As soon as I reached house 18C I stomped straight upstairs and plopped down on the bed like a sack of wet sand. With my face buried in the pillow and the covers hugged tightly to my body, I forced sleep overtake me.
But it was restless.
I tossed and turned, huffed and puffed until the room felt hot and sticky. Like the teasing mistress it is, a good night's sleep has been avoiding me for nearly three hours.
Riot still isn't back. There hasn't been the slightest sound downstairs to indicate his arrival. Not a jingle of the door handle. Not the squeak of a door's hinges. Not even so much as a single bump in the night fabricated by my imagination. It's simply silence. And it's driving me insane. More than it ever did down in that godforsaken cave.
Eventually, when the clock strikes 3:00, I get up and throw the covers off in a tormented fit. I storm downstairs, my bare feet pattering against the wood. My hair is all over the place, frizzy and tangled. My clothes are worn and wrinkled, lounge pants rolled up to my knees. I look like an unholy nightmare, but I don't care.
As much as I hate to admit it, Riot is the reason I can't sleep. That pain in my ass made his way up to my head. And he doesn't seem to be leaving anytime soon.
He could've been ambushed by a party of bounty hunters, led straight into their trap by the spy. Or he could've went to find Romanov and settle whatever hard feelings is between them once and for all. Worse yet, he's lost control of his wolf and now he's rampaging around the city, spilling blood and killing innocents— no. Stop thinking that way.
He's fine. Everything is fine. He's probably not fine, but for the sake of my sanity, he's going to be fine.
In desperate need of fresh air, I open the front door. Then stop dead in tracks.
Night air blows against my skin, but I can't enjoy it. My jaw drops and my skin prickles.
A figure is standing there. His clothes are darkened and wet in sporadic splotches. His face looks like he's had red paint splattered all over him. Except I know that it's not paint.
The same breeze that's so refreshing carries the thick scent of blood to my nose. It's overwhelming, taking the best of my efforts not to gag.
"Riot?" My voice is frayed. I want so badly to rush over to him, but I make myself stand solid, fighting my instincts.
He looks up, a fat drop of crimson liquid running down the side of his cheek.
The look on my face must be of horror.
"It's not mine," is all he says.
"The bounty hunter?" I ask. He nods.
I try to relax, but it's impossible not to remain on edge. Cautiously, I step through the threshold of the door. I notice his fingers twitching, claws out. Adrenaline is coursing through his veins like electricity in a circuit.
"Did you see anyone else?" His voice is distracted as his eyes shift all around, checking the shadows twice. He's paranoid.
I shake my head, mumbling "No." I would've killed for someone to have turned up. Any sound to break the maddening quiet I endured, I would have been grateful for.
He doesn't say anything else and neither do I. An uncomfortable silence falls over us, which is exactly what it takes for me to realize how inconsiderate I may be coming across as.
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The Exiled Alpha | ✓
Werewolf"It's like he's a different breed of werewolf. Something... beyond us." • • • Adrienne Gage has spent her entire life being shunned and punished for her mouthy attitude, and being loyal to a pack which doesn't deserve her loyalty. It's been a year...
