My Wee Mate

27 - Every Last Drop

Fraser

I pace my cell, back and forth and up and down. Impatience sparks in my spine, putting fire in my veins as I hung on every sound, every creak, every drip of water from above.

It's only been roughly 21 hours since I've seen Ailsa, but it feels like an eternity.

Knowing full well that I've simply become dependant. I am well on my way to becoming completely obsessed with her, and that is partially to blame for me current mental anguish. This information does little to comfort me because I know the real reason. I fear for her lufe.

Never before have I let myself become attached to a human. And not only is she human but she's delicate and breakable she's like a small piece of pottery that already has a crack in it, slippery to hold an easy to crush.

Now that I know of her sickness, and I've been told the full scale of it and how serious it is, the fear is tenfold. Knowing now that Ailsa's condition could so easily kill her, every minute that she's away from me is torture.

It's almost enough to confirm my ever growing suspicion that she is my mate. If she is, i can't imagine more horrible timing and circumstance to find one's mate. The moon goddess either has a twisted sense of humor or knows exactly what she is doing. I suppose I shouldn't question her.

Either way, I won't know for certain until one of two things happen. Blood exchanges or sex, and I seriously doubt that either of those things will happen any time soon.

I would be lying if I said I didn't picture myself sinking my teeth into Ailsa's skin when her heartbeat flutters under her pale skin.

But that's not possible. Even if it were, I wouldn't let it happen, I'm sure of it. I can have a clear mind. My self control will win when I know how fragile she really is.

Damn it all to hell. Why did she have to be born with such a sickness?

I'm a beast with immeasurable power and she's a slip of a lass who could could be killed by the next breeze of wind.

It's the worst kind of irony.

A clank and a bang and a short lived relief slices through me. It's there and then it's gone as heavy footsteps echo off the wall. It's not Ailsa, and there's only one other person it could be.

Laird Sinclair waddles to me. His figure round and rotund, his hand carrying a lantern high in the air as he surveys me. The evil man grins.

A lanky servant follows him, carrying a heavy satchel at his side. Whatever's in the bag clunks together with each of the boy's quivering steps. I don't take any further glances, my seething gaze fixed on the man before me.

I didn't think I could hate him anymore than I did. I was wrong.

Seeing him and knowing what he plans to do to Ailsa, what he is planning on forcing his own daughter to do, I can't focus on anything else.

Usually when the Laird arrives I play the pitiful, tortured prisoner that he expects.

I don't act this time, and it has nothing to do with the fact that im already standing at my full height.

Maybe part of me wants him to see that I'm not as weak as he believes he's made me. I roll back my shoulders and stiffen my spine. I let him see my full potential without a word.

Laird Sinclair narrows his eyes at me, but I don't look away and I most certainly don't back down.

I tower over him, and even he can see that, even with these bars separating us. Surely he knows that if not for the barrier I could easily kill him,'and I would do so gladly.