Chapter Six

Himera

I toss and turn throughout the night, my mind refusing to grant me even a second of peaceful sleep.

The moment my alarm goes off, I slide out of the single bed and grab my small duffel bag, slinging it over my shoulder. It holds some of my priceless possessions–the locket my parents gave me when I turned seventeen, a few pictures, a polaroid camera, and other things I can't bear to leave behind.

It's five in the morning, and the sky is only beginning to shift from darkness to faint pastel hues. If I move fast, I might make it out of this pack before the sun fully rises.

Quietly, I open the door and step into the hallway, heading straight for the elevator. Relief washes over me when I find it empty.

I can't afford to get caught.

The packhouse is eerily silent, and I manage to make it out without bumping into anyone.

I follow the route Elliot took me through yesterday, hoping to find a dead end along the fence line. My plan is simple–climb over it and get as far away from here as possible.

But the further I walk, the more I realize Elliot was right.

I can't escape.

Not even if I tried.

Still, I keep going, stubbornness pushing me forward until I find myself at the rink. I pause, exhaling slowly. The sky is already brightening, streaks of light cutting across it.

I might as well sit here for a while before heading back to the packhouse.

I walk around the barricade until I find the entrance. I glance over my shoulder, making sure no one is watching, before I push the metallic door.

It swings open too easily, and I stumble forward from the force I used.

I freeze, the hairs on my skin rising instantly.

Someone is watching me.

I can't see them or smell them. But I know.

I felt it even before I reached the rink–an unseen presence trailing me no matter how many times I turned to look.

A thought crosses my mind.

Slowly, I drop my duffel bag and unzip it, pulling out my figure skates.

They're one of the few things I truly treasure. I saved for months to buy them. If I had to choose only one thing to take with me, it would be these.

I slip off my sandals and lace them up, stepping onto the ice. If someone is watching, they might as well get a show.

I glide across the ice, letting muscle memory take over as I perform spins, jumps and turns–losing myself in the moment, until a voice cuts through the silence.

“What are you doing here?”

I groan, already annoyed before I even turn.

Derrick.

Of course.

“As you can see,” I say, giving him a once-over as I balance myself to a stop. “I'm skating.”

He's not dressed up in anything formal–just shorts, skates, and a hockey stick in hand.

“Get out of here,” he says, his jaw tightening. “I need the rink.”

I sigh, not wanting to spend any more minutes standing near him despite my wolf's excitement.

“If it bothers you that much,” I reply coolly, “maybe you should get out.”

I don't wait for a response. I push off and glide away, continuing my routine.

But when I turn, he's already skating behind me.

Fast.

Before I know it, he swerves past me, cutting sharply across the ice. When he gets to the far end, he pivots and comes straight at me again.

I change direction.

He follows.

And somehow, we begin to circle each other, the tension thick and unspoken.

Suddenly, he speeds toward me.

Instinct kicks in and I try to swerve in an attempt to avoid colliding into him.

But I lose balance and hit the ice hard.

“Fuck,” I cry out as pain shoots through my arm. I landed on my elbow, and it burns like hell.

For a moment, I can't move.

When I finally sit up, I check myself. My left elbow is fine, just a dull ache.

But the right…

Blood drips onto the ice, and I stare at it, my stomach twisting.

I glance around, hoping–just hoping– someone will help.

But there's no one.

Except Derrick.

And he's still skating, controlling the puck with his stick while he ignores me like I'm not even here.

What an asshole.

I knew he didn't like me, but this? Ignoring me when I'm clearly hurt?

I wouldn't do that to him.

I start to reach for my skates, ready to take them off, when I catch a familiar scent.

Butter and honey.

Elliot.

Relief floods me before I even look up.

He's already walking toward me, his expression dark.

“You're hurt,” he says, his eyes locking onto my elbow.

Before I can respond, he scoops me into his arms and carries me off the ice–completely ignoring his brother.

I expect him to yell at him.

Or at me.

He doesn't.

Instead, he carries me all the way to a car, setting me gently in the backseat before sliding into the driver's seat.

We drive off.

I frown slightly when we don't head back to the packhouse, but the tension in my chest eases when we pull up in front of the infirmary.

“Don't,” he says sharply when I reach for the door.

He’s already out, coming around to open it for me. Then he lifts me again, carrying me inside.

The room we enter is stark white, smelling strongly of antiseptic and medicine.

Within minutes, a woman in a lab coat walks in.

“Are there any other places that hurt?” She asks after examining my elbow.

“My knees,” I say. “But they're not as bad as this.”

“I'll need to remove your jeans to check,” she says gently, her hands hovering near the buttons. “Is that alright?”

“I'll step out,” Elliot says immediately.

Such a gentleman.

Anybody else might have stayed, claiming they've already seen everything.

Not him.

I nod, and the nurse carefully helps me out of my jeans, inspecting my knees.

“These cuts need cleaning,” she says. “We don't want them getting infected.”

She works efficiently, cleaning and dressing each wound, starting with my elbow.

By the time she's done, the pain has dulled to a manageable throb.

She helps me back into my jeans and gives me a small smile.

“Take them off when you get back to your room,” she advises. “Let the wounds breathe.”

I nod.

Elliot walks back in the moment she leaves.

Without a word, he lifts me again and carries me out to the car.

The drive back is silent.

When we reach my room, he sets me down gently on the bed before moving to sit on the recliner.

“What happened?”

Two simple words.

But I don't know where to begin.

“I fell,” I say.

His jaw tightens.

“And how did you get to the rink?” He asks. “Why were you there?”

“I... I wanted to skate,” I stutter.

He exhales slowly, like he's holding back something louder.

“Explain the duffel bag,” he says.

My stomach drops.

“My duffel bag,” I whisper. “Where is it?"

“In my car,” he replies. “Now answer me.”

“I… I,” I try to speak, but the words won't come.

He already knows I was trying to run.

Silence stretches between us, and I can't help but wonder what is going on in his mind.

He seems angry. So angry a scale would break if we tried to measure it.

An urge to apologize rises inside me. I part my lips to speak, but the words die in my throat when he suddenly stands.

He walks over to the bed, towering above me.

I fidget, inhaling sharply as I study his face.

Right now, he's not the sexy male who fucked me all night in Ibiza. He's not even the funny guy who showed me around his pack yesterday, cracking jokes every two seconds.

He's... different.

As if something has taken over him.

Something feral.

He grabs my arms and shoves me backward onto the bed, pinning me down.

Before I can react, a sharp pain pierces my shoulder, forcing a gasp from my lips.

His teeth are sunk deep into my flesh.

Almost immediately, he pulls away from me and storms out of the room without a single glance back.