Torn between Wolves & Myths (Book 2)

It was dark.

Moss covered the stones surrounding him. Water dripped somewhere close by, taunting him with relief he only rarely got from the first time he was brought here. Thirst was a standard feeling in his body now. Years of barely being able to drink anything will do that to a person.

The air was heavy with humidity, yet it wasn’t as bad as before, signalling the end of the warmer weather and beginning of the cold days. Maybe this time the cold will take him, like he hoped it would season after season. Yet the relief of death never came.

They wouldn’t let him die.

No, his suffering was far from over.

The suffering he gained from loving the wrong person.

From loving her.

His muscles, what was left of them, ached. His arms were chained above his head with the diabolical and unnatural chains, especially designed to keep someone like him locked up. He had lost the feeling in his arms a long time ago and he was sure that he will never feel them again. His entire weight leaned on them as he had been kept standing from the moment he got here. He couldn’t even remember what it was like to sit or lie down.

But it wasn’t the worst of his suffering.

The worst wasn’t even his still aching heart for his mate who was close, but still out of reach.

No, the worst was the fact that the bonds he held inside of him. His blood bonds, his family bonds had dwindled down to a barely tangible thing inside of him. He knew what it meant.

They were all dead or dying.

His mother, his father, aunt, uncle, cousin and any who may have been born after he was taken- all of them, except maybe one or two, were gone. That ache was worse then to have his heart ripped out by the rejection of the mate bond between him and her. Because he was the reason they were dead.

He was the reason why the war started in the first place.

All the deaths of both Ulfhednar and Lycanthropes were on him and he was now paying the price for it.

Yet he never begged.

He never screamed.

He never even said a word, for it was nothing more than what he deserved.

His long auburn hair swayed a bit in the breeze coming from between the stones of his cell. He had failed them all.

The Kveldulf, that was what they used to call him. They praised him with it.

They still did, for his own kin didn’t even know the destruction he had brought upon them, nor will they ever.

No, he will keep him as a prisoner, waiting for the opportune moment to let the Ulfhednars know that their prince is still alive and the reason why they are all dead or dying. He will use him to bring them down and win this war.

He had been waiting for him to make the move for years now, but he hasn’t come down here in a long time.

A weird feeling had started to settle over him.

What if there was something else going on?

Could there be a reason why Lycaon hasn’t used his most prized possession?

And if so, what was it and why does he have a feeling that he is connected to this reason?

All questions he couldn’t answer.

Maybe he was just imagining things, but he couldn’t shake his feeling that his blood has become stronger than it had been for a very long time.