Alessia Stocklin and Ezra Withers are polar opposites, but they can certainly agree on one thing: their mutual hate for each other.
He's an Alpha deadset on killing every rogue he comes across, while she's a vigilante - known as Nightshade - intent...
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"I know you're behind this," I announced ominously, my legs teetering back and forth to the tune of the whistling wind. Every couple of seconds, the repetitive tapping of my shoe hitting the fence below echoed into the surrounding field. "I know you're behind the Ferals."
My accusation was a rather hasty one. With my first face-to-face encounter with a Feral still fresh on my mind, I knew only one person could be behind such a tragedy.
Ezra Withers.
There was no doubt in my mind.
While — if such a truth ever surfaced — news of his brute methods would not reflect well on Ezra. But, at the same time, his presence as an Alpha was big enough to garner his pack members falling at his feet, ready to take any blame. My jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. The more my mind lingered on Ezra, the stronger my desire to slash my claws through his rib cage grew.
There was one flaw to my logic, however. There was no thread of evidence besides my gut intuition. My gut instinct flared, becoming almost entirely consuming, like an enticing beacon of light. My body ached to put an end to it — to put an end to Ezra.
Shuffling my position on the fence, I cracked my neck uncomfortably. The idea of killing Ezra was becoming more and more a possibility with each passing day.
"How very flattering of you to think I'm capable of such a feat. I think all this newfound fame is going to your head," Ezra's mocking voice pulled me out of my thoughts, his face full of skepticism. His lips quivered, a smile breaking out on his lips.
Thirty minutes prior, one of the rogue alarms alerted me of a rogue presence for the first time in a few days. Fortunately, I was nearing the end of a particularly sweaty training session and was able to quickly gather my cloak from my apartment and stash a few of my nearby kitchen knives securely beneath my cloak.
Despite accepting the risks that came along with a lifestyle like mine, I did not run to the potential rogue's rescue as fast as usual. I lugged my way to the Eastern border, hyper-vigilant of my surroundings. I let out a breath of surmounting tension when I saw there was no Feral in sight; rather, it was Ezra who was cornering a rogue up against the fence I now found myself sitting on.
Notably, Ezra was not flanked by his usual set of guards. The guards normally trailed Ezra at his every move, morphing into a second shadow.
He was alone today.
"Fame?" I laughed, toying with one of the knives hidden within the pocket of my cloak. "Is that a compliment towards yourself? You were the one to make those wanted posters, after all."
"I suppose," he tilted his head, scratching his chin, "you have a point: infamy would be a better word for it."
The rogue standing across from Ezra tried to take this opportunity to flee, but Ezra — ears pointed in the rogue's direction — turned his head, taking one step closer. The rogue was a rather large wolf with bulbous shoulders to rival the muscles of even the most trained of warriors.
