Psychopathic (BoyxBoy)

Chapter 42

It was an open secret in the Dietrich pack.

Their next in line alpha allegedly went feral and died tragically at the tender age of ten. The age where little werewolves would display signs of their lycanthropy. There was no doubt about his condition, everyone saw it, his eyes were the first sign of it. It was the first indication.

He looked feral.

Turns out, he was far from it.

As it happens, werewolf kids would develop their acute hearing and sense of smell first, but rarely have their eyes change their color – it wasn't unheard of, just rare.

Their strength would develop, too, and they'd exhibit traits which would indicate what they'll grow up as. Alpha kids were known to be aggressive and a bit rebellious, but not Constantine.

From the beginning, Constantine was quiet and withdrawn.

In every way, he was the misleadingly passive kid who never stirred anything. His quietness masked his preceptive calculating nature, and his withdrawn self successfully hid his struggles with his senses that were more overwhelming than they were useful. There was always an excessive amount of everything that developed with him.

Scents and sounds he shouldn't be picking up, strength feats he shouldn't be able to achieve, and a sense of awareness and control that was more alarming than it was impressive.

But there was a pattern he noticed in wolves.

The way they operated in packs finding security in that, the way they reacted to the full moon letting their instincts take over, and the way they relied on their strengths and forgot their weaknesses.

No matter how skilled, or how strong, or how smart. It was always the wolf that won, always the pattern Constantine resented to fit and loved to exploit. It ceaselessly confused him why everyone just forgot that they were human, too.

Humans with skills that can be refined and sharpened like the knives and blades they created. Humans who were so diverse in their thoughts and approaches to life that their unpredictability allowed them to thrive. Humans whose way of life was fundamentally simple, individualistic.

And Constantine loved being his own self detached from a pack.

Everyone was stupefied by him for not fitting the mold, and maybe his proclivity to shed blood and cause mayhem didn't help, but when he finally decided to test his limits, they didn't bother with seeing things his way.

Not that he didn't laugh all the way to the basement where he got locked up, but that's just a minor detail.

It was actually very funny.

Three gravely injured adults that tried to stop him, one kid with multiple broken bones that aggravated him, one stabbed father that deserved it, and the eyes of a feral wolf that started this fun little game that keeps repeating itself.

His father, alpha Dietrich himself, stared down at him looking at red feral eyes that reflected his son's lust for blood.

"I am sick of you." He told Constantine who was restrained, chained, and muzzled like a rapid dog. It might seem excessive, but Chris knew it was not nearly enough. "Tell me, what am I supposed to do with you?"

Constantine gave him a pointed look, clearly unable to speak due to the muzzle. He looked like a mental asylum patient.

His fangs weren't his favorite weapon, so the muzzle was there to annoy him.

"It's one thing to kill members of the Hawthorne pack outside their town, but it is a whole different matter to walk into their territory and kill someone in their own house." His father understandably didn't look too happy about it, but Constantine couldn't find it in himself to show the least amount of guilt towards that. "And you had to get caught doing it."