Bearly alive

8

Stella

I’ve decided after my shower that I have to put a pin in trying to figure out what Roman is and who he is to me. Right now, he’s just the man who took me and is about to hand me over to Goddess knows who.

I’ve come to that conclusion mainly because after washing all that grime off me I felt like a veil had been lifted, and not necessarily in a good way. The harsh reality of having been kidnapped and the uncertainty of my fate started to kick in. Saying that, mate or not, I’ve decided that my wolf’s plan of seducing our kidnapper is not a bad one after all. Only with slight modifications, of course. I shall go with befriending him of some sorts, or make him take notice and see I’m actually a good person, that I can be useful. Goddess knows that if I make it out of this alive I’m not going back to the Thunderbolt pack, because Benjamin would surely kill me. And it won’t be slow or mercyful either, that I’m certain of.

My best plan right now, because yay me, I have a plan, is to instil pity in Roman and maybe I’ll wake up to see another day.

I tidy up after myself as best as I can, almost drowning in the huge shirt that I had previously thought to be a blanket. My wolf sends me a visual of Roman wearing this red chequered shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and exposing his tanned forearms in true lumberjack fashion. Remembering the neat garden I saw at the back, he’s not shying away from manual labour. Or he’s getting hired help. My wolf prefers to imagine him doing all the work.

I take a deep breath to prepare myself for what’s on the other side of the door, and then slowly open it, peeking out. Nothing. Silence.

I hoist the dirty laundry up my hip and close the door behind me, slowly making my way until I reach some stairs. I marvel at the stained wood that composes the staircase. It’s so rugged, so wild yet so soft and neatly polished.

Since I can’t hear anything still, I descend the stairs, all my senses on high alert. By the time I reach the bottom, My eyes are dancing between admiring the floor to ceiling windows that offer a magnificent view straight into the wilderness, and the wooden floor. I have no idea when I became so passionate about architecture or interior designing, but this house does something strange to me and I almost forget how I got here.

“Take a couple of these if your head hurts. I know that’s a common side effect, and you’ve been out for a while.”

I yelp and drop the sheets, then my right foot gets caught in them and I almost plough to the floor. Managing in the last nanosecond to hold onto the handrail and spare that superb floor from having to be smudged with my blood. Of course, my captor didn’t even flinch. A small part of me was hoping for those romantic gestures where the hero swoops in stupidly fast and catches me before I split my head open. I can’t see his face, but I would bet all my money if I had any, that he's severely unimpressed. And that doesn’t help my plan.

I straighten myself up and finally notice that the large living space spills into a state of the art modern kitchen. A true cook’s dream kitchen, but that’s irrelevant right now. What is relevant is the man sitting on a kitchen stool and scowling at me. Hard. He has two pill bottles in front of him and a glass of water. It may have taken me a while longer than the average person to connect all the dots, but when I finally did, a little anger sparked inside, and my previous mishap, along with my plan, was momentarily forgotten. But what’s not forgotten is the water he made me drink after our encounter with the vampire, the bitter taste of it, and then waking up here.

“You drugged me!” I accused, not asked. He only shrugged his shoulders.

Roman

I think it’s stupid for a grown ass man to start a mental countdown, but f**k me if I’m not ticking off the days until I can get rid of Stella the Omega. That doesn’t stop my bear from being more alert as soon as I hear the door to her room opening. It feels like ages until she’s finally downstairs, the anticipation almost making my bear come out. Oh, how that sour old fucker would love to come out and play with Stella. He’s never been interested in anything since her. I almost chuckle at the thought. Coming face to face with my bear would probably make Stella’s heart explode like a frightened little bunny. That would serve him right. No one would ever replace her, he doesn’t deserve to get excited for anything else, and neither do I for that matter. Regardless of how good it feels to see her walk in wearing my shirt. I almost regret giving it to her, but it’s not like having her walk around naked would do me any better.

She’s cautious, quiet, and compliant even, despite the little outburst where she accused me of drugging her. I can’t deny I liked that little spark in her, but I liked the horror that settled on her face after, better. The shock of realising she nearly retaliated against a man three times her size, a man that could snap her in two like a twig if he were to get angry enough.

This time she accepted the food I offered, and I watched with raised eyebrows as she tried her hardest not to inhale the milk and cereals I poured her, and instead was eating one spoonful at a time.

For some bizarre reason Stella came downstairs carrying the bedsheets. If she thought it would help her escape somehow, her plan failed so far. When I questioned why she brought them with her, those usually pale cheeks went a deep shade of pink. Then she mumbled something about doing laundry, so I showed her to the laundry room, mostly because I was convinced she was full of s**t and was actually hoping to use those in an attempt to escape.

I watch her fiddle with the washing machine as she tries to find the right setting, careful in case her plan involves throwing the powder detergent in my eyes.

Note to self, buy some gel detergent or some s**t like that.

“How old are you, anyway?” I ask, not knowing where the question came from.

“Uhm, I’m almost certain I just turned 18.” She doesn't turn around, still too focused on her current task.

I frown at her odd answer. What the f**k is that supposed to mean? Who the f**k is this girl? But while I was mentally trying to decipher the mystery of why would Stella, an 18-year-old werewolf, be so important to the King of beasts, the little Omega surprises me by asking her own question.

“You?”

I give her a blank look. She must have interpreted it wrong, for she insists, now fully turned to face me and holding my gaze longer than any powerful man would be capable of.

“How old are you?” Her big golden eyes shine as she watches me, clearly expecting an answer. And I actually find myself answering. Before I can think and stop myself, the words tumble out of my mouth. I’m half tempted to slap my hand over my lips.

“Pretty sure I’m 25.” The corner of my mouth twitches, feeling a little amused and impressed by the set of balls this little girl has.