Chapter 7 C7

"Explain to you?" I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "You're the ones

who watched it happen!"

"And you're the one who he took into my goddamn house," Alpha

Andre retorts coolly.

"So I'll say it again," he stands up straight as if to add an

intimidation factor, "What does he want with you?"

I realize that I don't want to tell them. This thing between me and

'that monstrous bastard,' assuming it is what I think it is, is too

personal to be ruined by Andre's opinion and Nathan's hatred.

So I play dumb instead.

"I don't know what he wants," I answer, adding an irritated tone to

make it sound believable.

Andre hums as his eyes rake over me, from head to foot and back.

Deciding whether to believe me or not. Whether to kill his prey or

let it walk another day.

"That's his shirt," he observes, stroking his black and grey beard.

I notice his nostrils flare subtly, smelling.

"Did he make you wear it?"

I nod.

Half a minute passes by. Half a minute of Andre deep in silent

thought and half a minute of Nathan and I in silent confusion.

Then, he speaks.

"You're the meat," he says.

"Come again?"

"He was watching the ceremony from the dark," he concludes, "He

knows you're Nathan's chosen Luna. Taking his pack is one thing,

but taking his Luna is a statement of further dominance. He's

baiting Nathan to challenge him and you're the bait. The meat."

I blink, dumbfounded. His theory sounds... surprisingly

reasonable? Probable even.

My stomach drops as I consider the possibility that he's right.

The feeling of stupidity heats my cheeks. Maybe I didn't know as

much about this stranger as I thought. Maybe his ferocious desire

to replace Nathan's scent with his own had a different motive than

I thought. Maybe what I thought I felt for him was nothing at all.

Out of the corner of my eye, Nathan stiffens in his seat. His jaw is

clenched without a doubt, and I'd bet money that the vein in his

neck is just waiting to make an appearance.

"So he's toying with me?" Nathan growls, balling his fists on the

table top.

Alpha Andre pulls out the chair opposite of his son and slumps

down in it, stretching his long legs out. He crosses his arms over

his chest and heaves a sigh. Three prominent stress lines crease

the old Alpha's forehead.

"Riot Sydney doesn't toy with people. He destroys them."

A forceful shiver jerks my entire body and my breath audibly

hitches in my throat. My chest is like a drum locked in a room with

metal walls, every beat being echoed right back to it. The affect

that this name has is terrifying.

Riot Sydney, I repeat in my head. The forgotten Alpha. That's his name.

My eyes blur out of focus as I remember his face. His perfect

jawline covered with just the right amount of stubble. Stubble that

I haven't gotten to feel against my skin or in my palm. His sharply

cut nose and strong cheekbones. Somehow, there's something

about everything about him- right down to that minuscule scar

that cuts off the tip of his right eyebrow- that Riot Sydney fits

perfectly.

An aggravated growl demands my attention. When I look up,

Nathan's fierce glare is settled on me.

"You're thinking of him now? Because you think he's gonna win

this game?" Although they're formed in questions, his touchy

words are identical to an accusation.

I raise an eyebrow, taken aback by the confidence in himself. But

of course he would have confidence. Assholes always do. And

with his pompous need to have confidence comes my profuse

need to crush it.

A devilish grin starts to pull at the corners of my lips.

I blow air out of my nose in a laugh, "How could he not? He's

already taken your pack. Now what's dominating it to him?

Nothing."

There's the angry vein that I've been waiting on.

I anticipated Nathan's reaction; irritation so beside himself that he

bites his tongue and clenches his fists like a red-faced child trying

not to have a tantrum. But Andre's, I didn't anticipate. Andre's, I

didn't even think possible. Not for this.

A quiet growl rumbles in his throat as he slowly comes to sit up

straighter in his chair.

"Nathan," he growls, not looking nearly as relaxed as he had five

seconds ago, "Take her back to the cell."

The color drains from my face. My stomach twists so violently that

I want to puke. My hanging jaw is trembling. Spasming. Visibly

shaking.

"She won't be of use to him down there."

I take a step back.

"Don't fucking touch me." My voice is weak. So weak and

unsteady.

Nathan reaches out to grab my arm. "Adrienne-"

"NO!"

I jerk back, backing toward the door. I register that the side of my

face is twitching, involuntarily.

"Adrienne-"

"Shut up."

"Don't make this difficult."

I reach behind me and fling the door open, rushing out so fast that

I nearly trip over my own feet. When I turn back, he's in the

doorway, making a hasty grab for my arm. The door is slammed

shut, and in the same instance a scream tears from the other side

of it.

I see the shiny nails of four fingers sticking out before I turn and

bolt thoughtlessly into the brush of the forest.

I hope they rot and fall off. Asshole.

• • •

The snow from the previous day is mostly gone, only a light

dusting left on the frozen ground. The trees, leafless and bare, still

provide hiding places, not that I'm using them.

My claws click against the hard dirt and frozen carpet of dead

leaves on the forest floor. My heartbeat pounds to a frantic rhythm

in my chest and hot breath heaves from my mouth, warming the

clothes between my jaws.

I can hear him nearly a mile back. He's also breathing heavily,

claws scratching the dirt every now and then with a faltered, lazy

step. And sometimes, when the wind blows from behind me, I

think, just maybe, that it carries the smell of his bloodied, broken

fingers with it.

I remember this game from when we were kids. I remember

playing hide and seek with the Alpha's son before he turned into a

bastard. I was always better at it, because I knew the land better;

every tree and every bush, memorized through every season.

While he hardly left the village, I strived to get away from it.

But he never gave up then. And he won't give up now. Especially

not now. Not when his daddy has given him an order.

My run slows to a jog, then to a walk, until eventually, I come to a

stop and drop the clothes behind a mound of piled up brush. I sit

for a handful of seconds behind the barrier of fallen limbs and

sticks, catching my breath.

Taking in the deep and light browns of both the ground and the

trees and brush surrounding me, I curse the sky for not having

snowed the night before. Against this background, my cream

colored fur is nothing but a white flag waving surrender.

I grit my teeth and bare the pain of my body shifting, exchanging

fur for skin.

I all but get the dark jeans buttoned and the shirt pulled down

before the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

He's near.

I suck in a sharp breath to shallow my breathing. But it's pointless.

An arm shoots from around the brush pile, it's hand grabbing the

collar of my shirt. A gasp rips from my throat when I'm jerked

sideways, pulled face to face with that piece of egotistical shit.

My hand wraps around his wrist, trying to crush it.

"Stop.. RUNNING!" He manages through heavy breaths. On instinct,

I swing my free arm around, dragging my clawed fingers across

his face with burning hatred.

If only it were his throat.

As soon as he expresses his pain- vocally, through a string of

choice words- I break away and flee off into the woods once

again.

If we keep on like this, maybe he'll bleed out first.

The frozen mud seems to bite at my feet, my boots having been

abandoned at the beginning of the chase. It stings, no doubt the

skin gradually being scraped off the bottoms.

I make a sharp turn and run a few more yards before picking a tree

and feverishly climbing. Hiding is a long shot. I know that. But my

folder of options is progressively getting thinner.

It's only when I drag myself up one last limb and lean my back

against the trunk that I realize just how much fire is burning in my

lungs and how shaky my hands are. I suck in air, breath after

breath, hoping to cool the heat in my chest.

When I look down, a bright red in the corner of my eye catches my

attention. On my collarbone, staining the brilliant white of Riot

Sydney's t-shirt, is two drops of blood: one thumb sized and the

other slightly smaller.