The Pack Thief

2

I kept myself moving, carried by the crippling thought that this room wasn't mine. It wasn't familiar and I had no clue where I was. Surrounded by scents that I didn't recognize, yet I recognized far too well.

They were the same scents that blanketed the pack lands during the attack.

There were wolves all around me.

I had to get out, and I had to escape. I was in danger with every passing second.

Hobbling, staggering, limping to get to the door.

I was almost there, hesitating as a thick liquid trickled down my leg. I glanced down absentmindedly, half-expecting to see blood. I knew I would be wounded. I knew that one of the bones I had broken had pierced through the skin of my leg.

Yet despite my expectancy of a wound, I was taken back by the severity of it.

A long, deep, freshly stitched wound had now burst apart beneath my knee. Blood gushed from it, pooling on top of the floor. It sunk deeper into the floor, staining its brown hues crimson red. My wound was serious, so much more serious than I thought it was.

At the rate that I was bleeding, it was surprising that I wasn't passed out on the floor already. Guess my body was holding on to whatever fight was fueling it.

Silencing any and all thoughts regarding my wound, I focused on the door ahead of me. I was almost there, so close. Only a few inches away. I could just reach out and grab it.

I reached my hand out, groaning as I was forced to bear weight on my leg. It burned and burned and burned.

I shook it away. My hand grasped the door knob and I went to open the door. But as I turned the knob, the door was pushed towards me. My unsuspecting, damaged body was sent tumbling towards the unforgiving floor behind me.

This time as my body hit the ground, it was enough to keep me there.

Getting up by myself was impossible, not as the blood beneath me surrounded my body in puddles. It stuck to my skin like syrup. I was hurting everywhere. There was a cry that slipped from my lips and a tear that dropped from my eye as I looked towards the person responsible.

Brown, faintly aloof eyes met mine. A curse left his lips in a whisper.

An unfamiliar man approached me, his movements were that of a machine . He was very soldier-like, very strong, maybe a little too strong as his tanned hands slipped underneath my armpits and plucked me off the ground.

It was easy for the man to lift me, the muscles on his tatted biceps flexing as he hoisted me up like a child. Despite his aggressive demeanor, he seemed to take care as he guided me back towards the bed.

But even then, every slight movement shot rays of pain through me. I hadn't realized how viciously I grasped him, not until my body was back on the bed and my claws were pierced through his skin. 

And he seemed annoyed, not physically hurt, but definitely inconvenienced.

I retracted my claws, feeling the heat flood my cheeks as I noticed little trickles of blood against his skin.

He didn't say anything as he spared a glance at his arms, then at the bloodied floor, and then at me.

Then he spoke.

"Do you have any idea how long it took to stitch that up?"

He motioned towards my torn open, jagged laceration.

Instantly, I was taken back. He was so rude and so uninviting, yet at the same time he was inviting. Not the way he was behaving, but the persona radiating from him was inviting. I could sense his irritation towards me. Even though it made me uncomfortable and embarrassed, I couldn't help but feel drawn to him.