He is without a pack,
He is without a mate,
And he is without a wolf,
He is the sanctuary of brutality, a slaughter that waits for its turn.
He is Killian, the beast built with strength, power, and chaos that yearns for a reign, not of an Alpha, but...
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I learned about life's dread when I was just a juvenile.
I had burned away my chance of a better life when I had failed to take control of my wolf, and gave it the freedom to have its teeth sink into the throat of our maker.
"You killed him, you bury him."
I could remember how the Alpha had ordered me to bury my father alone. His words were laced with disdain for my actions, and I made no objections against him, even if he made me settle his grave right in front of my house.
I wore blood as my clothes when half of the pack watched me do everything; no one bothered to offer me a hand when I dragged my father outside of my house and into the hole that I had dug deep for him.
I didn't miss him.
I didn't cover him.
I didn't even clean him.
No tears were shed for the murderer of my happiness.
I didn't mourn for his departure, but I was consumed with sorrow for the wolf that he had rendered destructive and unfixable.
My features were kept unreadable for everyone's eyes as I shoveled the dirt and piled it up to my father's corpse, but beneath the placid exterior of my being, I was crippled.
The blood sticking to my skin was the mark of my shame, and I made no attempt to hide it from my pack.
I was the juvenile that had a wolf too lost to be controlled.
"Kill me," I pleaded when I had dropped the shovel and sunk down to my knees after putting my father six feet under, but my wolf didn't take my actions nicely.
I could recall how Azeil stood close to the Alpha, he had just shifted to a fully grown male, and I could see his apparent fear for my wild that was reaching out to make her threat known to the werewolves around us.
My skin was buzzing from the rage rooted deeply from my wolf, completely against my actions as I remained kneeling in front of the leader of my pack.
I could taste the strong shame that my wolf felt for my weakness; she was thoroughly ashamed to be bounded with a feeble skin.
We don't kneel.
I clamped my mouth shut, muffling the inward growls that were coming out of my throat, my bones at the brink of snapping as my wolf tried to claw her way to the surface once again as her thoughts rang harshly within my mind.
We don't beg.
I was trembling with my inner turmoil, torn between my wish to die and my wolf wanting to challenge the Alpha.
Everyone watched me fight inwardly with a wolf that was supposed to be in balance with who I was; we were contained within one body, but held separate convictions that deemed our incompatibility.
