~Grace~
It is funny how one's life can alter in an instant... how one minute everything is a certain way, and the next it is simply… not.
I may have escaped death by a stroke of luck, but that does not mean my pack has let me go. They are still out there.
Perhaps the Moon Goddess has finally remembered I exist. It feels like more than a coincidence that the cabin this man rented is owned by one of my relatives. They recognized me on their way to the packhouse and brought me here to be treated.
My wounds have not completely healed, but they are much better than the injuries sustained by the handsome stranger.
I spend the rest of the afternoon outside thinking of hundreds of possible reasons why such a fine man would save me... My thoughts are interrupted by a wild growl and I hurry back to the cabin.
It seems the pack warriors have quickly found us again and my only thoughts are on the sick man I left alone.
Their attire this time is different, unlike the masked men that attacked us in the forest. I'm not sure if they are different groups or just a higher rank of my pack warriors.
Sucre's face, illuminated by the sunlight, is equally devoid of warmth. His lips are pressed down as if his mood is thoroughly foul.
Those scum are giving him a headache.
His pale hand, still scabbed with blood, grips the wall as he struggles to get up.
His wounds have not healed yet, and the sudden movement causes the bandaged injuries to slowly seep blood again. But he pays no attention to this, steadying himself on the crutches and taking each step with great stability.
What is he thinking? He cannot possibly fight in that state.
The cabin where we are staying is being turned upside down by these men.
One of them is searching the table where Sucre's medicines are placed. He knocks the powdered drugs to the ground and is about to step on them when suddenly his collar is grabbed from behind. A tremendous force then throws him violently out the door, stopping him right at my feet.
Everyone else in the room is stunned too, just like I am. Sucre is deeply injured but he is still able to pull that off?
I am now standing where the thug had been, silently looking at the medicine which I purchased after I sold the necklace my parents gifted me.
I grab ink and paper and scribble down my words... "I'll give you one chance to leave in one piece."
The men look at each other, and then at me before letting out a mocking laughter. "Has it come down to an omega threatening us?"
I recognize the guy that tackled me down in the pack's prison.
He cracks his neck and signals the others. They rush forward together...
These people probably think everyone's strength relies on their wolf.
I flick up the wooden stick they dropped earlier with my toe, grip it, and swing it in a wide arc. Several of them are hit in the abdomen and immediately fold over, flying backward. Some even spit out their stomach contents.
I do not give them time to react. The long stick in my hand moves like the wind, sweeping, jabbing, chopping, slashing… It is less like I am using a technique I've learnt by watching the warriors train. It's more like I am wielding a long-handled knife without a blade.
The unarmed pack warriors are beaten one by one, crying out for help as they are thrown out of the front door by me like broken sandbags.
Anthony sees the situation is unfavorable and tries to run, but before he can get out the front door, a black assassin knife flies from behind, embedding itself firmly in the door frame just in front of him, nearly slicing off his nose.
It is from Sucre and this time his breath has become shallow again. It is more than enough warning for them to flee.
The last of the pack warriors stumbles out the door, howling in retreat. Silence rushes back into the cabin,
My breath hitches in my chest, my hands trembling as the adrenaline begins to ebb, leaving me raw and exposed. I stand there, the wooden stick still slick with sweat in my grip, trying to steady my heart.
Then, a vicious growl rips through the stillness.
My eyes widen, snapping toward Sucre. His gaze has darkened, the irises shifting into that same abyssal black I saw when he fought in the forest. My instincts scream at me to retreat. I take a step back, then two, but I am not fast enough. His hand grips my wrist and twists me back to his chest.
"Never run from me again." His voice is everywhere in my head. "You will not get away." His voice is guttural, like a beast's breaking.
"Running? I had something to do. Why would I run from you? You wouldn't have saved me if you wanted me dead." ...I guess. It wouldn't even make sense.
My body jerks from the feel of his tongue against my skin. His mouth is hot in the chill air, making me shudder until my muscles knot.
He groans while kissing my skin, his hand squeezing my wrists hard.
"You wanted a sex slave, didn't you? And you think I'd make a perfect match since I had no one..." When my last word ends with a whimper, he seems to come out of a trance, his brows drawing together as his eyes meet mine, but he doesn't release my hands.
"Do not move," his voice echoes in my head again. He flicks his claw down my blouse and slices it and the flimsy bra beneath open, then slowly brushes the halves past my breasts. I struggle, but it is useless. It is as if his words have me in a chokehold.
He studies me.
He rips open his own shirt, then places his huge palms against my back to draw me to his chest. He groans when our skin touches, and electricity seems to flash through me.
His hand cradles the back of my head as he moves me to face him.
He seems torn as he watches me with some fierce emotion—I've never been looked at so… consumingly. Confusion overwhelms me.
He takes a deep breath and mutters, "Wildbluebell."
Then the look disappears. And his eyes turn to a forest green "Did... did I hurt you?" he stutter clearly revolted by my tears. He turns away as if he cannot stand to look upon me, then blindly swats at my shirt to close it.