Mated to Her Alpha Instructor Chapter 117

Nina

"I said get out!" The words came out sharper than I intended, but I couldn't soften them. Couldn't let her see past the thorns. "Leave my room!"

"Nina, I just wanted to—"

"I don't need your concern!" My voice cracked and I hated that too. Tears were burning behind my eyes and I would not cry in front of her. "I don't need anyone! Get out! Now!"

She stood slowly, uncertainty written all over her face. For a moment I thought she was going to push, going to insist, and panic flared hot in my stomach. If she stayed, if she asked questions, if she somehow figured out—

*No one can know. No one can ever know.*

"...All right." Her voice was quiet. Defeated. Good. "But if you need help, you can always come to me. My room is right next door."

I turned my face to the wall, my shoulders shaking with the effort of holding everything in. I heard her footsteps retreat, heard the soft click of the door closing.

Only then did I let the sobs come.

They tore out of me in silent, convulsive waves, my hand pressed hard over my mouth to muffle the sound. Eileen might still be in the hallway. She might hear. And if she heard, she'd come back, and if she came back I might—God help me—I might actually tell her.

And then it would all be over.

*Think. Focus. Survive.*

I dug my nails into my palms until the pain cleared my head. The nightmare was fading now, sinking back into the dark place where I kept all my nightmares, but the fear—the fear stayed sharp.

Because it wasn't just a nightmare.

More than a week ago, I'd heard that voice again. For real this time.

I'd been walking past Dr. Hawthorne's office to deliver a supply report when I heard it drifting through the half-open door—that same drawling, cultured tone that used to discuss my mother's torture like he was planning a hunt.

"...making excellent progress with the evaluations, Doctor. The Wylde girl shows promise, though her... circumstances... do raise certain concerns..."

I didn't hear the rest. The world had narrowed to a pinpoint of pure terror. My legs moved on instinct, carrying me away—not running, because running draws attention, but fast enough that I made it back to my room before the shaking started.

It couldn't be him. It couldn't.

But I knew it was.

Silas Crowe. Council observer. Here.

I'd spent the next hour locked in this room, my back against the door, replaying that voice over and over in my mind to make sure I wasn't imagining it. I wasn't. Fifteen years might have passed since that dungeon, but some things you don't forget. Some voices are carved into your nightmares too deep to ever fade.

He was here. The man who'd brutalized my mother while I watched from a cage. The man who'd promised I'd be next when I "ripened."

And today—today I'd seen him again.

I'd been leaving the clinic, arms full of bandage supplies, when I spotted him in the distance talking to one of the scouts. Just his back, just his silhouette, but it was enough. I'd dropped into the shadow of the nearest building, pressing myself against the rough wood, my heart trying to claw its way out of my throat.

*Please don't turn around. Please don't see me.*

He hadn't. He'd walked away, his voice fading into the general noise of the camp, and I'd stayed frozen for a full minute before I could move again.

Did he recognize me?

I was five years old when they took Mother. Five years old when I huddled in that cage and learned what monsters really looked like. Now I was twenty—a grown woman with a different name (Nina Grey, not Ianthe's daughter, never that), different clothes, a different life carefully constructed from lies and silence.

He shouldn't recognize me. There's no reason he would. I was a child. A prop in the background of his cruelty.

But his eyes...

When I'd caught a glimpse of his face in the crowd before he left the dispensary today, just for a second before I fled, I'd seen those eyes. Still predatory. Still hunting.

What if he did remember? What if he was just waiting, watching, playing with his food before he struck?

*Stop. Stop thinking.*

I pushed myself off the floor, my legs unsteady. The room was too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. I needed—I needed to—

My hands shook as I dug through my pack, past the folded clothes and medical texts, until I found the small vial hidden in a sock. The liquid inside was pale purple, cloudy with dissolved herbs.

Moonwort. Valerian root. A drop of essence of poppy.

And something else. Something I'd learned from Mother's book before I burned it, because keeping it was suicide in wolf territory.

The cork pulled free with a soft pop. I stared at the contents, my reflection distorted in the curved glass.

*You're weak. You're broken. You'll always be that little girl in the cage.*

No.

No, I wasn't.

I'd made it out. I'd survived. I'd clawed my way into the Academy, hid what I was, excelled at healing because it was the only power they'd let me have. This internship—this chance to prove myself, to secure a real position, to never have to depend on anyone's mercy again—I wouldn't let him take it from me.

Even if it meant I had to see his face often and pretend I didn't remember.

Even if it meant I had to swallow my fear and my rage and my screaming need to run.

I tipped the vial to my lips. The potion tasted like bitter earth and chemical sweetness, burning down my throat. Within seconds I felt the familiar heaviness creeping into my limbs, the softening of sharp edges.

I crawled back into bed, pulling the thin blanket up to my chin. My eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling beams, as the drug dragged me down into chemical darkness.

The last thing I thought before the void swallowed me whole was:

*He can't know. He'll never know. I'll die before I let him put me back in that cage.*

And then—nothing.

No dreams. No memories. No fear.

Just the temporary mercy of oblivion.