled my tablet screen.

They had spared no expense transforming the old execution ground into a polished spectacle. High-output floodlights washed over crimson banners, and heavy broadcast rigs hung from the steel rafters above the central pit.

Yet right in the middle of the gleaming setup, one cage stood out.

Gate 04.

It was the exact same rusted iron enclosure from six years ago. The scratches from my bleeding fingers were still visible along the frame, intentionally highlighted beneath a targeted spotlight.

"Make sure the wide-angle lens has Gate 04 dead center," Serena Miller’s voice came through the hauler's audio feed. She stood near the proctor's podium, holding a tablet and gesturing sharply toward the crew. "When the S-Tier exhibition begins, the livestream will split the screen. I want the 2018 breakdown on the left and Ivy’s face on the right. Give the viewers a real before-and-after story."

Caleb Ward walked up behind her, his arms folded over his chest. He looked at the rusted gate, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Serena, keeping the original gate is pushing it," Caleb said. "If she freezes up and panics on camera, it reflects badly on the academy’s safety record."

Serena turned, offering him an amused smirk. "She dropped a hundred grand to step into this ring, Caleb. If she didn't want the spotlight, she should have stayed in whatever hole she crawled into after graduation."

Caleb sighed, adjusting the silver cufflinks on his wrists. "Just keep the secondary suppression grid online. I told her I’d handle the containment. I'm not letting an actual accident happen tonight."

I shut the audio feed off.

Caleb still thought this was about protecting a fragile classmate. He had no idea what was sitting in the pressurized cargo bay behind my driver's seat.

A low chime pinged on my tactical display, signaling a priority alert from the main concourse cameras.

The heavy double doors of the private athletic wing swung open.

Four men walked into the arena hall, and the chatter among the staff instantly died.

Rowan Blackwood, Kieran Vale, Maddox Crane, and Silas North.

They were the apex heirs of the four largest rival territories on the continent, men whose families had fought bloody border wars for generations. Their combined presence suffocated the open room. Two junior omegas setting up VIP seating dropped their clipboards, lowered their eyes, and hurried out the side exit without a word.

The four Alphas didn't stand together.

Rowan Blackwood leaned against the upper railing, his posture rigid and his dark eyes scanning the perimeter with razor-sharp focus.

Kieran Vale stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest, a lazy, dangerous smirk playing on his lips.

Across the aisle, Maddox Crane sat on a training bench, methodically tightening the heavy leather wraps around his knuckles.

Silas North stood near the edge of the pit, completely still, reviewing a digital roster with cold detachment.

They despised one another. Their territories clashed constantly, and their packs barely maintained a fragile truce. But watching them through the screen, an entirely different memory surfaced in my chest.

Three years ago, Rowan Blackwood had suffered a total mental collapse during a border skirmish, tearing through four containment teams before Ebon Ridge received the emergency call.

Kieran Vale had locked himself into a blood-rage fever so severe his own elders were ready to execute him.

Maddox Crane had been dragged out of an underground fighting ring, completely wild, snapping bones of anyone who came within ten feet.

Silas North had nearly torn his pack's bunker apart from the inside when his inner wolf lost its sanity.

Every single one of them had ended up strapped to a titanium table in my containment ward.

Under heavy neuro-blockers and sensory-deprivation hoods, none of them had ever seen my face. They only knew the steady touch of my hands, the sound of my voice pulling them back from madness, and the scent of the specialist designated as Handler S-7.

On the screen, Moonridge’s lead medical proctor approached the four Alphas with a tray of standard biometric sensors.

"Lord Blackwood," the proctor said, bowing his head slightly. "Academy protocol requires an updated vitals check before you enter the observation ring. If you would permit our medical team—"

"Step back," Rowan said.

His voice was quiet, but it carried enough weight to stop the proctor dead in his tracks.

"I didn't travel three hundred miles to let academy trainees touch my pulse," Rowan continued, his eyes flicking toward the digital schedule above the ring. "Your director said Ebon Ridge sent their senior specialist."

The proctor swallowed hard. "Yes, my lord. Handler S-7 is overseeing the feral Alpha's transport."

A flicker of tension crossed Rowan's jaw. "Then don't waste my time with anyone else."

Kieran Vale let out a short, mocking laugh, pushing off the wall. "Look at you, Rowan. Trying to pretend you're here for the anniversary gala. Half this room knows why we answered Moonridge’s invitation."

Rowan didn't look at him. "Keep talking, Kieran."

"We’re all looking for the same person," Kieran said, his smirk fading into something far sharper. "Two years of silence, and suddenly Code S-7 shows up on a public exhibition docket. I came to find out if she’s the same woman who pinned me to a concrete floor and walked away without leaving a name."

A young medic stepped toward Maddox Crane with an infrared scanner. Before the device could touch his skin, Maddox’s hand shot out like a steel vice, locking around the medic’s wrist.

The medic gasped, trembling under the grip.

"Touch the scar on my collarbone," Maddox warned in a low rasp, "and I’ll snap your forearm in two. Only one handler has clearance to check my vitals."

He shoved the medic away, returning to his leather wraps without blinking.

Silas North stepped past the scattered medical staff, walking straight up to the event coordinator. His expression was flat, devoid of patience.

"Skip the speeches," Silas said bluntly. "When does she arrive?"

The coordinator stammered, checking his tablet frantically. "The transport cleared the outer gate five minutes ago, Alpha Silas. Handler S-7 should be entering through the private service tunnel shortly."

I tapped the screen, locking the security feed, and pulled the hauler's ignition key.

Grabbing my tactical jacket and duffel bag, I stepped out of the cab into the cool night air. The heavy metal doors of Moonridge’s south service entrance unlocked with a soft hiss as I swiped my S-7 clearance badge.

The concrete hallway was quiet, illuminated only by dim amber safety lights.

After eight hours of driving in the sealed cabin, the synthetic scent-suppressor patch behind my right ear felt hot and irritated against my skin. The adhesive had degraded, and the micro-filter was nearing its operational limit.

I stopped under an air circulation vent near the locker room entrance.

Reaching up, I peeled the spent gray patch away from my neck and tossed it into the wall incinerator chute.

For four seconds, my skin was bare.

Before I could tear open the fresh foil packet and apply the new medical-grade seal, my unfiltered scent—sharp ozone, crushed cedar, and the deep, calming weight of an apex handler—drifted into the air intake above my head.

The vent hummed, pushing the draft straight through the central ducts and dumping it across the main hall.

Fifty yards away, inside the training arena, the atmosphere broke.

Maddox’s hands froze around his leather wraps.

Kieran’s mocking smile vanished instantly, his head snapping toward the ceiling.

Silas dropped his tablet, the glass screen cracking against the polished floor.

Rowan Blackwood’s hands gripped the steel railing so hard the metal groaned under his palms. His calm facade shattered completely as his golden eyes locked onto the dark southern corridor.

"She’s here," Rowan said, his voice raw with pure shock.