by Cece Rose
"Lena?" He says softly. I look up into his warm, brown eyes and notice the corners of his mouth turned up in a smirk. "Move the towel."
“Do you have a death wish? You might need stitches, we need to call someone!” I snap, panicked.
“Calm down, pretty girl,” he pulls his arm from my grip and removes the towel, wiping off the blood with it. I look down at his arm, expecting to see more blood pouring out from the wound, but, instead all I see is a thin, healed line. “That’ll be gone, too, in a few hours. Only silver, claws, and teeth leave lasting scars.” I back away staring at the faint red line, not believing what I had just seen.
“You faked it, I don’t know how or why, but you faked it. You must have…” I trail off, my eyes darting around the room.
“Look at me, Lena.” My gaze draws back to him, and I look into his brown eyes, the eyes shift, taking on a yellow tone with a luminescent quality.
“Shit,” I mutter. I sit back down on the edge of the bed and draw my knees up against my chest, hugging them to myself and wishing the bed would just swallow me up.
“I’m sorry, I know this is probably a lot for you to take in. I’m gonna leave you to think,” he says softly, heading for the door.
“Wait, one more question?” I call out.
He pauses by the door. “What is it?”
“Why me? Why did that Cyrus guy do this to me?”
“I think he should be the one to explain that part to you. He had a reason, though, I can promise you that much.” He casts an apologetic look over his shoulder and then slips from the room, leaving me again by myself.
I sigh and look around the space around me. I don’t know anything about this Cyrus guy, and here I am just sitting around in his room. There’s got to be something I can find out about him here. Knowledge is power; I don’t want to be powerless. I stand and walk around the space, looking for personal items, things that would give me an insight into the man with the amber eyes. Seeing nothing sticking out as obvious, I resign myself to looking through everything. I catch my reflection in the black TV screen and frown at myself. This is going to take a while.
Chapter Four
A few hours and a lot of mess caused later, I’m sitting on the bed flicking through a photo album I found in the back of his walk-in wardrobe. It was tucked away in a cardboard box that is filled with that random kind of crap that everyone has lying around their house somewhere.
As I flick through the pages, I find myself drawn in by his amber eyes in every photo that he is a part of. The earlier photos show him as a child, with people I assume to be his parents in some, and there are other larger groups of people that all look to be some sort of extended family or friends, as a lot don’t look like they could be closely related. I recognise what looks to be younger versions of Alex, Luc, the pale guy, and even James from the club in some of the photos. The photos span holidays, events, and even chilled-out pictures at home. I notice as I flick through the pictures, as well as ageing, the guys all look more troubled, there are fewer smiles, and the light in their eyes seems faded, dull.
I look at the most recent picture, it looks to have been taken at some kind of event. There are five men in the photograph, all dressed sharply in suits. Alex and James to the left, pale guy and Luc to the right, and Cyrus standing dead centre. All of them are staring at the camera, drinks in hand. Various people milling about in the background. I wonder what kind of event they were at, maybe something to do with all this crazy wolf-shifter stuff. I stare at the picture, willing it to somehow give me answers. Who are you?
“Cyrus Hunter, some people call me Cy though," a sensual voice says softly. I whip my head around to see the very man in question standing against the door, watching me intently. My eyes widen at the sight of him. I didn't realise I'd spoken my question aloud.
“How long have you been there? I didn’t hear you come in,” I question, trying to distract myself from the rapidly increasing beat of my heart.
“I didn’t know I had to announce my entrance into my own room,” he says dryly. He crosses the room and drops down to sit on the bed next to me. I shift across the bed as far away as I can manage. He eyes the movement and chuckles. “I don’t bite,” he murmurs softly.
I pull the shoulder of his shirt down to show the faint bite mark on my shoulder. "Are you sure about that?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. I’d noticed it earlier and had already mourned the loss of cute, strapless dresses in my life. His eyes draw towards the mark, and I swear I can see his pupils dilating. I quickly pull the shirt back up to cover the mark. He coughs and looks away for a moment before turning his gaze back on me, his amber eyes looking me up and down.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he phrases it as a statement, rather than a question, but I answer him regardless.
“Well, I didn’t exactly have many options seeing as my top mysteriously disappeared.”
He shrugs. “I figured you’d be more comfortable sleeping without it on, it’s probably being washed.”
“And what? You figured you just had the right to undress me while I was unconscious?” I snap.
“Yes, I do,” he says it simply, his tone smooth as if the statement brooks no argument. I splutter, unable to respond to such a brass statement of rights over me, considering the bizarre situation I am utterly lost for words. Melissa would be amazed. Hell, she'd probably throw a Lena-finally-shut-up-party.
A hand brushing lightly against my cheek draws my attention back to Cyrus. I slap the hand away lightly, not nearly feeling as angry about it as I should. I look down frowning at my hands.
“Lena,” his voice coaxes softly. I look back up at him. “Luc informed me that he explained the basics of the situation to you.” I stare at him blankly, thinking more on the parts Luc didn’t explain to me. Namely, the part I wanted to know, why. “You want to know why you,” he says, guessing my unvoiced question. I nod my head, not wanting to speak and put him off his explanation. He sighs softly and begins, “you’re mine, Lena. I knew it the second I saw you, and I confirmed it when you had the same reaction right back. Don’t deny what you felt, what you feel.”
“What, because of a little chemistry and a case of having too many vodka shots? I’m not going to deny that, but that certainly doesn’t—
“—Chemistry?” he cuts in. “Do you do that with everyone you meet when you have a little chemistry with them?”
“I…I mean—
“—No, you don’t,” he cuts me off again, answering for me. “Lena, things are a little different for people like us.”
“Werewolves? Wolf-shifters? Whatever the hell you are,” I mutter bitterly. Having not seen any wolves yet, I’m hanging on to the hope of a more reasonable explanation.
“Yes, for shapeshifters things are different. Some people like to think of it as a spiritual thing, a magical thing. Others think of it as a biological thing, something evolution has done to us to help us select the best partner to mate with,” he says with shrug. “Whatever it is, when we meet our match we just know. Sometimes people choose outside of those matches, but whenever a match presents itself, it gets taken, it’s fate.”
“Mate with? Oh, hell no,” I start. “That is not happening, fate can suck it. Why would it even happen with me…before you bit me, I was just me, not some…some monster!” I shout at him. He merely grins at my outburst, the way you smile at a child when they look cute as they get frustrated. Patronising bastard.
“Humans are sometimes the best match, a human who is fated always survives the turning process.”
“Some people don’t survive the turning process?” I muse aloud. A thought slams into me. “What If you were wrong?” I accuse. “What if I wasn’t your fated or whatever, I could have died,” the last part I whisper.
“But you were,” he says softly, his voice almost sounding reassuring.
“But what if I wasn’t.”
“Then there would have only been about two percent chance of survival,” he says, taking a
seat on the bed beside me.
“Holy shit,” I reply. I sit silently for a moment, contemplating, and then ask, “Why would anyone choose that? Take that risk?”
“Those that choose it, often do so because they are without other options.” He quickly reaches for me and pulls me over to him, so he’s sitting back against the headboard, with me sat between his legs, tucked up against his chest.
“Hey!” I snap and try to pull away. He wraps an arm possessively around me, keeping me held tight against him. He reaches for the photo album with his other arm and sits it on my lap.
“Shh, Lena, I’m not hurting you.”
“I don’t care, hands off!” I try to wriggle away but he keeps me there easily with one freaking hand. Fuming, I stop struggling. So freaking unfair.
“I just thought we could look over this again. I can explain the pictures in it this time for you?” he offers.
“Fine,” I grumble, knowing he is just trying to shift the conversation away from awkward fate stuff. I shift slightly against him to get more comfortable. He flicks the album back open and goes straight to the last page that is filled; the photo of him and the others I had been looking at when he came in. “Where was that one taken?” I ask.
One of his hands snakes into my hair and plays with it distractedly as he begins to talk. “A gathering, the most recent one actually, around ten months ago.”
“A gathering?”
“It’s where the different UK packs, prides, and herds gather yearly. It’s to promote peace between the different groups and the factions within them. It’s a week-long event. The earlier part of the week consists of peace talks, discussions over territories, any disputes packs may have with each other. The leaders of each species have to sit and listen to any issues raised. It can be quite boring at times,” he says the last part with a chuckle.
"How many of you are there? Shifters I mean?" I ask hesitantly, leaning forward slightly, trying to dissuade his playing with my hair.
"Types or general population numbers?"
"Both?"
"Well, there are several different groups represented at the gathering. Wolves, feline-shifters, bears, foxes, bird-shifters, water-shifters, and the others. The others being made up of various creatures, too few to warrant having their own seat. The wolves outnumber any other individual group of shifters in the UK at present. There are over 3000 of us, followed by the felines who decided to band their various sub-species together. Now they have just under 3000 or so at their last count, but they're growing steadily."
"Why are there so many more wolves?"
"Well, our numbers have actually gone down over the past few decades. We used to have much higher numbers...but we had some issues years back. Nothing to worry about now, as we're steadily growing back up. It helps that we're a pack animal. The shifters that stay in groups tend to do better," he answers with a smile, but I notice the waiver in his tone. He's hiding something.
"So how many packs are there?" I ask.
"In the UK alone, fifty-three. Each pack will send between two and five shifters to the gathering. Lone wolves don't get representation."
"That's a lot of packs. How many lone wolves are there?"
"We don't have exact numbers on them, as they don't register themselves. We have estimates only, based on how many have left packs to go rogue. We currently estimate it to be around a few hundred though."
"How are there so many of you just wandering around turning into animals? Surely someone, humans, would notice?" I question while trying to wriggle out of his grip to face him. He however just tightens his grip on me, somehow managing to pull me even closer to him before answering.
"We have several representatives staged in various levels of government and such to keep our existence under the radar, however, there are some humans who know of our existence. Those select few are mainly in Government themselves or working for intelligence agencies or media."
I give up my attempts to wriggle out of his grip with a sigh. I flick through the album pages to a picture of him standing on what looks to be the front steps of this house, surrounded by a very large group of people. He looks to be several years younger, maybe even when he was in his late teens. "Who are all these people?" I ask curiously.
"The pack. This was taken eight years ago now, only a few months before I took over. It's when we bought this place, and all the others on this road," his voice sounds thick, as if it's a sad memory rather than a happy one.
"Do you not like it here?"
"It's not the place, it's just only half of these people are still around now."
"They left?"
"They died," he says softly and closes the album. "I'm done with memory lane for one night." He gently nudges me off his lap and goes to put the album back in the box, tucked away in his wardrobe. Out of sight, out of mind. Instead of coming back over to me, he slips into the en-suite bathroom and after a few moments, I hear the shower start up. Feeling too anxious to stay still, I begin to tidy up the mess I made in the room and the wardrobe while searching through his things. I snort. Who the hell cleans up for their kidnapper? I carry on regardless, needing something to do.
Just as I'm finishing up tidying, the bathroom door opens and steam from his hot shower drifts out into the room. Following the trail of steam, steps out Cyrus, dressed only with a towel wrapped around his hips. I try not to stare, but I really can't help myself. The man is all muscle, tanned skin, and beautifully done tattoos. I flick my gaze up and cringe when I notice him watching my appraisal, a smug smile on his face.
"Do you want to take a shower? I picked up some stuff for you," he offers. I narrow my eyes at him, remembering the fact I have nothing here of my stuff, because asshole here kidnapped me. Fated or not, I was pissed. Remember that you're pissed off, Lena. It doesn't matter how good he looks, he turned you into a monster, and kidnapped you. Focus. Apparently not waiting for my answer, he walks to the bedroom door and opens it. Outside the door are two duffel bags. He picks them both up, kicks the door shut behind him, and dumps the bags on the bed.
He reaches for one and unzips it and pulls out...my wash bag? I blink and look at it. It's definitely the same purple bag I took to the hotel with me. He places it on the bed beside the duffel bags and carries on rifling through the first duffel bag. He pulls out a matching black-lace thong and bra and puts them next to the wash bag. I stare at the clothes that are mine, but that I didn't have with me at the hotel. "You broke into my flat and stole my clothes?"
He shrugs, "I figured you'd settle in easier with your own stuff here. I can always buy you new stuff if you don't want to keep these things anymore. I must admit there were a few interesting items I'd be sad to see go..." he trails off smirking.
I feel the burn creeping into my cheeks. Surely fate couldn't be this cruel? I snatch the underwear up and tuck the wash bag under my arm. I look through the open duffle for a baggy sleep shirt and see he's conveniently not packed any of those. He seems to read my trail of thoughts as he slips into his wardrobe and grabs a navy-coloured shirt and holds it out to me.
I snatch the shirt from him, shooting him a glare and then slip into the safety of the bathroom.
After finishing up in the bathroom, I instantly regret taking his shirt. Firstly, because it's kind of weird to sleep in your kidnapper’s shirt. And secondly, because it's way too freaking short. I sigh and enter back into the bedroom regardless, not having much other choice in the matter.
“Enjoy your shower?” he asks softly from across the room. He looks up at me, his gaze lingering far too long over my exposed legs.
“Where am I going to sleep?”
“Right here with me, where else?” He cocks an eyebrow at me quizzically, patting the bed bedside him.
“No chance, what do you think I am?”
“Mine. And you'll be sleeping wherever I say you are.”
“No.” I stare down at him, giving him my best ‘resting bitch’ face.
He stands and makes
his way across to me. He moves slowly, like a predator stalking his prey, but I'm nobody's damn dinner. Every step he takes, I take one back. A fabulous technique…until it lands me up against the wall.
“Are you saying no because you feel that's what you should say, or because it's how you really feel on the matter?” He brushes a hand across my cheek the finger tips trailing lightly across, and then through my hair. He tucks a wet strand behind my ear.
I open my mouth to respond, but I can’t answer him, the words won't come. My mouth closes and I just stand there silently.
He sighs and steps back. “You will sleep in here,” I open my mouth to object but he swiftly continues, “I will sleep elsewhere, for now. We will talk more in the morning.”
Before I can argue any further, he swiftly leaves the room. I hear the door click when it shuts. The bastard locked me in!
Chapter Five
The sound of the door clicking makes me turn in the bed where I’ve been lying for the past few hours unable to sleep. I look at the door in silence waiting for someone to come inside or knock. Minutes pass and neither happens.
Curious, I slowly slip out of the bed and rummage through one of the duffle bags, pulling out a pair of leggings, slipping into them, and baggy hoodie which I pull on over the top of Cyrus' shirt.
I slowly creep to the door and test to see if it really unlocked or if it was just my imagination. The handle turns, the door pulls open. I blink in shock, finding nobody in the hallway. Am I really getting a chance to escape? I slip back into the room and grab the smaller duffel bag, slinging it over my shoulder. I then creep back out the room and head for the stairs.
