The Protector

XVII

Stumbling clumsily out of the damp steamy room, I grip onto the walls in an attempt not to slip. I happily wander through to the wardrobe in all my glory, why cover up when there is no one else here? I've already made the decision to wear something laid back and baggy so my body can breathe after the recovery process. There's also the fact that today is hot enough that I feel like I am melting, I can feel the salt rolling off of me.

Watching myself in the mirror while pulling on some shorts and a tank, all of the marks seem to light up for my attention. I didn't notice how bad they were earlier since they were tremendously dirty, but they are concerningly severe. It isn't surprising that we all thought I was going to die, myself included.

I read somewhere that when a werewolf's body sustains large masses of damage, it is more likely to scar as the biological instinct is to focus on closing the wounds with as little long term internal damage as possible no matter if a mark is left. There are several examples in the pack, John being one of them. The one across his face was caused just before his chest had been sliced open from a rogue wolf that was desperate to kill.

The tips of my fingers run across every scuff and graze, The many bruises I remember vividly are no longer staining my complexion. Even so, each wound is imprinted on my skin for years to come. Pink circles litter all of my visible flesh, kind of like a dot-to-dot in a child's colouring book - one of Zayn's minions smoked a lot, a dangerous amount if he were human. My back was torn to shreds. Dark angry red crooked lines cover nearly the entire surface, even trailing over my arms a touch - it's kind of kinky how many whips they possessed. Those are only the ones that slightly peek out from beneath clothing.

The most obvious are over my wrists, neck and lip. A streak slightly darker than my rosy beige skin tone wraps around my entire throat like a permanent necklace. There's a slight groove where it sits as my body couldn't bring it back to the original position. My lip had burst when the whip accidently came across my face, only to be pulled apart again when one of the goons got pissy and punched me. It's small, almost on the corner of my mouth. Then there's my poor wrists that would have almost been severed if it wasn't for the joints. Two vibrant three-sixties paint across both wrists, somewhat burnt from the acid the ropes had been dipped in.

I can't think about this too much. I basically did it to myself, and now I have to suck it up and accept the new characteristics of my body.

Shaking my head violently, I exit the room once done with the evil concepts behind the scars. The bottom of my feet are still tender from being burnt but I despise socks and shoes which will only make the sensations worse. Therefore, I continue walking through the building barefoot.

Leaping onto the bannister, I speed past half of the tenants as I skid down the multiple floors. A few members sigh or laugh at seeing my craziness back in the house. It's endearing to know they care about me enough to be glad of my antics returning, it's still a new feeling to be appreciated. There's no aching from the wild behaviour, thankfully, I'm hyper over the amount of movement I am once again capable of.

I'm assuming that the lack of chaos around the house is due to the time. When it is feeding time, we're all silent to enjoy the meals we hungrily scoff down. We're still animals and are content when eating.

As soon as my foot lands on the other side of the archway into the kitchen, everyone's eyes dart to land on me. Well, that's discouraging. Taking in all of their reactions, my own opinion of my current condition is out of place. The repeating shock and concern in all of their eyes is intimidating, the handful of pitying frowns makes it worse. The very few expressions of excitement are far more encouraging than knowing they've been worried over the bratty beta of the pack.

"So... what are we eating?" Breaking the tension, everyone takes the hint to go back to their prior activities. "Pasta." Luke calls from the back of the room, already sitting at the main table in his spot. I take my usual seat between him and Caleb. I automatically slouch, still feeling a few eyes following me from those who I don't particularly get on with.