Glass Wolves and War Songs

Sometime past midnight, I felt it.

Nine's body jerked against mine — subtle at first. A twitch. A breath caught. A shiver that didn't belong in sleep.

Then his hand fisted in the sheets.

"No—"

His voice was so quiet I almost thought I imagined it. But the bond flared — a flash of fear so stark it paralyzed me.

"No, please—please don't—Alpha—Alpha, help—"

I sat up, heart lurching. "Nine?"

He bolted upright before I could touch him. Wide-eyed. Shaking. His chest heaved as he scrambled back until he hit the headboard, arms clutched protectively over his ribs.

"Don't let him touch me," he gasped. "Don't let him take me back."

My blood went cold.

"Nine. It's just me," I said softly, trying not to startle him. "You're safe. He's not here."

But he didn't hear me. His eyes darted around the room like the shadows might take shape and drag him out of bed. "He said he would come. Said he might come tonight. Just to see—just to—just—"

His words broke off into ragged sobs.

I crawled toward him slowly, hands out, not to touch but to be seen. "He's not coming. I promise."

Nine still wouldn't look at me. He was somewhere else — in that room again, with the cattle prod, the cruel hands, the command to smile while he cried.

The bond between us throbbed again. But this wasn't pain. This was terror. A raw, primal kind that stripped him bare and left only the child he'd never been allowed to be.

I had seen Nine hurt before.

I had felt him shattered before.

But never like this.

This wasn't submission or trauma buried under programming. This wasn't him flinching through pain he had been made to endure.

This was real fear. Unfiltered.

And it was new.

Which meant whatever the Supreme Leader had done to him had reached a level beyond even Nine's warped sense of normal.

I touched his shoulder gently.

He flinched. Then crumbled.

"He said I was his favorite," Nine whispered, voice like glass dust. "Said if I cried just right, he'd keep me longer. And I—I tried not to, Alpha, I tried so hard—"

"I know," I choked out, pulling him into my arms. "I know, baby. I'm here. He won't touch you again. Not ever."

His fists twisted in my shirt. "I don't want to be pretty anymore. I just want to be yours."

I couldn't breathe past the lump in my throat.

He had been made for pleasure, engineered to withstand violation, bred to be beautiful and pliant and pain-tolerant. And yet—

This broke him.

Whatever the Supreme Leader had done, it had been worse than rape.

It had been personal.

Deconstruction of self, inch by inch. Not just touching Nine's body, but violating the idea of him.

And now he was here, shaking in my arms, afraid of shadows, afraid of the next knock at the door.

And I—I was the one who'd told myself to wait. To be patient. To survive.

He'd been surviving too.

And it was killing him.

"I'm going to end him," I said, not as a threat. Not even as rage. Just a statement. A promise I hadn't made before because I didn't think I could keep it.

But now?

I couldn't not.

Nine's breath hitched against my skin, then slowed, syncing with mine.

He wasn't fully calm.

But he was clinging to me like I was the only tether he had left.

Maybe I was.

And maybe, if I was brave enough, I'd finally be worthy of it.