The Rogue and Her Mate

One

I'm being hunted again. No matter where I hide, they're there. All my life I've been running. Moving from town to town, from school to school. Now I'm on my own. They killed my mom because she wouldn't want to join a pack. A wonder, with how benevolent they are.

I have to flee the last place mom secured us to live before dying. I knew I shouldn't stay there. That the pack would follow my mom's scent to the small rundown apartment, but I had nowhere else to go. I have nowhere else to go.

I run down an ally that opens to train tracks, just past are woods. I only need to get to them and shift. I'm certain they won't be able to keep up. They haven't yet.

I shift just at the tree line, auburn fur erupting from my alabaster skin. A smile forms on my muzzle, as I glide seamlessly through the ever-thickening forest. I can hear my pursuers growing further and further away. I slow my pace to conserve energy. I know that although I've outrun them, they'll still follow my scent. I can't stop until I've left their territory.

Then I smell it. A scent to die for, or kill. Like the sweetest curry, a hint of spice from ginger, a sweet umami aroma. I can sense the wolf's presence, although I can't hear them.

I maintain my pace, but swiftly change direction away from the smell, although it's the last thing I wants to do. In a moment, I take to the trees. It's a risky, even reckless, procedure especially in wolf form, but one my mother and I performed many times in order to just escape a pack's clutch.

It's right behind me. It freezes for an instant in confusion, before looking up.

It's too late.

I'm upon it in the same instant. Forcefully grabbing hold of it's neck with my jaws, I fling the wolf against a tree with all the momentum from my plummet.

I've returned to my human form in an moment, obtaining a rock that meets the wolf's skull with a sickening crunch. I don't fret, certain in the pack wolf's ability to heal. I can smell it, it's strong.

Black fur rolls back into skin, revealing a large man with discernably beautiful features. Even through all the blood.

I know it's stupid. I know his pack will catch up any moment now. But I have to have him. It flies in the face of reason. I hate all werewolves. My mother and I have run from them our whole lives. My mom died at their hands. Yet nothing in this world could stop me from doing what I do next.

I hoist him over my shoulders in a fireman carry and run. Just a few more miles to the packs end. Sure, I'll have a whole other pack to deal with, and this one will certainly continue to pursue me now that I've abducted one of them, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve. There's a reason my mother and I were able to evade the packs for this long.

A few miles into the new pack, past a stream, I stop and drop the man to the ground. I kneel, removing my bag, and fishing out a jar containing a repugnant grey salve. I twist the jar open, gaging at the release of foul particles. The stuff goes on thick and globby, causing me to cringe when the chalky, yet slimy substance touches my bare skin.

Once covered head to toe, I move to my victim.

I'm satisfied to see the wound on his head is healing nicely. I mix the grey muck with his blood, forming a putrid concoction. Heat rises in my stomach as I apply more around his lips, down his neck and over his firm chest. I reach under his shirt to ensure his scent is completely camouflaged. My body thrills at the sensation of my skin against his, even with the vile substance acting as a sort of sickly barrier.

I consider his lower half shrouded in thick jeans and heavy boots. The salve is much more effective for camouflaging scent when applied directly to the skin. I bite my tongue, pondering for a moment too long, before rubbing the grey muck over his pants and boots, then quickly screwing on the lid and stowing it safely.

I look over his wound again. It's only a matter of time before he wakes up now. Quickly I tear his shirt into strips and use them to bind his arms and then his legs. Not the strongest, but it will have to do for now.

The man back over my shoulder, I continue my trek, grateful for the dense woods that seem to make up most of this pack territory. I feel the man stirring then thrashing and yelling, causing me to drop him.

"What the fuck are you doing!" He yells, before hitting the ground and grunting loudly. I'm next to him in an instant, clamping my hand over his mouth, looking around nervously.

"Shit, should have gagged him." I mutter.

"Shit." I yell, pulling my bloodied hand away.

"Let me go, rogue." He begins hollering again, while thrashing.

I bring my heel down on his face, disorienting him, in order to get a choke hold around his neck. Once he's passed out, I quickly tear up more of his shirt and gag him.

I'm not feral. I know this is wrong. I'm not anti-social. I had many human friends at every school I've went to. I know it's wrong to abduct and face stomp people but he's not people. He's a wolf. I'm aware of the hypocrisy being a wolf myself, but there's a difference.

Mom taught me about these pack wolves. Vicious, unkind and always preying on the weak. An unfair hierarchy maintained with violence, fear and threats. The pack mentality. Unfeeling, uncompassionate. So why didn't I kill this one? They hadn't hesitated to kill mom. I tell myself it's because I'm not like them, but I can't deny it. I'm drawn to him. More than that, I need him.

I've never let myself need anyone or anything. Always picking up and leaving at the whiff of a wolf. Never packing. Mom even insisted on me not needing her. She would leave for weeks, for months even. As I got older, I was able to pick up her scent and knew she was still nearby but I was alone. Mom had been preparing me for her death all my life.

Needing someone is a completely foreign, overpowering feeling that has temporarily driven me mad. I pick up my pace, intermittently sprinting between jogging, in an effort to make it to the next territory before he awakes again. I need stronger rope and a place to stow him. After that, I don't know. 

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