Mated With My Father

Mated With My Father: 3

Another day passed by. I was getting more bored than usual. Even though there wasn't any clock in this cell, over the years, I have developed a sense of time. And someone should have been here a long time ago with a plate of food. Just as I was getting more agitated, I could hear footsteps. I couldn't recognize them. That was someone I haven't met yet. Curiously, I placed myself in a sitting position, looking at a growing sound.

At the other side of the bars appeared a very appealing handsome face. I sniffed the air. Yet another, newly blinded laric.

"What is your number?" I curiously asked.

He was silent for a long time. I hope laric 26 didn't carry out his threat for real. Maybe no one will ever really speak to me again.

Then he finally spoke up. "I am number 28. From now on, I will carry out duties of number 30." He had a soft and foreign accent. He is not from around here. Maybe America or Europe.

"How does it feel to be ripped out of your sight?" I tried to sound concerned but the hint of mock could be sensed in my tone.

He must have picked up on it, since his response was a bit harsher then what I expected.

"How does it feel to be locked in here?" It was actually a pleasant change in my daily routine to listen to his soft accent.

"From what I heard about your life out there, I will not complain."

For the first time, I was disappointed he was blind. Hence, he could not see the grin forming on my face.

"I introduced myself out of good manners, but I won't speak to you, not now, not ever."

"I thought you didn't listen to anyone but your master and that order certainly didn't come from him." I hissed.

"I never said it was an order. I just have better things to do."

He was about to leave when I shouted, "wait! I have a proposal."

The stupid dog didn't stop in his tracks.

"I will give you my food!" I tried once again and this time he did stop.

I guess you could always bribe a dog with a bone.

"Look, I know you are all starving out there and I won't pretend that I am doing this because I am your friend. I am not. I could never see someone of your rank as anything more than a slave."

I sighed.

"There used to be thirty of you. Now the number is down to twenty-eight, maybe even lower, right? You are dying out of hunger and the number will only drop. Your master is killing you off like some disposable low-ranking werewolves. You are not allowed to reproduce with your mates and due to your strong blood, when you fu*k some random she wolf, she can rarely take it. Pregnancies rarely end successfully, am I right? You probably won't have a son to succeed you and what is the chance of you winning in bread games against other higher-ranking larics? You are all going extinct but I can help you.

"How?"

This one word was all I needed.

"I am willing to trade my food for some information." He was still turned with his back so I couldn't read into his face.

"Nothing much, nothing actually important. Just something little to entertain this lonely girl in here."

I tried to sound reassuring and wash away his doubts, that is, if he had any.

"No one has to know." Obviously.

He stayed quiet for a bit longer before he snarled at me. "I would never betray my master like that."

Stupid dog. You can starve to death as far as I am concerned.

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Next Day

Number 28 was standing yet again in front of my cell with the plate of simple slice of bread and some butter on it. He placed it on the ground and slid it towards me. This time, though, he didn't look so sure of himself anymore. I could smell uncertainty all over him. I suppressed a laugh. I have never seen a grown man, a Larick to be precise, so torn up and all because of some bread. This was hilarious.

"Hello number 28." I greeted him. He nervously bowed in response. Pathetic.

"Are you sure you won't have some?" I teased him.

He looked even more uncomfortable than before. It's not so easy to be all tough when the offering is right in front of your nose, is it, dog?

"I could really use some food." He sighed in defeat.

"Of course. Even a dog has to eat something." I uttered sympathetically.

"But I can't. The master will know." He let out a frustrated growl.

"He won't, if you wash your mouth afterwards," I suggested.

"You don't understand. He can smell my insides."

"You mean, like your intestines?" I asked in pure amusement. He nodded.

"Well, that is certainly a nose you wouldn't want to be gifted with."

I barely contained a laugh that threatened to escape my mouth.

"You can always throw up, you know. Like anorexic people do." I tried to find a solution.

But, if the original werewolf can really smell his intestines, he can smell the acid that forms after throwing up too. If number 28 even touches my food, no matter what he does, he is a dead man. I just hope that the dog is stupid enough not to know that.

"Okay, I will answer only one question," he exclaimed. I smirked. It turns out he actually is as stupid as he looks like.

"And I will give you only one small bite," I teased further.

I have to make him feel safe so he doesn't retreat after the first question. I never had this problem before. Having to bribe people to even speak to me. Humiliating.

"How is decided who is given what number? Is there a huge difference between the fighting skills of lower and higher ranking larics? Can someone from a lower level beat someone from a higher?" I asked.

"Those are three questions, miss. A deal is a deal and for those I will get three bites."

I sighed.

"Decided by birth, the same principle as in other packs, someone gets to be alpha and someone omega. We don't have names but numbers. The strongest laric is given number 1, the weakest number 30. As for your second question, yes, there is a difference. Yet, the human eye can't distinguish between lower and higher ranking larics. The level of violence and aggression of any laric is simply too huge for any human to be able to differentiate between them. Even average werewolves would have a hard time determining. But for us, the difference is overwhelming. The speed and strength are remarkably different, peculiarly if there is a difference of five or more numbers between us. With extreme training, it is possible to beat someone at a higher level, although it rarely happens."

Suddenly, it came down to me. Why am I given the weakest five Larics? Why do I have to be humiliated in every segment of my life?

He pointed at the food and I ripped three pieces of bread and threw it in his direction. Quickly, in one swift movement, he caught it. I was mesmerized by the speed and accuracy he moved. It seems a laric truly didn't need a sight to function, unlike the average werewolf did. Heck, loss of sight would incapacitate even an alpha.

"Bringing you food and clean clothes doesn't require a particular set of skills for a higher-ranking laric to come down here." He said as, if he had read my mind.

"How does your master look like?" I asked and surprised myself with the question I asked. Why did I even care about him?

"We are not allowed to look at him when he is in his human form. No one knows what he looks like." He quickly responded, eagerly waiting for another piece of food.

I wasn't satisfied with the answer.

"Just because you don't know what he looks like doesn't mean that the higher-ranking laric doesn't either." I said, agitated.

"I doubt higher-ranking ones know anything more than I do. He keeps his distance from everyone."

I frowned. That lack of bond between him and the other larics would explain his easily made decisions to make some of them blind and some of them dead.

"It must be delightful to serve someone who cares so little about you," I joked.

"We don't desire his care, only his command," he declared so proudly, as if that statement alone earned him a free entrance to heaven.

"Oh, aren't you just a dream dog one could only wish for?" I sarcastically rolled my eyes at him.

He pointed at the food and my eyes narrowed at him. "I am not about to give you a piece for the useless answer you fed me with."

He stayed silent.

"I am sure you can think of something interesting- worth sharing." I tried to stimulate his dead brain cells.

He hesitated. "You would probably expect that in his presence you would feel this huge power radiating off of him but you don't. The only thing that your senses can detect is this immense void of emptiness. Nothing else is accessible for you to feel. Almost, as if nature didn't want any defense mechanisms to be activated in your body. I have never experienced anything like that before."

I noticed that he carefully chose the words when describing him. I noticed fear in his voice.

"That is your description of his power?" I mocked, "Emptiness?" I let out a forced giggle.

Truth is, I wanted to know more. More about this monster.

His demeanor changed when he opened his mouth again.

"It is the kind of power where you kill your own mate, only if he orders you to do it." He looked pained.

"Does that satisfy your standard?" His eyes narrowed at me.

I almost felt sorry for him. I threw him another piece of bread. My fingers were sticky from the butter smeared on my fingers.

I inhaled deeply.

"What am I to the Original Werewolf? What am I to Jaroslav Tacin?"

He completely froze at my question.

"You already know that," he answered.

"Say it!" my voice unintentionally raised.

"You smell just like him." He said so quietly I almost didn't catch it.

"What?"

"The answer is also the reason you are locked inside here."

"I don't follow."

"He could kill his mate but he couldn't kill his daughter."

"This," he pointed around what surrounded me, "is him showing mercy to you."

I stared at him with my mind numb. I did suspect he was my father though, but never, not in a hundred years, would I think that he was also my mate. I feel disgusted. Keeping me alive for all those years is just as sick as it would be if we had actual intercourse. He should have killed me.

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All that I know

Lies within emotion

Words remain unspoken

Lead me through the dark

All that I see

Came to me in colours