The Blood Claim Part Two: The Alpha's Rise

Chapter Four (Part Two): Old Wounds

Chapter Four (Part Two): Old Wounds 

I wanted to curse him for what he'd done to me. I wanted to make him feel my pain, or at least to take it away, but I didn't want him anywhere near me. He was too much-- he was a monster, heady and addictive, but I hated him so much in that instant that I wanted nothing to do with him. But he could take it away, this pain, just as easily as he'd dealt it those nights ago, and that night in the school-- I didn't want to die, not like this, even though it was all his fault. I was conflicted, unsure of what I wanted besides an end to this hell he'd put me through. He would surely cause me more pain, and I was just as afraid of him as I was angry that he'd made me this way in the first place: just as damaged as he was.  

"Please..." I whimpered feebly, shaking my head as I began to finally drift into unconsciousness. 

He said nothing else and came straight for me; the urge to run as if I could was strong, and I trembled on the floor, utterly helpless to whatever his whims were. Peter wrapped an arm around my back just as something vicious and burning surged up my throat, and my body expelled something hot and black. An anguished cry wrenched itself from Peter's throat, his hazel eyes rounding as though he hadn't expected something like this to happen-- as though this were an honest reaction. It seared my throat like fire, and I clutched as him as my body convulsed in his arms. A sobbing Lydia returned, but paused at the sight of Peter; or at least, I hoped it was her in the doorway, as unconsciousness wasn't coming for me fast enough. Cruel bitch that it was, my entire body was on fire and my muscles were taunt to the point of being just shy of numb. I felt it coming from my nose and my ears, hot trails of liquid rolling down my face, and Lydia's voice raises an octave as she cries harder. 

"Help her! Help her, please...!" she screamed, dropping to her knees, helpless to do anything but watch. 

"No! No, no, no-- this can't be happening," I heard Peter cry, his voice becoming garbled. "It's not supposed to be this way-- how can this be happening?" 

Oh, god-this is it-I'm dying, and no one can help me-no one can stop this pain, I think frantically as more black liquid spews from my throat, and I can't clear it fast enough.  

My chest heaved as hyperventilation took my body over, and my heart pounded in my chest; I could feel my carotid jump against my throat from fear as my airways caught on fire, and it was getting so much harder to breathe. I could barely move, immobilized by the pain even as it involuntarily made my muscles spasm. 

"She's choking!" Lydia wailed, pulling at my shirt to turn me onto my side. "Help her! She's going to hypovolemic shock-- what the hell is this black stuff?!" 

"This shouldn't be happening-how can her body reject it now after all of this time?!" Peter, confused and urgent as he pulled me onto my side and let the black liquid fall onto the floor. 

I could breathe easier now it had somewhere else to go besides back down my throat, but that didn't mean it over. I let out an agonized wailed that rivaled Lydia's, practically begging for death now that I had nowhere else to go. I was going to die here, on my own kitchen floor where my dad and Stiles would find me. I knew nothing could save me now, as this black stuff never made anything better, and Peter would have done something by now if he wanted to. Lydia was going to scream, and keep screaming until someone's ears out-she was already keening. Peter would be gone, having left with another notch on his belt to symbolize my kill. He didn't care-- he never did --and my boys would be all alone. My death would be blamed on a wolf attack, and Dad would go crazy and Stiles would lash out, and everything I loved would fall apart because Peter was a ruthless killing machine... 

My hand was against his chest, my grip feeble at most as my fingers curled into his black t-shirt and I tried to push him away. He would get away with my murder, and surely only Lydia and I would know-the others may actually believe her, if people could come back from the dead. He had only used me, and I wanted him to know that I would die hating him, pouring every ounce of the feeling into my eyes. I couldn't tell what he was feeling, but his heartbeat had spiked since his arrival; with a harsh growl, he swiped my hand away as though it was nothing. Swiftly, he shed his leather jacket and pillowed my head and, no doubt fueled by urgency, ripped my t-shirt open to reveal the gashes he had given me-- stitches savaged and raw tissue bleeding almost profusely. I couldn't help but let out a strangled gasp as the fabric touched my body-- the pain was white-hot and even more blinding now, and shallow unconsciousness finally took me.