He could have killed them all. His wolf was right about that.

The cop who arrested him. The others who marched him outside. He was in handcuffs, but that was no matter. With enough will, he could have broken them. He could have done it in the house, in the police cruiser, as they brought him into the jail and booked him. He could have rained death on every single one of them and run, and he would be miles away before any of the living had a chance to come after him.

But he’d had enough of killing. He supposed he’d just proved that—to himself, to his wolf, to Alison. He didn’t know how an alpha wolf could lead his pack if he wasn’t prepared to kill, and he didn’t think he would get a chance to find out, because he might never see his pack again.

It didn’t matter to the human cops that he hadn’t killed Carson. That they were sending him to jail without a single charge laid. They didn’t even bother reading him his rights. You don’t have rights, shifter, one of the cops said when he asked. The only right you have is to sit in this cell and wait. So that’s what you’re going to do.

They put him alone in a cell, probably because they didn’t want to risk any of their other prisoners with him. Maybe they were right.

They didn’t give him a phone call or a lawyer. No one came to ask him questions or take a statement. They just sat him there a prisoner, and left him.

He closed his eyes while inside him, his wolf howled.

After hours, or days—there were no windows in here—he was brought food. He didn’t eat it. Hours or days later, they took it away and brought more. He didn’t eat that either. There were shouts in the corridor, men screaming, horrible smells, the sound of a man throwing up. He was truly in a cage now, unable to escape. He watched the guards pass by, one and then another, then back again. He watched the guard who brought him food. He could have snapped the man’s neck in the blink of an eye, the man’s bullets useless on him. He had a dozen opportunities to kill, but there was no point at the moment. No point to anything but waiting.

In the absence of any distractions, he sat with eyes closed and sent out mental feelers. Shifters didn’t have psychic powers—not even close—but mates and kin had a certain connection. If any of his brothers were dead, he would know. If Alison were dead, he would know. And he would also know if they were close. He wondered if they were coming for him.

Part of him didn’t want them to come. He didn’t want them to feel panic or grief, especially Alison. At the same time he wanted her near almost as much as he wanted his next breath. He hadn’t seen her in days now, hadn’t talked to her, had no idea where she was. It was torture, not seeing his mate, not touching her, especially this early. Fool, he told himself quietly. You are such a goddamned fool. You should have woken up years ago. At least then you’d have had time with her before this happened.

Days continued to pass. He ate sparingly, and he never shouted or railed. The guards were afraid of him; he could smell their fear. That was good. He was done killing, but he could still inflict pain. They should be afraid of the pain Brody could give them. They should keep their distance.

More days passed. A week, maybe more. They didn’t come.

And one day the guards opened the cell, put the cuffs on him, and took him out again. They didn’t say a word. He didn’t ask. He knew they wouldn’t answer him, and he also knew he wasn’t being set free.

They put him in the back of a police van and drove, while Brody contemplated breaking the cuffs and running. The van stopped, and the guards handed him over to different guards in a different van, and Brody thought about hurting them too. The second van drove for a while, and when it stopped they were at a big white building surrounded by ten feet of electric fence. Brody could smell live electricity and disinfectant and the stale, cold smell of metal. He could smell misery and fear. He could smell humans, and animals kept in cages, but he didn’t scent any shifters. Not his brothers, not his mate.

They took him inside. This was a hospital of some sort, though he couldn’t smell sickness. There were people in scrubs and doctors’ coats, and other people in suits, and still other people in security uniforms. They had taken his clothes, given him patient scrubs, and almost put him in the cell when he realized what was happening, where he was. It was the smell of the animals that gave it away, because the animals were in cages, and they were afraid.

Research. This was some kind of research facility.

For the first time he felt a jolt of panic, but they had already shoved him in the cell and closed the door. This was a different cell from before, whiter, cleaner, with a thick pane of glass in the door so that people could look in on him. A camera was embedded in the wall near the ceiling so that more people could look at him. So they could study him.

He stared at the camera for a long time, feeling something bubble up inside him. He’d played by the rules. He hadn’t killed Carson. He’d surrendered. He’d saved the lives of dozens of people who didn’t realize it, simply by sitting still and not killing them. He hadn’t made a fuss. He hadn’t even talked to a fucking lawyer, not that he’d ever met a lawyer in his life.

He hadn’t killed anyone. He hadn’t even hurt them.

But that camera made him mad.

Never anger an alpha wolf, the saying went.

He stared into the lens, letting whoever was on the other side see his eyes. Giving them a warning.

Then he made a single jump, grabbed the camera, ripped it from the wall, and smashed it to the floor.