Chapter 23: Behind Locked Doors
The hallways of the packhouse were unnervingly quiet this late at night. The only sound Rowan could hear was the echo of his own footsteps on the stone floor and the distant creak of the old wood beams groaning with the changing temperatures. He moved like a shadow, silent and focused, hugging the edge of the wall as he turned each corner. He’d ordered the guards to give him space hours ago. Now, with the halls clear and the moon riding high above the mountain ridge, he made his move.
Her door stood at the far end of the corridor—he hated calling it a cell. It wasn't much more than that. The room was small, cold, and too empty for someone like her. Someone who didn’t belong behind walls.
He paused outside the door, his hand hovering near the latch. Just beyond this barrier was his mate. Imprisoned. Mistrusted. Alone.
His wolf snarled inside him, restless and angry. ‘She shouldn’t be in there. She should never have been put in there.’
Rowan forced his emotions down, controlled his breathing, and finally opened the door.
She was curled on the edge of the small cot, her back to the door, her arms wrapped around her legs. Her dark hair spilled like ink over her shoulders. She didn’t stir, but he knew she heard him. She always did.
“I couldn’t stay away,” Rowan said softly, closing the door behind him with a gentle click. “I had to see you.”
She didn’t turn, but her posture shifted slightly. Less guarded. Still tense.
“Are you here to tell me you agree with them?” she asked, voice hoarse and quiet. “That I’m a threat?”
“No.” Rowan moved closer, taking a seat on the floor just beside the cot. “I’m here because this is the only place I want to be.”
That finally earned him a glance over her shoulder. Her eyes shimmered with emotion in the dim moonlight that spilled through the small barred window.
“I didn’t do this,” she said. “You know that, right?”
“I know.” He rested his forearms on his knees, his voice low and certain. “I’ve never doubted you, Giselle. Not for a second.”
“Then why am I locked up?” The anger in her voice was soft, but sharp. “Why is my family locked up?”
“Because they’re afraid,” Rowan said bitterly. “Afraid of what they don’t understand. Afraid of what you represent. And they think by caging you, they’re protecting what’s left of their order.”
She looked away again, pressing her forehead to her knees. “I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate feeling like I’m constantly trying to prove I’m not the enemy.”
Rowan reached out and rested his hand gently on her back. She stiffened, then slowly relaxed beneath his touch.
“You shouldn’t have to prove anything to anyone,” he said. “You’re my mate. That should be enough. For them. For everyone.”
“Is it enough for you?” she asked, barely audible.
He didn’t hesitate. “More than enough.”
They sat like that for several minutes, silence wrapping around them like a blanket. When Giselle finally turned fully to face him, her expression was tired—but softer. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take, Rowan.”
“I know,” he said. “But I’m working on it. I promise you—I’m not going to let them keep you here forever.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly. “What if they don’t change their minds?”
“Then I’ll change their minds for them.”
She stared at him, startled by the ferocity in his tone.
He stood slowly, offering her his hand. “Come sit with me. On the floor. I don’t want to sit on that cot like it’s a prison. Not when I’m with you.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then took his hand. They sat cross-legged facing each other, knees nearly touching, hands joined.
“I’ve missed this,” she whispered. “You.”
“Then let’s steal these moments until we can make more of them,” Rowan replied. “No matter what they say. You’re not alone in this.”
Rowan sat cross-legged on the floor beside Giselle, his back resting against the wall opposite hers. A single lantern flickered between them, casting warm shadows across her tired face.
"How are they?" Giselle asked quietly, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the stone floor.
"Your mother and sister?" Rowan asked, his voice soft.
She nodded.
"They're safe," he assured her. "I placed them in separate rooms, not far from here. The healer still visits your mother daily. She’s doing… as well as she can." He hesitated. "Your sister’s holding up. Strong girl, that one."
Relief washed over Giselle’s features. “Thank you. For not… treating them like criminals.”
“You’re not criminals,” Rowan said firmly. “And I won’t let them forget that.”
A long silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Rowan cleared his throat. “Tell me something. Anything.”
Giselle blinked at him, confused. “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Something about you. What do you like?”
She looked down, thinking. “I like the sound of rain at night. And birdsong in the early morning. I like the feeling of moss beneath my feet, and how the wind smells just before a storm.”
Rowan smiled. “You’re definitely not a pack wolf.”
“No,” she said with a faint smile of her own. “I’m not.”
Rowan’s gaze softened as he leaned his head back against the wall. “But you are mine.” Her breath caught, her eyes locking onto his. “And I’ll get you out of here,” he promised. “I swear it.”
Giselle didn’t answer, but her hand inched just a little closer to his in the flickering light.
They talked for over an hour—about her sister, her mother, his pack, his frustrations with the Elders. They laughed quietly. She smiled for the first time in days. It wasn’t the life he wanted to give her—not yet—but it was something.
It was hope.
And for now, that was enough.
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