The dungeon was silent, but Silas was no longer screaming. The needle Julian had used was supposed to break him, but it had done the opposite. It had cleared the fog from his mind. As the chemical stimulant raced through his blood, Silas felt his old training return. He wasn't just a Prince's mate; he was a Vane. He was a man who had survived ten-to-one fights in the dark alleys of the South.
Julian stood by the table, pouring another glass of wine, his back turned to the "broken" brother he thought was helpless.
"You should have stayed in your cage, Silas," Julian mocked, his voice echoing. "You were never meant for freedom. You were meant to be a tool for someone more powerful than you."
Silas didn't answer. He closed his eyes, focusing on the heavy iron chains around his wrists. He didn't pull against them with panic. He breathed slowly, feeling the weak point in the old, rusted wall where the bolt was anchored. He waited for the rhythm of his own heartbeat to match the throbbing pain in his neck.
One. Two. Three.
With a sudden, explosive burst of strength, Silas twisted his body and slammed his boots against the stone wall. The rusted bolt shrieked as it was torn from the damp rock.
Julian spun around, dropping his glass. "What—?"
Before Julian could call for the guards, Silas was on him. Even with the heavy chains still hanging from his wrists, Silas moved like a shadow. He used the momentum of the falling chains to wrap the cold iron around Julian's throat, pulling him close.
"I didn't come home to be saved, Julian," Silas hissed into his brother's ear. His voice was cold, lethal, and steady. "I came home because I thought you were family. I was wrong."
Julian struggled, his face turning purple as the chains tightened. He reached for the knife at his belt, but Silas was faster. In one smooth motion, Silas grabbed Julian's hand, twisted it until the bone popped, and took the blade.
The door at the top of the stairs burst open. Ten guards rushed in, their rifles raised. They saw the "weak" Omega holding their leader hostage.
"Drop your weapons!" Silas roared. His eyes were wild, glowing with a mix of the drug and his own raw survival instinct. "Or I'll finish what the Prince started!"
The guards hesitated. They had been told Silas was a broken, drugged-out mess. They didn't realize they were standing in a room with a cornered ghost. Silas didn't wait for them to decide. He kicked the table toward them, creating a split second of chaos.
Even though his body was exhausted and the drug was making his heart race dangerously fast, Silas fought. He used the knife to slash through the first guard's vest, then used his chains to whip the rifle out of the second guard's hands. He was a whirlwind of silver and blood. He took down three men before the weight of the exhaustion started to pull at his knees.
Julian, gasping for air on the floor, grabbed a heavy wooden chair and slammed it into Silas's back. Silas fell to his knees, the knife slipping from his fingers.
"You brat!" Julian screamed, clutching his bruised throat. "I'll kill you myself!"
Julian picked up the knife and lunged toward Silas's chest. Silas was too tired to move. He looked up, his vision blurring, ready for the end.
BOOM.
The ceiling of the dungeon didn't just crack—it exploded. Stone and dust rained down as a black tactical transport smashed through the floor from the courtyard above. The sound of high-powered rotors drowned out Julian's scream.
Through the dust, a figure emerged. It was Alaric. He wasn't wearing his royal robes; he was in full black tactical gear, his eyes glowing like blue fire in the dark. He moved so fast the guards didn't even have time to fire. In seconds, the remaining men were on the floor, and Alaric's boot was pinned firmly against Julian's chest.
Alaric didn't even look at Julian. His eyes were fixed on Silas, who was slumped against the wall, covered in blood and dust, still holding a broken piece of chain.
Alaric knelt in the dirt, ignoring the danger, and pulled Silas into his arms. He felt the heat of Silas's body and the raw, violent energy of the fight he had just put up.
"I felt you," Alaric whispered, his voice thick with a pride that shook his entire frame. "I felt you fighting them. My brave, dangerous ghost."
Silas looked up, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to lift his hand to Alaric's face, but he was finally empty. "I... I told you... I'm a Vane."
"You are a King," Alaric corrected, his grip tightening as he lifted Silas off the ground. He looked at Julian, who was trembling under the weight of the Prince's gaze. "You thought he was a victim. You thought he was a prize. You didn't realize that you put a wolf in a room with sheep."
Alaric turned his back on the ruins of the fortress, carrying Silas toward the waiting Black Hawk.
"He's exhausted, sir," the medic said, running forward with a stretcher. "The drug—his heart—"
"He's fine," Alaric said, refusing to let go. He looked down at Silas, a dark, possessive smile crossing his face. "He fought ten men while he was dying. He's stronger than any Alpha I've ever met."
As the helicopter lifted into the air, Silas finally let his eyes close. He felt the steady, powerful heartbeat of the Prince against his ear. He was still a Mafia ghost, and he was still a Vane. But as the warmth of Alaric's scent wrapped around him, he realized for the first time that being "saved" didn't mean he was weak.
It meant he finally had someone worth fighting for.