From Rejected Mate to Luna Chapter 95

Nathan's POV

Four days. That's how long I'd been locked in this glorified cell they called a "security room." Four days of staring at the same four walls, the same ceiling, the same goddamn everything.

I wasn't worried at first. This was just my father's way of flexing his authority. I would sort it all out. I always did.

The room wasn't terrible—a bed, bathroom, even a small desk bolted to the floor. Better than what most prisoners got. Still a cage, though. Still beneath me.

I stretched out on the bed, hands behind my head. "This will all blow over," I told myself the first day. "Tomorrow, maybe the day after, I'll walk out of here and resume my rightful place."

Meals arrived three times daily. The first few times, I tried engaging with whoever brought the food.

"Hey, tell my father I need to speak with him," I said to a young security team member on the second day.

He kept his eyes down, placed the tray on the small table, and left without a word. Weird, but not concerning. Yet.

By the third day, I noticed something: every person who entered wore earbuds. Not just one security member—all of them. And none would speak to me, no matter what I said.

That's when the first twinge of unease crept in. They were being instructed to ignore me completely. Earbuds to block my voice, orders not to engage. Isolation tactics.

Where was my father? He hadn't visited once.

By the fourth morning, the walls seemed to be closing in. I paced the small room, my wolf restless beneath my skin. Thirteen steps across, eleven steps wide. I'd counted a hundred times.

"This is BULLSHIT!" I slammed my fist into the wall, leaving a dent in the drywall but not breaking through—reinforced, obviously. They'd thought of everything.

My mind raced through what had happened with Julia. That confrontation at her house, her accusations about the rogue attack... but none of it warranted this level of containment. Unless...

Had she somehow convinced them? Was my father actually believing her wild story?

The security member who brought lunch was someone I recognized—Brett, one of my father's loyal men. Or so I'd thought.

"Brett," I kept my voice level, reasonable. "We've known each other for years. Just tell my father I need to speak with him. That's all I'm asking."

Brett adjusted his earbuds and set the tray down without acknowledging me. The dismissal made my blood boil.

I grabbed his arm before he could leave. "Take those fucking things out of your ears and listen to me!"

He twisted free with practiced ease, and I saw the warning in his eyes before he stepped out and locked the door behind him.

Four days. Four days of silence and dismissal. Four days without my father's reassurance that this was temporary. Four days of growing suspicion that something much bigger was happening outside these walls.

By evening, I was climbing the walls. My wolf was snarling beneath my skin, demanding release, demanding answers. I tried shifting, hoping the animal's strength might find weakness in the door or walls, but they'd built this room to contain a transformed werewolf. Of course they had.

When dinner arrived, I tried a different approach with a younger security member.

"Look," I said calmly, "I'm not asking for much. Just tell me what's happening. Is there a trial? Has a decision been made? Where's my father?"

Nothing. Not even a flicker of response as he placed the tray and turned to leave.

"I'M GOING TO BE YOUR FUCKING ALPHA!" I roared, slamming both fists against the wall. "YOU CAN'T TREAT ME LIKE THIS!"

The door closed. The lock engaged. Silence.

I sank onto the bed, hands trembling with rage and—though I hated to admit it—fear. Something was very wrong. My father would never allow this treatment unless...

Unless he couldn't stop it. Or worse, unless he approved it.

Hours passed as I stared at the ceiling, my mind cycling through increasingly desperate scenarios. If they were planning to exile me, they'd have done it already. If they believed Julia's accusations, there would be a formal trial. This silence, this isolation—it felt like they were deciding something. Something big.

Around midnight, a scratching sound caught my attention. My enhanced hearing picked up tiny claws skittering along the baseboard. A mouse. I'd smelled it earlier but ignored it. Now, I watched with newfound interest as it darted from beneath the desk to the corner.

An idea formed. Not a good one, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

I moved slowly, positioning myself near the rodent's path. My reflexes, even in human form, were far superior to any normal predator. The mouse sensed danger and froze. Too late. My hand shot out, capturing the tiny creature before it could escape.

"Sorry, little guy," I muttered, feeling its rapid heartbeat against my palm. "Sacrifices must be made."

With a quick, practiced motion, I snapped its neck. Clean, quick. I'd hunted in wolf form enough times to know how to kill efficiently.

Working methodically, I used my fingernails to open the rodent's belly, collecting the still-warm blood in my cupped palm. Perfect. I spread the blood across my left wrist in a convincing pattern, mimicking a deep slash. I created another line across my throat, letting the blood drip down onto my shirt collar.

I tore a strip from my sheet and left it nearby—my supposed cutting instrument. After hiding the mouse carcass in the toilet and flushing, I returned to the bed. I practiced a few times—positioning myself, controlling my breathing, slowing my heart rate to a barely detectable level. A skill all born werewolves learned young, but I'd always been particularly good at it.

By morning, I was ready. When I heard footsteps approaching for breakfast, I arranged myself on the floor where I'd be immediately visible when the door opened. One arm outstretched, wrist up, displaying the dried blood. Head lolled to the side, exposing my blood-smeared throat. Eyes partially open but unfocused, body completely limp.

The security member entered, tray in hand. I heard his sharp intake of breath, followed by the clatter of dishes as the tray hit the floor.

"Reynolds? Shit!" He rushed to my side, fingers pressing against my neck to find a pulse. I'd slowed my heart rate so significantly that even a werewolf would have trouble detecting it without concentrating.

"HELP!" he shouted toward the door. "Need medical in here NOW! He's cut himself!"

His hands moved frantically between my wrist and neck, trying to find the wounds beneath the blood. He wouldn't—the blood had dried in a pattern that mimicked lacerations without actually having any.

"Reynolds, come on man!" He slapped my face lightly, then harder when I didn't respond. My head rolled limply with the impact. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

I heard him speak into his radio, voice tight with panic. "I need Dr. Moore and Alpha Reynolds at the containment room immediately! Reynolds has attempted suicide!"

He turned back to me, checking my breathing. I allowed the faintest whisper of air to pass my lips—enough to suggest I was alive, but barely.

"Stay with me, Reynolds," he muttered, hands shaking as he tried to find a wound to apply pressure to. "Where the hell is all this blood coming from?"

I heard more footsteps running down the hallway. Let them panic. Let them worry about what would happen if the son of Reynolds died in their custody.

"I'm getting help!" he called to me, rushing toward the door. "Lock it behind me!" he yelled to someone outside.

The door slammed. The lock engaged. And I opened my eyes, slowly sitting up with a satisfied smile.