Natasha’s POV

The ship’s violent shudder woke me. My head throbbed where it had struck the wooden wall during the night, and for a moment I couldn’t remember where I was. Then the stench hit—vomit, unwashed bodies.

My hands flew to my chest. The binding cloth was still there, tight enough to make breathing uncomfortable. Thank God.

“Lina,” I rasped, shaking the warm body beside me. “Wake up. The ship’s stopped.”

Davelina stirred, her face pale in the dim light filtering through cracks in the hull. Around us, other prisoners were beginning to move, groaning and crying out. A child somewhere was sobbing for his mother.

The hatch above exploded open. Blinding grey light poured in, and a voice like grinding stone bellowed: “On your feet! Anyone still down in ten seconds gets the whip!”

Bodies scrambled upward. I helped Davelina stand, her legs shaking beneath her. We climbed the ladder with the others, pushed from behind by desperate hands, pulled forward by terror.

The deck was chaos. Creatures—Lycans, I supposed—prowled among us with leather whips, sorting prisoners like livestock. One grabbed a young woman by the hair and dragged her to the left. Another shoved an elderly man toward the right. Children screamed. Someone was praying in rapid French.

But it was the view beyond the ship that made my blood freeze.

We’d arrived at hell.

Massive black rocks jutted from churning water like rotted teeth. The sky was the color of lead, stained darker by what looked like volcanic ash. A crude stone harbor stretched before us, and everywhere I looked, I saw male prisoners—dozens of them—hauling crates under the supervision of Lycan overseers. Their backs bore whip marks. Their faces held no expression at all.

This was Bloodmoon Harbor. It had to be.

“Remember what I told you,” Davelina whispered urgently, gripping my arm.

I nodded, keeping my cap pulled low.

A one-eyed Lycan with mottled brown fur strode onto the gangplank, surveying us with cold assessment. “Listen well, livestock. Males to the left—you’re bound for mining. Females to the right for inspection. Pretty ones go to the fortress. Ugly ones to the kitchens.”

No. No, no, no—

Rough hands seized my shoulder, yanking me away from Davelina. I struggled, but the grip was iron. “Stop! Let me stay with her!”

“Shut your mouth, boy.” A clawed hand cuffed me across the ear, making my vision blur. “You’re mine now.”

I was dragged toward a line of male prisoners, their faces uniformly hopeless. Behind me, I heard Davelina cry out, but when I tried to turn, another blow knocked me to my knees.

Then—hoofbeats.

A massive wolf, easily the size of a horse, thundered onto the dock. The Lycan rider wore black leather and an expression of barely-contained irritation. He dismounted with fluid grace and strode toward the one-eyed overseer.

“Hold,” the rider commanded. His voice carried authority that made even the overseer stiffen. “North Lord Fergus sends word. The fortress is short on labor. Most of the woman slaves died last week, and there’s no one left to haul the corpses or scrub the floors clean. I’ll have some of your males.”

Last week. The words settled like ice in my stomach.

The overseer scowled. “Pick who you want, then. I need the rest for the mines.”

The black-clad rider’s gaze swept over us. It paused on me—small, young-looking in my oversized clothes—then moved to two other boys near my age. “You three. You look sturdy enough for hauling and cleaning. You are coming along with the females.”

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