Kidnapped by my Mate

Leaving

Wanda

It was dark in the forest. Dusk had already fallen, swallowing the world in shadows that pressed against my skin, wrapping me in a blanket of cold and fear. The ropes around my wrists bit deep, each twist and pull sending a flare of pain that radiated up my arms and into my chest. Blood trickled from a fresh cut on my temple, warm and sticky, dripping slowly onto the rough bark beneath me. My body was pressed against the trunk, stomach down, feet tied to the ground. I couldn’t move. Every muscle screamed. Every breath scraped against the wood, rasping and uneven.

The laughter came first, slicing through the fog of pain and fear. Sharp. Cruel. Taunting. Echoing in the trees. A fire burned somewhere nearby, its orange glow flickering over the darkness, teasing warmth that would never reach me. Then — a shadow close, too close. A hand pressed against my waist, a mouth brushing my ear. Disgust and rage coiled in my stomach, twisting into something raw and hot. I tried to scream. Nothing came out of my mouth. My voice was swallowed by the night, my own terror muffled.

A stabbing pain flared in my back, all-consuming. I clenched my teeth and tried to fight, to pull free, but the ropes held fast. Instinct screamed to attack, to flee, to survive. I twisted, every nerve on fire, and cried out. Pain lanced through me, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

Then I woke up.

I jerked upright in bed, the echo of my scream fading into the quiet of my room. The nightmare — the same one, over and over for the last five years — had claimed me again. My chest heaved, heart hammering so hard it felt like it would burst through my ribs. Cold air from the open window swept across my damp skin, brushing strands of dark blonde hair across my face.

I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, grounding myself, telling my body: you’re here, you’re safe. That has become my mantra since 5 years. I told it myself ever since all day.

Outside, winter was whispering its arrival. The air was sharp, almost electric, though the day still held a reluctant warmth. My eyes caught movement on the balcony — a shadow beyond the glass. My pulse spiked. I flicked on the light. Nothing. Just the trees, swaying in the night wind.

It had been happening more often. The feeling of being watched, of eyes tracing my movements. Earlier, at the cooking school parking lot, it had pricked my spine too — an invisible weight pressing against me. I couldn’t ignore it. I needed control. I needed my life back.

The alarm would ring in less than an hour. Sleep was impossible anyway. I got up, mechanically making my bed, moving to the bathroom. Water ran over my hair, washing away the remnants of the nightmare. I blowed it dry until it fell in soft waves just below my chest. The mirror reflected a face shaped like my sister’s, blue eyes alert, skin pale in the morning light. I studied myself, noting the lean muscles beneath my skin. Seven years since my first shift, seven years of waiting for a mate I hadn’t met. Would I ever find him?

I applied a subtle touch of eye shadow, a spritz of my favorite perfume, and packed my belongings with precision. Clothes for a week, bikinis, sun hats, towels, shoes, nice dresses, toiletries. Books, my camera. Everything was ready. I dressed in yoga pants and a tight top that hugged my waist, a loose cardigan over it. Today I would leave. Six months in Asia. A chance to escape, to heal, to breathe. To be finaly me again.

A friend had suggested it — maybe she didn’t know how desperately I needed to run, to find space, to face the ghosts I carried. Five years ago, the forest attack had changed me. Experienced, trained, ready to fight, I had faced five rouges alone. I survived, barely. Scarred in body, haunted in mind. The pack had been my refuge, but I had never felt safe there again. Rouges avoided humans, and so moved into the city.

I had builded myself a small life — a job at my cousin’s cooking school, my apartment close by. My sanctuary. Everything orderly, controlled. My safe space. That I would leave for a few month.

My suitcases were packed. Ready. Unlike me.

The cab waited outside my building, lanterns casting pale circles of light onto the street. The driver stepped out to help with my suitcase, polite, silent. My pulse ticked faster. I felt like I was being watched again. Every hair on my neck bristled. I slid into the seat. The door slammed and locked. Latch clicked into place.

My instinct flared up. I tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. And then I saw him.

The man beside me, grinning at me. That look, — predatory, confident, possessiv— set my wolf on fire. A shiver ran down my spine. Anger, readiness, survival — all flared inside me. My chest rose and fell rapidly, my muscles ready to attack. I did not panic. I could not.

Then the needle pierced my neck. Sharp. Cold.

In an instant, the world spun and faded, darkness swallowing me whole. My mind screamed, clawing at consciousness, fighting every second. But even as the shadows claimed me, I refused to go quietly. My body tensed, my instincts alive, my spirit unwilling to bend. I tried to hurt everyone around me with my nails, but with the drug in my blood I wasn't as effectiv as normal.

And then… my wold went black.