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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Turns out the make-or-break decision on whether or not to continue my secret life as Nightshade came sooner than expected. As my body slowly healed back to working order, an unnerving itch to kill Ezra was all-encompassing. I would try to distract myself with the idle hum of the TV Link lugged to my childhood bedroom, but it only worked for a few short moments. My mind would pay attention to the television for a couple seconds before wandering to thoughts of Ezra.
Particularly thoughts of ending his life.
In sheer desperation, I resorted to inviting Apollo or Link over — whichever one was available at the time — to aid in some sort of distraction. Likewise to the TV, it was only a matter of time before my brain would malfunction and be stuck in a continuous loop of images of me killing Ezra.
Killing him really would fix all my problems, I told myself when the itch to kill Ezra grew so strong that I had to grip the edge of my bed just to keep myself from running out of the room and straight to the kitchen for a knife.
My internal conflict did not go unnoticed by Apollo or Link. They would ask, "You okay?"
And I would have to respond through gritted teeth, "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little discomfort."
They were none the wiser, eating my explanation up like it was a sensational piece of meat. Apollo, in particular, thought the discomfort was a result of his less-than-stellar (his words, not mine) stitching job. As a result, he was rather downcast whenever he came to visit, always ready to shove another pain reliever down my throat.
For a while, I would resist the pain medicine, too scared my mind would betray me, but then, after the fourth refusal, Apollo grew too anxious and slipped some of the pills into my dinner. Shortly after, I was out like a light, sent into a sleepless state. Afterward, I was wise enough not to resist the pain meds.
However, after a day or two of this repeated routine, my body was almost completely healed. My shoulder was tender to the touch, but my wolf resurfaced, and my healing abilities along with it. My time on bed rest would soon be over, and I was not so sure how I would quench the urge to kill Ezra.
While killing Ezra (who my wolf had yet to recognize as my mate) was certainly not a bad idea in and of itself, I knew I could not kill him for two reasons:
1). Killing him would make me just as bad as him. He kills rogues to achieve his goals. Killing him would only prove that killing is indeed the right solution.
2). While I did not want to admit it, Ezra was — unless some cruel joke had been played on me — my mate. His death, while it would not kill me, would injure and take a toll on me emotionally despite the fact I might delight in the spilling of his blood.
Even with these solid reasons always in the forefront of my mind, the desire to kill Ezra never faded; it was like he called to me, called to end his life. Certainly, he did not deserve my restraint in warding off the urge.
