The Exiled Alpha | ✓

11 | You're Bipolar

All through the night, there were strange sounds outside my door. Footsteps would often pace back and forth in the hallway, accompanied by canine sounds. Sometimes low and inconsistent growling, sometimes indistinct snarls, and other times quiet whimpering.

One time there was scratching on the walls. It was in short and frenzied strokes, no doubt tearing all the way into the insulation.

On multiple occasions the doorknob would jiggle, like something was holding it from the other side. But it never did open. The pressure would let up after a minute or so. Then all of the sounds would leave until they returned a couple of hours later in a different, unprecedented pattern.

I wake up for about the fourth time, this time to morning sunlight illuminating the curtains from behind.

My stomach voices its dissatisfaction with a long, drawn out gurgle. The empty feeling in it is torturous.

Either it's my cruel imagination hoping to taunt me, or I smell food cooking. The sweet aroma of French toast in particular.

As if on cue, the doorknob twists and swings open, making me jump out of my skin. Riot strides straight towards me, making my heart thumb out of control.

He looks miserable. Disheveled reddish brown hair, dark semicircles tainting the skin beneath his eyes. His broad shoulders, usually held high, are slouching and his mouth is pressed into a thin, emotionless line.

Avoiding my eyes with his own, he holds out a large open palm to me. "Hands."

With the razor blades at the ends of his fingers, he cuts the ropes off. The red, irritated, burning skin hurts and looks just as bad as last time, if not worse.

"Food's downstairs if you want it," He says before exiting the room, this time leaving the door open behind him.

• • •

Mate.

That's a funny concept.

I've heard so many stories of what a mate is suppose to be. How everything is suppose to be perfect and taken straight from a story book.

Maybe I'm just being skeptical-- hell, that's exactly what I am, but this is far from what everyone promised. One moment he acts like he cares, cleaning my wounds so gently, and then the next I'm being tied up like a dog.

Nonetheless, I couldn't pass up the offer of food. I lingered a bit in the room before going after him. When I stepped out of the room, the hallway was found in a mess. There were places on the carpet that were shredded to threads. Long claw marks were carved messily into the wall, fluffy pink material leaking out. A chill went down my spine at the sight before turning away.

My nose acted as a guide as I made my way down the stairs following the sweet aromas. It lead me to the kitchen, golden sunlight spilling in through the sliding glass door and the window above the sink.

I walk in just as Riot is sitting a plate filled with food on a wooden framed glass table. He barely glances at me before leaving the room.

What the hell is wrong with this guy?

Huffing to voice my annoyance, I ignore the strange behavior and sit down in front of the plate, not hesitating to start eating. My eyes widen at the burst of flavor.

I don't bother taking my attention from the syrupy goodness, not even when hearing him re-enter the room. I sense his presence move to the opposite end of the table, sitting down across from me.

The only sound besides the silence is my fork occasionally tinging against the plate. When I get ready to cut off another bite, I feel him staring at my hands.