To Suffer With

Chapter Thirteen - The Wolf

I fumble with the key unable to understand why I can't get it into the lock. Then I realize my hands are shaking, whether from anger or shock I honestly can't tell. I bang my fist against the wooden door, fighting against the tears that remain determined to fall. Every time it seems as though I gain some semblance of control over my emotions, something happens and that long sought after control hovers just out of reach. I'm a mess.

I place my head on the door letting the emotions engulf me. I don't understand why I feel quite so betrayed. Roman had warned me he'd mark me if I ran, of course he'd make good on his threat. Yet, somehow he'd lured me into some false sense of security around him. I was stupid enough to think that the mate bond had awarded me some kind of protection. And if I was being completely fair for the most part it did.

I swallow the oncoming sob back, forcing my emotions back down into an abandoned corner. I place my hand on my neck unsurprised to feel the sticky blood coat my fingers.

"Bloody wolves," I curse to myself, attempting once more to unlock the door before me.

Finally the key finds the lock and the handle turns to allow me entry. The dying sunlight filters through the windows allowing me a view of my new surroundings. There's a small wooden end table by the door, covered in a thin layer of grey. I run my hand across the surface, a sneeze escaping me as the dust flies into the air. I drop the key on the table wondering which of the two doors at the far end of the small living room might lead to a bathroom. I take a guess at the left, pleased to find I had made the correct choice.

I search through the drawers holding one hand to my neck to prevent the blood from dropping down and tainting my surroundings. How had Roman managed to maul my neck so badly anyway?

Every time he entered my mind I found myself overcome with a blind rage that had no outlet. Maybe I should have let him stay so I could punch him repeatedly until I felt better.

I growl in frustration as my search proves unfruitful. Maybe it was just my time at the resistance that had led me to believe that every bathroom was well stocked with a choice of bandages. I slam the drawer I'm searching back in, giving up on the idea of finding bandages. Instead I grab the blue hand towel hanging beside the basin holding it under a stream of cold water from the tap.

My eyes catch my reflection in the mirror and I can't help but feel sorry for myself. I look a mess. My eyes are red and puffy from the tears. My hair is a nest with strands hanging loose from my ponytail. Some have even become stuck to the wound on my neck. I pull them away in disgust, studying the wound underneath them. Its a mess of red. I place the wet towel on it wiping away the blood. What I'm left with is an angry raw bite wound. That was definitely going to need a bandage.

I retrieve my backpack from the porch, and take another long shower. I close my eyes as the water pours over me, trying to remind myself that I could get through this. It wasn't so bad. I hadn't been planning on running again so Roman's mark didn't change much. It was mostly harmless. I didn't like having something akin to a brand on my skin but werewolves seemed to see it in a different light. They had to otherwise no self respecting female would submit to it. Roman was just doing whatever he thought he had to.

My internal reasoning did little to alleviate my anger but at least I wasn't feeling the urge to physically break things anymore.

It didn't take me long to find the household items I needed to make a bandage. Another trick I could thank the resistance for.

I find some spare linen for the bed and make it pleased to find that nothing smelt too musty. Who knows how long it had been since this place had been used.

I curl up in bed, my body and mind still seeking to recover the many hours of lost sleep.

I'm not sure what awakens me. Its almost as if I have been jolted awake. The room is pitch black and as I slip out of the bed my hands cling to the wall for guidance. My throat is dry and parched and I lick my lips in a search for moisture. I step out of the room, switching the main light on in order to ease navigation. I stop short as I look out the window. A black mound on the edge of the porch partially obscures my view of the dark forest. As I watch it the mound lifts up slowly and then back down as if it were breathing.