The Feral Alpha's Captive-Chapter 17: New Foes

DRAVEN

She looked cold. Composed. Her expression was unreadable as she surveyed the room, taking in the tension, the chaos, the wolves still reeling from the High Alpha’s visit.

"What’s wrong?" she asked, her voice flat.

Elias answered before I could. "The High Alpha was just here."

Morgana stopped.

Just for a second.

Her body went still, her eyes flicking to me, and I saw it—shock, sharp and sudden, before she buried it beneath her usual mask.

"Here?" she repeated, her tone carefully neutral. "In Hollowhowl?"

"Yes," I said, my voice cold. "And he brought news."

She waited, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

I held her gaze, my jaw tight.

"Althea escaped," I said. "Into the Mist."

Morgana didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

"And if she made it through," I continued, "she’s likely in North Clan territory now."

For the first time since I’d known her—since she’d stood beside me as Gamma, cold and calculating and unshakable—Morgana went white.

Not pale.

White.

The blood drained from her face so fast I thought she might collapse. Her eyes flared wide, her breath hitching, and for a moment, she looked like she’d seen a ghost.

No.

Worse.

Like she’d seen the end of the world.

She hadn’t looked like this when Circe was attacked.

Hadn’t looked like this when her own daughter was framed for murder.

But now—

Now she looked terrified.

"No," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

And then, louder, sharper, desperate:

"No."

She lunged forward, her bloodied hand grabbing my shoulder, her fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"The Hell Hound cannot have her," she said, her voice low and horrified. "He must not have her. She cannot be taken. Not by him."

I stared at her, my wolf snarling at the contact, at the disrespect.

"Morgana—"

"You don’t understand," she choked out, her eyes wild. "If he has her—if he realizes what she is—"

Her grip tightened, her nails biting into my skin.

"He will unleash hell. YOU HAVE TO GET HER BACK."

"Explain," I demanded, my voice sharp.

But she was already moving.

Releasing me, stepping back, turning toward the door.

"Morgana," I snapped, my voice rising. "You will stand down—"

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look back.

Just walked out of the war room, her shoulders tense, her stride fast and purposeful.

Disrespecting me.

For the first time.

"Morgana!" I roared.

She broke into a run.

And I realized, with cold, sinking certainty, that she wasn’t running from me.

She was running to find the High Alpha.

Elias stepped beside me, his expression dark.

"What the fuck was that?" he muttered.

I didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because I’d seen the look in Morgana’s eyes.

The terror.

The desperation.

And I knew, whatever Althea was—whatever Morgana had been hiding all these years—

It was worse than I’d ever imagined.

—-

🦋ALTHEA

I couldn’t sleep.

The bed was soft—too soft, after months of stone floors and wooden planks and cold dungeon cells. The blankets were thick, the pillows plush, and the room itself was warm, lit by a crackling fire in the hearth.

But I couldn’t stop shaking.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my knees pulled up to my chest, my arms wrapped around myself as if I could hold the pieces together. As if I could keep myself from shattering completely.

I was sobbing.

Not loudly.

Not the kind of sobs that drew attention, that made people come running.

These were quiet. Broken. The kind that came from somewhere deep and hollow, where nothing was left but the ache.

I wanted to die.

The thought was there, sharp and clear, cutting through the fog in my mind.

I wanted it to stop. All of it. The pain, the fear, the endless cycle of suffering that had become my life.

But even as the thought formed, something else rose up to meet it.

If I died now, it would mean nothing.

All of it—every beating, every humiliation, every moment I’d survived—would be void. Meaningless.

Like I was meaningless.

And I couldn’t accept that.

I pressed my forehead to my knees, my breath hitching, and my mind drifted.

To the stories my stepfather used to tell me.

Before he died.

Before everything fell apart, more than they already were.

He’d told me about the world beyond the werewolf territories. About the witches who could bend reality with a word. The sirens who sang sailors to their deaths. The fae who made bargains that could damn a soul for eternity.

He’d made it sound vast and impossible and full of wonder.

And I’d believed him.

I’d believed there was more to the world than this.

More than packs and Alphas and the endless hierarchy of dominance and submission.

But I’d been trapped here. Chained to this life. To this pack. To this fate.

And I’d been helpless.

Always helpless.

Until Wren.

The memory cut through the haze, sharp and vivid.

Wren, falling from the cliff edge. Screaming. Her hands clawing at the air as gravity pulled her down.

And the Vargan who’d saved her.

He’d been there, patrolling the border, and he’d moved so fast—faster than any of us. His hand had shot out, catching Wren’s wrist, pulling her back from the edge.

She’d lived because of him.

And then they’d accused him of pushing her.

Of trying to kill her.

They’d dragged him to the gallows, and I’d watched—helpless, voiceless, powerless—as they’d hanged him for saving her life.

That was the moment.

The moment everything changed.

Suddenly, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The suffering of the Vargans.

The way they were treated like animals. Like less than animals.

The way they were blamed, tortured, killed for crimes they didn’t commit.

I’d seen it before. I’d lived alongside it.

But I’d never really seen it.

Not until that day.

And I’d wanted to do something.

But Althea couldn’t.

Althea was helpless. Powerless. Scared.

So I became someone else.

The Silvermoth.

An alter ego. A different identity.

Because when I was the Silvermoth, I wasn’t Althea anymore. I wasn’t the broken, wolfless omega who couldn’t fight back, who couldn’t protect anyone, who couldn’t even protect herself.

I was someone who could move in the shadows. Who could strike without being seen. Who could save the ones no one else cared about.

It had been dangerous.

Every time I went out, every time I freed a Vargan from a cell or slit the throat of a gamma who’d gone too far, I knew I could die.

But the Silvermoth wasn’t afraid.

Althea was.

And that separation—that distance—had saved me.

Because no one suspected.

Not even my eagle-eyed mother.

Whenever Althea was missing, the Silvermoth would strike.

And no one could reconcile them.

The wolfless, broken omega and the shadow assassin who left silver moths in her wake.

They couldn’t imagine they were the same person.

It had all been to my advantage.

Until now.

Now, I was here.

In the Hell Hound’s territory.

Chained by a mate bond I didn’t ask for.

Hated by a man whose mother my mother had killed.

And the Silvermoth—the identity that had kept me safe, that had given me purpose—was exposed.

I wasn’t hidden anymore.

I wasn’t separated anymore.

Althea and the Silvermoth were the same.

And I didn’t know if I could survive that.

I sobbed harder, my body shaking, my nails digging into my arms.

I wanted to go back.

Back to the shadows.

Back to the safety of being two people, so that if one broke, the other could be strong and untouchable, revered and feared.

But I couldn’t.

Not anymore.

Because the Hell Hound had seen.

He’d seen the moths.

He’d seen me.

And now there was nowhere left to hide.

The door swung open, prompting me to scramble back, my body instinctively curling tighter as I tried to make myself smaller.

A woman entered.

She was striking—tall, regal, with cascading red hair that fell in waves down her back and sharp hazel eyes that gleamed with something cold and cruel. She moved like royalty, her head held high, her posture perfect, her silk gown trailing behind her as she stepped into the room.

Behind her, an entourage followed. Maids, I assumed, though they carried themselves with the stiffness of soldiers. They held trays—food, water, a steaming cup of tea—but their expressions were hard. Sneering. Scowling.

They hated me.

I could feel it radiating off them like heat.

The woman stopped at the foot of the bed, her eyes sweeping over me with open disdain.

"So," she said, her voice smooth and sharp, "this is the great Silvermoth."

She said the name like it was a joke.

I didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

She smiled, and it was cruel.

"You might have used your wolf magic to try and swindle us," she continued, her tone conversational. "With your bullshit story of fated mates and silver moths."

She gestured dismissively.

"But you remain a werefolk of an allied pack," she said, her voice dropping. "And every single one of your kind that has entered here has adorned our fortress on the stakes they will rot on."

My breath caught.

She stepped closer, leaning down, and I pressed myself harder against the headboard, my heart hammering in my chest.

"So," she whispered, her lips brushing my ear, "the cup of tea contains poison."

My blood ran cold.

"You will be given the mercy," she continued softly, "because you look pathetic enough."

She straightened, her smile widening.

"Drink it," she said, gesturing to the tray one of the maids set on the table beside the bed. "And spare yourself the pain of what comes next."