Not once does he look over at me or the children, yet I sense he's aware of everything happening.
My kidnapper. My... rescuer? The jury's still out.
Bun pats my cheek with her water-wrinkled fingers, drawing my attention back to her. Some primal instinct in me responds to her neediness, even though I've never been around children much. Humans weren't trusted with wolf cubs.
Alpha always said it was to keep me from getting hurt on accident due to their enhanced physical strength, but… well, let's say I'm doubting a lot of things these days.
"All clean now?" I ask her.
She responds with unintelligible babble and a decisive nod.
Owen approaches with a small bundle in his arms—clothes and a diaper for Bun. I don't even know where he got them from. A second ago he was sticking sticks of sugar-coated strawberries in a cup.
His face remains expressionless as he hands them over.
My heart thumps against my ribcage; I was going to ask him a little later, but maybe now is good.
"Hey, um—" I clear my throat, aiming for casual. "Could I maybe borrow your phone? To call my friends?" I swallow. "They're probably worried."
He studies me for a long moment, dark eyes unreadable. Then, without a word, he nods and walks away. Just like that.
I exhale slowly. Not a no. His easy agreement catches me off guard—I'd prepared for resistance, excuses, threats. The kids said he was rescuing us, but it doesn't mean the guy isn't a giant, stone-faced liar.
Something inside me unclenches. He really doesn't mean me any harm.
He's still weird, but at least I'm not trapped. I'll just call Lyre and have her find me. Easy. And maybe she can get some answers out of the big lug.
I hum a little as I dress Bun in a faded yellow onesie with cartoon ducks printed across the front. It's well-worn but clean, like everything else here. She cooperates by thrusting her arms up when needed, though she squirms impatiently as I navigate the diaper.
Three tiny snaps and she's fully clothed once again.
"All done," I announce, and she scrambles to her feet, toddling toward the other children with surprising speed. They panic, still wiping up mushed berry.
Owen returns, phone in one hand. With his other arm, he scoops up Bun mid-stride. She squeals in delight as he hoists her onto his hip, and Jer lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
He holds out his phone—an older model with a cracked screen—then disappears around a curve in the cave wall, Bun peering over his shoulder with curious eyes.
My fingers tremble as I stare at the blank screen. Freedom is literally in my hands now. I can call for help. I can let Lyre know I'm okay.
I press the power button. The screen flickers to life, showing a generic background and the time: 9:49 PM. No password protection. No fancy security.
I tap the phone icon, and the keypad appears.
And then reality hits me like a bucket of ice water.
I don't know anyone's number.
Not Lyre's. Not Caine's. Not even Andrew's.
I know Rafe's, but I'm not calling him even with my life on the line. Rotten ropes can never be trusted.
My mind scrambles through memories, searching for digits, for anything. But there's nothing. The modern era has provided us with the ever-convenient contact list and cell phone memory, which meansnone of itis stored in my head.
I don't even know myownnumber. It's an old phone of Lyre's.
The keypad swims as tears gather. I could call 911, but I'm now mostly convinced Owen isn't a terrible person, and these kids keep talking about blood witches and the Great One. It all sounds very fantasy novel-esque, but supernaturalsdoexist in this world, so it would be stupid to dismiss their concerns out of hand.
And humans can't fight supernaturals. At least, not easily.
