"𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑦
𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑑𝑦 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑."
𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 both families who were supposed to hold hatred within their hearts and loathe the other's existence r...
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Chapter 3: Pack Mentality ━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Fingers combed through the brunette curls, lightly massaging Andrea's scalp as her head settled in Peter's lap. Derek stood before them, fingers tugging at the dark strands as he stressed "The both of you are completely insane!"
"See? This is my reasoning for wishing to be tight-lipped, wanting proof before I uttered a word. Since when is it not okay to keep things to yourself for once in this family?" Andrea grunted, eyes remaining closed as she struggled to focus on the rambles that sounded more as though being scolded by a pup. Her attention remained focused on the fingers that massaged her head, temporarily reliving all tension that built in her form.
"Since when is it okay to accuse a coma patient of murder!" Derek's voice rose, swivelling to face the pair that occupied the couch "Much less of killing his own niece. It's wrong, and beyond disrespectful."
"Whilst I would normally agree with that sentiment, this is Damien were speaking of. I'm like ninety percent sure that man is an undiagnosed sadist." Her words drew a snort from Peter who had been uncharacteristically quiet as he watched the pair. His family had always been a touchy subject for the man, even years prior the fire, it had always been a sore spot. Whilst there were a few within the family he adored, such as the nephew who was more like his son, and his beloved nieces; the eldest he shared a bond of a sister, something he never had with Talia, and the youngest a daughter, both of whom were now dead, the rest of his family had saw him as nothing more than a babysitter for their children. Most of the time, Peter didn't mind. He adored the children of his family, but there had been moments when he would cast a glance to the conversing adults who always cast him aside and question his place in the pack.
"Can you even be diagnosed as a sadist?" Derek questioned.
"I don't know, but that's besides the point." Andrea leant up for a moment, grunting when she was carefully pushed into her original position by Peter "The point is Damien is a complete psychopath."
"Rea's right." Peter uttered quietly, eyes trained upon Andrea as he chewed on his inner cheek. The Argent gestured to him briefly to express her gratitude of the backup "Damien is all different levels of insane i'm certain haven't even been discovered yet. I wouldn't put it passed him to kill Laura and not feel an ounce of remorse for it. After all, family means nothing to him, something he has expressed of countless different occasions."
"Thank you! That is exactly my point."
Derek rolled his eyes, focusing his attention on his uncle as he questioned "You do realise this is your brother we're speaking of, right?"
"You do realise I truly couldn't care less, right?" Peter drawled, lifting his head momentarily to meet similar eyes before he focused on Andrea once more. Anger swirled in the pit of his stomach, burned his insides and left a rotten taste on his tongue. It burned brightly and settled in the space between his lungs, leaving him forced to consume the taste and be certain that if he was standing his knees would have buckled due to the pressure. Each mention of the blood relatives forced buried memories to resurface, and left the loneliness and anger to consume him. It was an unconscious act when his nostrils flared, inhaling the scent of one of the only people who had stayed by his side, offering a constant presence; vanilla, mint, strawberries, coffee and chocolate cake was the first thing to hit him, the combination making his lips quirk at the edges and curl into a soft smile. Her perfume was next, the scent somehow both spicy and sweet: a perfect combination for her, he mused. Peter dug deeper, reaching her natural scent seconds later. The scent of the forest- something most born supernatural possess- hit him first, next was the floral that reminded him of the roses that Victoria grew, the was also a subtle scent vaguely similar to honey that the man instantly recognised as the sunflowers perched on Andrea's bedside table, though it was all quickly overpowered the sour, rotten smell of death. It was something Peter had grown accustomed too, now he even found solace in the scent, but that never stopped the memories resurfacing. Clutching the pale body of the girl he loves, the ground tainted with the crimson that continued to spread, whilst her body slowly turned cold until it felt like he was holding an ice cube that never melted- it was a different form of mental torture.
