When Lyra came to, she could not figure out where she was for a moment and as she tried to get her bearings, her mind buzzed from the panic of the night, the darkness, the chase, and the fear and more than anything, from the shock of what had happened after.
She'd been saved.
Or so she had thought until her saviour hit her.
Lyra blinked slowly, her dry eyes burning as she realized she was no longer in the village. She was chained at the wrists, held above her head and locked into the wooden frame of a small, enclosed cart. Her feet were shackled, too, the cold iron biting into her ankles. The cart jolted now and then, a sign they were moving.
"W-What…?"
Her throat was raw. She could taste copper. Her limbs ached. Her body screamed at her, and yet, none of the pain compared to the rising tide of confusion and dread.
She screamed.
The sound tore out of her lungs like a beast breaking free, raw and panicked, echoing off the wooden walls of the cart. She pulled at the chains, kicked at the wood, her skin scraping raw. "Help! Somebody help me! Please!"
The cart came to a stop.
Hoofbeats and gravel. Boots. Voices.
The flap to the back of the cart snapped open, and harsh sunlight blinded her. She shrunk back, raising her chained arms in defense.
A silhouette stood at the threshold. Then, a face. Him.
The man from last night, the one who had slit the attacker's throat. The one she had thanked.
"Good," he muttered, stepping in. "You're awake."
"Let me go!" she screamed at him, voice cracking. "You said… You saved me! Why are you doing this?"
He crouched before her, no pity in his eyes, only the cold detachment of someone who had done this far too many times. "Because it would have been a waste," he said flatly. "You would've fetched less if you were bloodied or broken, Sam was not supposed to touch the goods, he knew that."
Her breath caught. "W-What?"
"You'll understand soon enough."
She jerked her legs, trying to kick him. He caught her foot with little effort and shoved her ankle back into place. "You should conserve your energy."
"I'll kill you!" she snarled, wild with rage. "When I get out of here, I swear…"
But she didn't get to finish.
He slid a small needle from his sleeve thin, glinting. Before she could recoil, he stabbed it into her arm. She cried out, twisting away, but it was too late. The burning seeped into her bloodstream fast.
"No… no, no…" her voice slurred.
The world began to tilt sideways.
"Sweet dreams," the man muttered, then shut the cart again.
The second time Lyra woke, the sun had dipped low in the sky, painting everything in shades of gold and orange. The moving cart seemed to have come to a stop, and the air outside buzzed with distant insects and murmuring voices.
Her head throbbed.
She lay slumped against the wall now, still chained, but too weak to sit up. Her skin was clammy, her mouth parched. Her stomach growled angrily, but no hunger could distract from the sickness crawling under her skin.
She was dizzy, heart pounding in her ears.
Then she heard them, two voices.
Men, speaking not far from her cart. Their words were low, but the stillness of the woods carried their voices to her and she did not miss a single word.
"…said she was young. Not yet claimed."
"She better be. I don't want to waste time bringing back a ruined one. You know what happened the last time."
The second man grunted. "This one is worth it. Her father swore she was untouched. Said his daughter was a virgin werewolf, you know how rare that is, you would make a fortune."
Lyra's heart stopped.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She'd misheard. She had to have misheard.
Virgin werewolf, her father.
The words echoed in her mind like a chant. Her vision blurred, her limbs trembling violently. She tasted bile rising in her throat as she realized this wasn't just a kidnapping.
This was a sale.
She was being sold.
For her body. For her bloodline. For something she didn't even understand.
And worseofall, her father had led them to her.
Her father.
The man who had raised her. Who shared his bread with her. Who gave her the last of the water on dry nights. The man she had cried for when she was little. The man who made her work long hours, yes but who had also taught her how to use a blade to skin a rabbit, and whispered stories of their dead mother when her brother slept.
Her world cracked down the middle.
The cart door open abruptly and the man from before, the killer, the kidnapper, whoever he was appeared again. His face no longer wore the mask of a rescuer. Now it was plain, unbothered, businesslike.
"You're awake," he said.
Lyra didn't speak. Couldn't.
"Be careful of her now, that's a feisty one. I believe she will run first chance she gets."
Another man appeared from behind the kidnapper, this one looked unpleasant and the long scar across his face sent a shiver of revulsion through Lyra.
"You are right." He said with a crooked grin. "She sure is a pretty one."
She looked up at him, eyes burning with fury, heartbreak, and something else something deeper. A spark beneath the ashes of her soul.
She didn't know why they thought that she was a virgin werewolf but she did know that she was in trouble and she had to get as far away as possible.
If this mad man believed that she was a werewolf, she knew what that meant. She had heard stories about female werewolves.