Moving Forward

Bonds (25)

Max had slept, soothed by the heavy rain of the previous night that had somehow convinced his exhausted body that he had nothing to worry about. But now the fresh, rain soaked ground squished as footsteps approached, bringing with them the scent of wet dog. A single pair. Whoever it was was walking on two feet rather than four.

Gillespie. Max should've known it would him. Perhaps it was just his training, or any of his past experiences with the military, but it struck Max as strange that the big bad boss of the enemy was talking to a prisoner. Not that Max wasn't important - he wasn't an idiot. As a singular person, he wasn't, but as Kyle's mate, he was leverage. Exactly what Gillespie was coming to speak to him about, however, was a mystery.

"Mr Waters." Gillespie's voice was an odd combination between sweet and cold. As if talking to a particularly irritating customer, but not wanting to get fired.

That wasn't enough of a distraction for Max to notice that Gillespie didn't use his title, so either the asshole didn't know he was a Royal Marine, or he was just being disrespectful. Either way, Max felt it appropriate to respond with a low growl.

Gillespie's pale skin seemed to glow in the darkness of the cave, and as he stride forward, Max gave ground, allowing himself to be backed into the corner. A snide smile curled up on Gillespie's face at the apparent retreat, but Max was used to this. He'd been in a situation like this more than once. A dangerous calm settled over him; he stopped growling and flexed his claws.

Gillespie spoke. His clear tone and expectant eyes made it obvious he'd made a request, but Max wasn't processing the words. Couldn't. When he took a step closer, Max snarled at him. Not the quiet warning that he often gave, but a hissing, spitting snarl that gave no doubt as to what would happen if Gillespie took another step.

An annoyed twitch in his lip. Passing a hand through that blond hair. Slight reddening of his pale skin. Narrowed blue eyes. Max watched it all. Focused on it. Waited to see what this man would do next.

He crouched low. Pulled his lips from his teeth. His claws were still sheathed, but they were ready.

Raising his hands slowly, Gillespie took careful steps backwards, continuing until he reached the mouth of the cave. He said something to the wolves guarding the doors. Then he left.

Max paced the cave, hissing and growling. Every now and again, he let out a roar that bounced off the walls of his dark cave and amplified the volume.

The fourth time he did this, one of the wolves turned to him and snapped his teeth.

Max didn't even think. Barely remembered moving. Dagger-like teeth sunk into soft fur, tore at flesh. Snapping, hissing, barking. Any external information completely passed him. No, overwhelmed him. Everything was internalised to the point where picking out individual pieces became impossible. Nothing processed. Nothing had any real meaning.

All he could do was fight. Allow his body to react. Survive.

Blunt nails scrabbled at rock and left bruises. Claws drew blood. And then, with a force enough to crush skulls, Max bit down. The wolf's body seized. Twitched. And then it stopped moving.

The entire exchange hadn't lasted longer than a few minutes, but any strength left fled from Max's body. Collapsing to the warm floor, Max didn't even notice the blood coagulating at his feet, puddling around his paws. The reason why the stone was no longer cold. None of that called for Max's attention.

He looked up, his vision blurring and clearing, and then blurring again. But it wasn't hard to pick out what he was seeing. Wolves upon wolves upon wolves. Sure, not all were in wolf form, but they were wolves nonetheless. They'd watched him. Watched their pack member battle against him. And when he'd dispatched of his opponent, they'd done nothing but watch.

It was sickening. Disgusting. Claiming to be pack members and doing nothing to defend one of their own. Doing only as Gillespie ordered. Was there nothing else to them? Did they not feel anything at seeing him kill one their pack member? They had to. They had to feel something! Wasn't the wolf someone's brother, someone's cousin, someone's friend? Wasn't he a part of this family that Gillespie had rallied together?

The answer came as a horrible revelation. No.

No, because what Max was looking at was not a pack. Not a family. It couldn't even be described as an army, because at least in an army, everyone that fought with each other was a brother, a sister, a best friend to sacrifice anything for. Max knew exactly what he would give to protect his brothers - both those he was related to and those he wasn't.

This... this wasn't anything like that. They weren't Gillespie's army. They were his minions.

Max couldn't help the pathetic whimper that escaped him. He scrabbled backward, unable to keep the panic from surfacing as the haze of his PTSD left him. It was too much. The stress of being trapped, of being at the mercy of his mate's enemy, of realising that he'd lost control. His heart, already beating fast, only sped up. Every beat pounded in his head. It was all he could do to keep from blacking out, and all the while the stares of the rogue wolves bore into him.

It could've been an hour, it could have been five minutes. But eventually, Max calmed enough realise that he was no longer being watched. The wolves dispersed, and his body cooled. Bird songs were carried on the wind, surprising Max. He hadn't noticed them yesterday. Nor had he noticed the scents that were smothered by the wet-dog smell. It was... cherries. Why cherries?

That didn't... that didn't make sense.

He stood, shook his fur out, took note of the aches and pains his body announced and then filed them away to focus on that scent.

Why cherries?

Honestly, the question ran through his mind so many times that it became redundant and lost meaning. All it brought him back to we're the moments with Kyle, before they'd solidified their relationship when they were still feeling each other out. He snorted. They'd been too cautious. Kyle, especially.

But waiting gave him more time to think.

He missed his brothers, he realised. Not his blood-related brothers, but the brothers he made whilst serving. Sure, he missed his siblings, but he wasn't thinking about them. He was thinking about his team, his unit, their first mission as a special unit and how badly they'd almost fucked it up. The last mission they'd fought together, and how smoothly that almost went. How well they functioned as a unit - so much so it was as if they were psychic.

With a sigh that came out a lot throatier than intended, Max let go of the useless, wistfulness of his thoughts, and instead turned his focus to watching. Observing the wolves that guarded the open entrance. For now, that was all he could do.