The Wicked Beasts That Roam

Chapter 4

"Most men would gladly give their souls to the Devil were he willing to accept them."―Abraham Miller, Unmoral Maxims

Jade shoved a flimsy branch out of her face and trudged through the woods. The sun had gone down over an hour ago, and she couldn't see her hand in front of her face, much less the tree trunks she ever so gracefully kept running into. She could hear her sister's loud mouth calling her name from the back door.

She would dig a hole, crawl inside, and die if she had to tune out another session of sloppy noises coming from Aidyn and Erica sucking faces on the couch.

The dim porch lights shined through the thick vines and bushes. She struggled toward them with her blue Nike shoes slipping in the mud, and the leaves of the brush smacking and scratching her cheeks. As she neared the edge of the tree line, a rebel root of an oak tree caught the cuff of her pants leg, jerking her back as she tried to step forward.

"Dammit."

Bending down, she fiddled with it, tugging and prying at it like a five year old playing tug of war with an imaginary friend. She gave the root the evil eye and pulled upwards on her pants leg. The shoe of her free foot dug into the dirt, while both her hands strained as they pulled. Gritting her teeth, she yanked back once, twice. The third time was the charm, the snap of the root sending her stammering backwards a couple of feet unbalanced on one foot . . . until she crashed against something extremely hard, big, and man.

She heard a deep inward hiss as two large hands shoved her back the way she came, and yet again she went sailing across the lawn. This time there was nothing to catch her fall, except for the ground as she tumbled face first to the dirt. Her cheek smacked the ground and she groaned, rolling onto her back, feeling a soreness consume her muscles.

The definition of evil towered over her with a snarl on his lips and a mean glint in his eyes as he glowered down at her. From the ground, Dom looked like a giant preparing to squash a bug. He was covered in crimson from the waist up, his chest glistening in it. Blood stained his arms, his face, his hands. A sudden drop of her gut said it wasn't animal blood.

His hand darted out, and out of reflex, she shrank against the soil, her eyes closed, her breath quickening as she counted the seconds for some sort of pain to ensue. Instead, he grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and pulled her off the ground with a rough tug. He dropped her to her feet, letting go of her just as quickly as he had helped her up. A stinging pain ran from the soles of her feet and up the back of her legs from the impact.

She contemplated saying "thank you", but then wondered if it was necessary since he did push her in the first place. Her mouth seemed to be sewn shut as she stared at her feet. Bloody fingerprints stained her shirt. The copper scent wafted from the fabric, plaguing her nose.

She rubbed her throat and grew some balls. "Sorry."

She grimaced as he let out another frustrated grunt, his black gaze holding nothing but anger as she peeked up at him. He shook his head as if annoyed and pivoted on his heel, stalking toward the house like an irate leviathan.

Pulled the damn human off the ground and still didn't get a "thank you." Damian wasn't sure if he was mad about that, or mad at himself for the way she had closed her eyes and cowered away from him.

He usually loved the fear he evoked out of humans. But her being afraid he'd hurt her—now that he hadn't liked at all. When she bumped into him, his body hadn't been expecting the warmth, and his mind's first reaction was to push it away.

He cracked his neck and placed his palms on the dark granite counter of his sink. He stared into the foggy mirror that lined the white tiles of the bathroom wall, watching his face slowly appear on the glass. Water dripped from his chin to his chest as he stared at the scar over his eye. His mind picked through all the fights he started and won. But that scar was from the only person he didn't win against.