Lucifer Argents P.O.V
The piercing scream echoed through the room as the bullet found its mark, burrowing into her waist. Without a moment's hesitation, I sprinted towards her, scooping her up in a bridal embrace. The gravity of the situation hit me—the bullets were laced with Aconite, better known as wolfsbane, a deadly substance for werewolves. The clock was ticking, and she had at most two days to live.
My father's heartless command to let her suffer and die reverberated behind me. Ignoring his calls, I bolted out of the room, my focus solely on saving her. Racing through passcodes only I knew, I reached my room, a sanctuary shielded from unwanted intrusion.
Gently laying her on my bed, I assessed the extent of her injuries. Her clothes were saturated with blood, and even my own shirts bore the stains from carrying her.
Swiftly, I carried her to the bathroom, placing her in the tub with me positioned behind her. Attempting to remove her blood-soaked shirt, she resisted, shaking her head in refusal.
"Val, your clothes are drenched, and your body is covered in blood. Let me clean you up. I've seen you naked before, haven't I?" I reasoned, the urgency of the situation eclipsing any embarrassment.
Her eyes met mine, and she nodded hesitantly.
I proceeded to lift her shirt and remove her boxer, and she instinctively covered her private area. I rolled my eyes, a mixture of frustration and amusement.
Turning on the shower, I carefully washed her back, the water cascading down from her shoulders to her hips.
"I can wash here by myself," she asserted motioning toward her fronts, and I nodded in acquiescence. As she began to tend to her own wounds, a visible struggle played out in the vulnerability etched across her face. It pained me to witness her suffering, and I hurriedly fetched a towel, a clean shirt, and boxer from my closet, along with a bandage from the drawer.
Setting everything on the tiles, I attempted to examine her wound, but she flinched and recoiled. "I'm trying to help you, please let me," I pleaded. After a moment, she sighed, allowing me to proceed with the makeshift aid. The bullet's depth was uncertain, and my lack of medical expertise gnawed at me.
Wiping her waist with a hot water-drenched towel, I noticed the relentless bleeding. The futility of my attempts sank in. Wrapping a bandage around her waist, I dressed her before gently carrying her to the bed. She turned away from me, her sobs echoing in the room. Unable to bear her distress, I enveloped her in my arms, whispering soothing words in her ear.
"Please don't cry," I implored, desperation lacing my words.
"It hurts. I'm going to die," she sobbed, her words hanging heavy in the air.
"Don't say that!" I growled, compelling her to meet my gaze.
"But I am going to, aren't I? Besides, you want that too. You said so yourself. At least you'll get your wish," she declared, her eyes avoiding mine.
"Please, I'm sorry. I just got pissed, I—I wasn't in my right mind," I apologized, the weight of my words lingering between us.
Sighing, I reflected on the twisted emotions that had driven me to utter such callous remarks. Grateful that my father hadn't aimed for a fatal shot, I closed my eyes, drifting into sleep with her in my arms.
Upon waking, the pallor of her skin alarmed me. "Valentine?" I called, but she remained unresponsive.
"Valentine," I repeated, shaking her gently, yet there was no sign of her stirring.
"Valentine!" I yelled, my panic escalating.
"Oh my god, please wake up," I pleaded, the desperation in my voice echoing through the room. She remained unresponsive, her pulse weakening beneath my touch.
"Val, please, don't leave me," I implored, the words weighted with the impending sense of loss. The countdown to her death still had time, but her symptoms were advancing, a cruel reminder of the limited time we had.
A surge of helplessness enveloped me. What could I do? I couldn't bear to witness her slow demise, and the realization pushed me to consider the unthinkable. The only option that could potentially save her life was seeking help from a pack doctor—a werewolf healer from a werewolf pack. The irony of a werewolf hunter resorting to werewolves for aid wasn't lost on me.
Sneaking her out of here was the challenge. The men in the compound followed my father's orders, yet their loyalty to me provided a small window of opportunity.
Taking a deep breath, I formulated a plan in my mind. I couldn't afford any missteps; the stakes were too high. Time was of the essence, and the repulsive notion of seeking help from those I hunted became a necessary gamble.
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- Valentine Winters
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Mates of a Werewolf Hunter
狼人This is a story of a sixteen year old girl named Valentine Winters, she is a werewolf and an Alpha's youngest daughter. On her sixteenth birthday, she was supposed to find her mate and every thing was supposed to be perfect. Not. While she'll be wan...
