Control (Dark Romance)

Chapter 1

Picture of Hagen

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Hagen's P.O.V

I don't make good choices.

I knew that from the ripe age of seven, when I decided that sneaking into the kitchen, the night before my birthday, to eat my entire cake by myself was a good idea. It was reaffirmed when I turned eighteenth, had a panic attack and packed up all my shit to move to a new city the very same day.

Not my brightest moment.

I just didn't have the best record of thinking things through, and last night hadn't been any different.

My temples throb the moment I peel my eyes open, causing a familiar feeling of nausea to swell through my body that was already aching in that bone-deep way that told me that the one beer I'd planned to have last night had probably turned into ten.

Fuck me. As I force myself to sit up, I try and fail to ignore the way my room sways and my stomach begins to roll with disapproval.

Jesus Christ, I'm going to throw up.

I pass my slitted gaze over my nightstand, hoping to find a bottle of water waiting there, but all I find is the usual disappointment. Disappointment and my first glimpse of the aftermath of last night's impromptu pity party.

My place was a mess, well more of a mess than usual. It wasn't just the usual clothes scattered on the floor, separated only by random shit that never made it to its rightful home. It was a slew of beer bottles that made the air smell stale and sad, and wasn't that just fucking depressing.

With the best pep talk I can manage in my shit state, I fight the urge to lay back down and get myself out of bed. The quicker I got water in my system, the better chance I had at not throwing it all up in a few minutes.

"God damn it, Hagen," I grumble as I walk across my apartment that was in no better state than my bedroom.

The trail of bottles carried out here too, like some sick path I'd led for myself all the way to the kitchen where several stacked greasy boxes waited. Apparently, I'd ordered a shitton of pizza and devoured it all, not even saving a single slice for future self.

My wolf, Zyair, tries to make a comment about that - probably something about me never saving anything for anyone - but it gets lost in the hangover which I'm suddenly a little grateful for.

Zyair was an amazing wolf, better than a best friend honestly, but he was also a very judgy wolf which wasn't the best thing for a person who had a habit of fucking things up. But we made it work, somehow.

I make it to my kitchen sink but not without panting at the end of it. I try not to be alarmed by that. I knew I was a lazy stick and I probably didn't get out as much as I should, but shit, was I really that bad?

Now wasn't the time to think of that, the last thing I needed was more pitiful thoughts.

Instead, I glue myself to the counter, only ducking my head under my tap for a few desperate gulps of ice-cold water every five minutes. I stay there until the fog behind my eyes starts to clear, repeating the usual routine of waiting for my genes to fix me up for my self-inflicted damage.

What had I even been drinking over last night?

Last I remembered, I was stretched out over my couch, watching some reruns of the Chiefs with one beer and then... a note had appeared on my lap.

17th November,

Be ready at 10 pm, dress nice.

I hope you haven't forgotten your promise,