Page 142 of Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates

“Don’t you want a normal life? What happened to university? All your friends there? Don’t they miss you?”

Isla turned away and visibly swallowed.

“None of that matters,” she whispered.

“Of course it does. You deserve a life, Isla.” The words hung between us. “I know how this feels—being recruited when you’re young and desperate. When someone offers you exactly what you think you need.”

Her shoulders tensed but she didn’t turn around.

“I was drifting for months when Moira first approached me for Greywatch. Battling this endless ache, knowing I’d never be happy staying in the Highlands. She made it sound like salvation. Purpose.” My throat tightened. “But GREY stole years from me, Isla. Turned me into something I never wanted to be. Broke me down and built me back up as a weapon.”

A small sound escaped her throat. Almost a sob.

“And I get it. Finding out your ma wasn’t actually dead—that must have felt like a miracle. When she said she needed you, I understand why you’d go running. But this is wrong, Isla. I know you know that.” I leaned forward as much as I could. “Sometimes our parents turn out to be monsters. Trust me. I know.”

She whirled around, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. “I’m sorry, Kit,” she said.

Then she fled. Wordlessly, without looking back at me, she slipped past the doctor and vanished into the corridor.

Alone, again.

I stared at the silver restraints around my wrists, tested them half-heartedly. The metal burned against my skin but held firm. Around me, the medical equipment hummed with quiet efficiency.

A dark thought crept in, unbidden: Would it be better to end this now? While I still have a choice?

I catalogued the room’s contents. Scalpels in that cabinet. Probably locked, but the glass would break easily enough. Or the IV stand—heavy enough to do damage if I could get the restraints off. If I became too much of a liability, they’d have to shoot me.

No.

If I was going to die, it wouldn’t be without a fight. And maybe… maybe there was still a chance. Maybe the chip wouldn’t work. Maybe Isla—

The door opened. Theatre scrubs this time, wheeling a gurney.

“Time to go.”

I stood up.

The corridors blurred past—endless white walls punctuated by doors I’d never see again, if Isla’s information about them transferring me was to be believed. The guards flanked me, their boots echoing against polished floors that reeked of disinfectant and despair.

The operating theatre doors loomed ahead. Heavy steel with reinforced glass windows, the kind designed to contain more than just sound.

They swung open with a pneumatic hiss. Surgical lights blazed overhead, casting everything in stark, merciless white. Monitors lined the walls, screens dark but ready. The smell of antiseptic burned my nostrils, but underneath lurked something sharper—the metallic tang of silver.

The operating table dominated the centre. Not just any table. This one was built for wolves. A Greywatch specialty. A silver restraint system, arms and legs secured separately, head brace designed to immobilise completely.

And there, motionless in the corner like a robot waiting for orders, stood my father.

He didn’t acknowledge me. Didn’t even look in my direction. Just another piece of equipment in the room.

“On the table.”

I didn’t struggle. What was the point? The guards unlocked my current restraints, and I climbed onto the cold metal surface, lying back whilst they secured me properly this time.

Silver restraints clicked into place around my wrists, ankles, across my chest. The head brace locked my skull in position, leaving me staring directly into those blazing lights. My wolf whimpered somewhere deep inside.

Cold hands tilted my head forward, exposing the base of my skull. Then the buzz of clippers shaving a section of hair away. Preparing the canvas.

Machines beeped around me, monitoring vital signs I couldn’t control. Heart rate climbing. Blood pressure spiking. The body’s honest response to impending violation.