Bearly alive

15

Stella

What happened to Roman's brother? Is he the cause of that horrible nightmare that my kidnapper had? From Roman's story, I deduced that his brother died a few years ago, and he didn't offer any other details about what happened, but I can't help wondering if maybe Roman could be responsible. If maybe the person that asked Roman to take me, is responsible? If I’ll have the same fate? Somehow that sounds easier than being kept by some sick bastard that wants to breed me like a prized show pony.

Since thinking about Roman’s brother feels wrong, I steer my mind away, my own misery and nightmares relishing in the shining spotlight.

I had a couple of unspoken yet heavily enforced rules back in the Thunderbolt pack. Rules that I have never questioned, nor dared to allow myself to think about questioning them.

Despite everything that has happened in the few days since Roman kidnapped me, I still have Alpha Benjamin's note, the one that I so miserably failed to give to Margo. I guess I still thought I could somehow finish that task, as out of reach as that might be.

I wince thinking that all hell must have broken loose when Benjamin's plan didn't unfold the way he expected it to. I shudder thinking about the possibility of ever seeing him again.

I nearly laugh when I remember I'm supposed to be this superior shifter, way more powerful than Alpha Benjamin. A lycan. Me. Just imagine that.

Despite all the evidence and arguments that Roman showed me, I know what I'm capable of. Or rather incapable. Somehow I doubt a lycan would have ever accepted all the things I've gone through in my life, all the mocking, abuse and disrespect. My wolf is not too pleased with my ungrateful thoughts, but it's true. If she were a lycan, she could have made me stronger, helped me more.

Since I get the cold shoulder for pissing off my beast, I decide to rebel against one of those unspoken rules I have haunting me from the Thunderbolt pack. It's none of your business. It doesn't matter why, you just do as you are told.

It matters now. Well, not really, but I'm rebelling.

I search the rags I once called clothes and find the note Alpha Benjamin entrusted me with. The neatly folded piece of paper has definitely seen better days, but hopefully the writing will still be visible. If there is any writing, that is. Benjamin is no poet, I'm just saying. I still remember the hell I got when I was genuinely useless at doing his homework. I swear, if he had half a brain, he should have figured out sooner that a girl that isn't even going to school can't do his homework for him.

Really, his incredibly low grades and the beatings I got for over a month as a consequence, could have totally been avoided.

As painful as it is, the random memory gave me the push I needed to break through the invisible barrier and unfold the piece of paper.

My eyes were hungry, I don't know why, but I imagined more. More words, more meaning, more kink. Just more.

Instead, a simple sentence is staring back at me, as anticlimactic as if it was another of Benjamin's pranks.

A mate for a mate.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is it a code between Margo and Benjamin?

The only thing that makes sense to me is that Benjamin was offering to replace Margo's fated mate with himself. It kind of lines up, though the letterhead would suggest that Margo might have written it since it bears the King's crest. And maybe she did write it, sent it to Benjamin, and my Alpha sending it back to her through me was his way of letting her know they both wanted the same thing, to be together.

I will myself to fall asleep thinking that would be so romantic. If only I didn't know Alpha Benjamin and Margo better.

I close my eyes.

Sleep eludes me. I've had some much needed rest in spite of everything, my body is clearly not complaining. Yet I can't help it if I'm so used to functioning on a fraction of the sleep most people need. Being sent to bed early is more anxiety inducing than having someone shout at me that I have 10 minutes to clean the kitchen or else I'm getting as many whip lashes as minutes I spend doing my chore. Years and years of cleaning that space in the Thunderbolt pack even at its filthiest, taught me that I need between 15 and 45 minutes. The whipping game was always reserved for when the kitchen was at its worst, of course.

I shudder again and squeeze my eyes tightly until I see white spots underneath my eyelids.

Because everything else fails, I clear my mind and open my ears. Briefly wondering if maybe this is a lycan trait rather than a failed werewolf one as I always believed, I allow myself to travel through the surrounding woods. Since I don't really know what the landscape looks like, I can only imagine the path that the sounds I hear travel through. It's peaceful, with crickets and owls and other creatures that come alive at night. Until I hear a scream. It's faint, almost like a cry for help despite an internal battle being held in the person that made the sound. I think it may be a woman, or maybe even a child. My chest tightens, but I remain focused, determined to find them and help. Somehow.

I listen carefully, barely allowing my own heart to beat out of fear of missing the low cry. Whoever it is, they are hurt badly and I can practically hear the fight inside them. They are afraid of calling for help because they are on the run, but they also need help and want to cry for it.

My eyes pop open, a vague idea of a location floating around in my mind.

Now my own internal fight starts. Obviously, I can't just run out and search for that person. Even if the door to Roman's house wouldn't be laced with enough voltage to roast me alive, what help could I even offer? I'll probably get myself killed and the person discovered in this process.

Evidently, a professional, a man that is strong yet moves like a snake, gliding soundlessly through the woods that are his home, a man like that could give the crying soul a chance to live another day. The only problem is that the only man who fits that bill is currently in his own bedroom, and the last time I tried to help by going in there didn't end too well for me.

More time passes. I was hoping they would have moved, ran, and stopped crying. But the whimpers are all I can hear even if I know they are very far away from the house. Roman clearly can't hear them. I've invaded his privacy by listening to the sounds inside the house, and about half an hour ago he fell asleep. Which is even worse, because I'm about to go knock on his door and wake him up.

Would it be too silly to strap a pillow to my chest and the other to my back? Just in case of… walls. Coupled with the bedsheet I'm currently rocking, it could really be a look.

I take a deep breath and listen again. I can still hear the person's cry and I'm more and more convinced it's a woman. She seems really tough though. The pain I detect in her voice is immense. It almost hurts me. It also sounds resigned. Like she knows this is it, the end is near for her. I guess it was the last push I needed, because I ignored all self preservation instincts and opened the door, determined to march towards Roman's room and demand his help. Or ask nicely. Beg. Yeah, I bet I'll have to beg. It sure doesn't help that he most likely can't hear anything, nor does he seem like the type to leave everything to go rescue some random person.

But I also never imagined I might be a lycan, so one might say that crazier things have happened.

My mission doesn't start off great, because as soon as I take a step outside my room, my foot catches into something, then the sheet I have draped around my body doesn't allow for a wide step to be taken to steady myself, therefore I face plant unceremoniously to the floor.

I'm belly down, arms spread on either side, my eyes closed tightly at the anticipation of the imminent contact with the floor, yet aside from a deaf thump, nothing much happens.

Opening my eyes, I stare at the floor, my nose millimetres away from getting broken.

I blow out a relieved sound at the same time as loud footsteps stomp near me.

I guess I don't have to knock on his door and wake him up. That's good, isn't it? Honestly, it doesn't feel good, it feels like I'm in deep trouble.