Mated to my Hated Enemy

CHAPTER FOUR

AMELIA

I open my eyes to find myself in a pitch-black room. Sitting on the cold concrete floor, I wince as my muscles ache. My hand instinctively moves to my neck and then my ribs, where I feel the most pain. The bruises haven't healed. Switching my eyes to my werewolf vision to survey the room, I find that I can't. My brows furrow in confusion. I try contacting Marie and get a whimper in response; a sinking realization hits me – they must have injected silver into my bloodstream.

I don't need someone to tell me where I am. I remember everything like it just happened a minute ago. Tears well up in my eyes, remembering the state I last saw my family. I hope they are okay. Wiping the tear that escapes my eyes, I try to focus my mind on getting out of here.

I quickly unmask my scent and wait for my body to regain strength. The ability to mask my scent is one of the many gifts inherited from Mom, a skill that took my entire childhood to master. I vividly recall how I couldn't even attend school until I could successfully conceal my true scent. Tears well up as childhood memories flood my mind, but I forcefully push them aside – now isn't the time to delve into the past.

Sniffling, I attempt to stand up, but my body betrays me, and I drop back to the cold floor, the impact reverberating through my drained muscles. Eyes closed, I grimace as the ache intensifies. Something feels off, and confusion sets in as I look around the dark room, my vision becoming hazy. Panic surges within me – what have they done to me?

“Mask your scent if you don't want to die in the next few seconds,” a voice commands as the lights flicker on in the room, prompting me to tightly shut my eyes. The thick British accent sounds eerily familiar, but in my weakened state, I can't spare the energy to contemplate where I know it from.

My heart pounds violently in my chest, each beat sending pulses of pain through my body. Breathing becomes a struggle, my breaths coming out in short, labored pants. The sudden pain in my heart only intensifies the growing sense of dread.

"I can't breathe," I rasp out, my words barely above a whisper, feeling my heart tighten.

"Do as I f*****g asked, and you will!" the person commands, and I comply. Gasping, I fill my lungs with air, panting hard. I didn't do it initially because I didn't think it would help.

Slowly I open my eyes and sit up to see the person who saved me. My eyes widen in terror, seeing that it's my mate and he definitely didn't save me. Instead, he kept me alive for whatever he plans to do to me. I back away from him as he stands a foot away. I hit the wall and jump in fright. My heart pounds as he stares down at me. He has proven to me that he can hurt me. I just pray I go away without too much pain.

Silent, he stares at me with eyes brimming with hatred, scrutinizing every inch of my dirt-covered body from being on the floor. I observe that he has freshened up, shedding the bloodstained clothes. I remember earlier how his white button-up was drenched in the blood of my family and people. My heart aches, tears welling up in my eyes. It's disheartening that this will forever be my initial image of him.

Pushing back the tears in my eyes, I lock gazes with him, maintaining eye contact as I question, "What did you do to me?"

“I know what you are, so don't f*****g try to unmask your scent again,” he says, his British accent evident as he speaks. He completely ignores my question. I’ve always loved the British accent, but now it sends a shiver down my spine whenever I hear it, and not in a good way.

“Do you wish to kill me?” I ask.

“Why the f**k do you have that face?” He snaps, clenching his jaw. Confused, I touch my face, wondering if something is wrong with it. I won’t say I'm the finest person in the world, but I don’t think my face is unappealing.

“You could’ve f*****g looked like anyone. Why the f**k did you have to look like her?” He roars with an anger that makes me flinch. I recall he said something similar in the ballroom. Was there something I was missing?

“I don’t know,” I reply, unsure.

“You don’t know, you don’t f*****g know,” he barks, crouching to my eye level. I instinctively retreat, the cold wall scraping against my skin as I press back into it. My eyes shut, shielding me from the intensity of his anger. The palpable fury makes me clench my dress tightly, the fabric almost tearing beneath my fingers. Amidst the turmoil, a sense of sorrow seeps into my heart, realizing I'm the unwitting source of such rage in my mate. I wonder what I did to be cursed to be mated to someone like him.

His scent envelops me, filling my nose, and like magic, my fists loosen around my dress. My body relaxes. I'm not surprised. Terrified as I may be of him, he is still my mate, and his scent will always do that to me.

I begin to slowly pull my eyes open when suddenly he curses, punching the wall closest to my head. The impact shatters the barrier, and a storm of debris settles around me. I freeze, my body stiffening as my heart begins to hammer violently against my chest. Did he mean to hit me but missed? The chilling thought sends a shiver down my spine, and in that moment, I scream. His callous hand forces its way into my hair, clenching it in a vice-like grip.

"Open your f*****g eyes, dog," his growl echoes in my face, and I comply. My tear-filled eyes met his. The hurt of being labeled the ultimate insult to a werewolf by my own mate pierces deeper than mere insult. I should be offended, but instead, I feel a profound sense of hurt.

"I'm going to give you one chance, one f*****g chance to tell me where your family is,” he declares, his mesmerizing green eyes locked onto mine.

Swallowing hard, I muster a response. "I don't know where they are." Despite knowing, I won't divulge their location.

"Amelia!" he growls, intensifying his grip on my hair.

"I don't know," I repeat, still refusing to give them up.

Releasing my hair, he stands tall. "You asked for this," he declares, his towering figure casting an intimidating shadow.

Pausing at the cell door, he delivers a final warning. "You will wish you told me the truth by the time she's done with you." With that, he exits, leaving me haunted by questions about the mysterious 'she.'