Four allies; one mission.
Take down the tyrant.
This should be easy considering they're the Chosen Wolves. They're inherently powerful. United, they'd be a force of nature. Unfortunately for the werewolf community, they face two minor setbacks:
One...
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If I told you we could bathe in all the lights Would you rise up, come and meet me in the sky? Would you trust me when you're jumping from the heights? Would you fall in the name of love? When there's madness, when there's poison in your head When the sadness leaves you broken in your bed I will hold you in the depths of your despair And it's all in the name of love.
–Bebe Rexha & Martin Garrix (In the name of love)
⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️
I DON'T KNOCK, don't wait. I teleport myself directly outside his room.
A sick feeling churns in my stomach as I step closer to his door. I struggle to keep my breath even, focus on the matter on my mind, not on my heart.
In the darkness of the packhouse, I blend into the shadows. There isn't a soul in sight. My fingers curl around the doorknob and twist.
I intake a sharp breath as soon as I enter.
The sick have a smell, a peculiar one. The more it smells, the worse it was. Some were mild like the sweat under armpits, easy to heal, some like stale blood, a little harder and the more exhaustive kind, and the worst ones like the decaying flesh six feet under the ground. But Aden - Aden smells of impending death.
His windows are open almost as if he wants someone to climb in and slash his throat - Put him out of his misery. The churning in my stomach worsens at the thought.
The curtains flutter in the breeze, paving way for the faint stream of moonlight to filter into the room. Dull and grey as always—like a goddamned funeral setting.
A stack of documents are piled upon the leather couch, along with an empty cup of coffee on the table. I can hear his uneven breaths as I approach the bed.
I drink in the sight of him. Face so gaunt and bloodless, that his cheekbones protrude out. Full lips that once curved into the most tempting smirks now rough like sandpaper. Naked upto his torso, his skin has turned sallow. Muscles have begun to atrophy. His chest caves inward even as he exhales out a ragged breath.
My eyes flit over to his fingers, bony and blue from the cold as he grasps something firmly in his palm. I stop breathing when I recognize it.
It's the picture of us.
The one I stole from his room when I thought he was dead, then returned when he broke my heart. He grips it like it's the only thing keeping his nightmares at bay.
Hate me. Forget me, he'd said. I had been too drunk, too mad to notice his agony then. You deserve better, Kiara.
