Butterfly in the Sky (BOOK 1)

Chapter Four

*Trigger warning. Contains acts of sexual abuse.*

My toes continuously get stubbed as Timothy pulls me up the stairs of the tunnels. He's going too fast for me to keep up and with him being at least a foot taller than me, he's basically dragging me. We're back into the darkness once we're out of the dungeon. As Timothy drags me, my shoulder hits something hard, causing a cry of pain to leave me. Then I'm met with Timothy's sniggers, but he doesn't stop.

We make it to the stairs and I only know because I can barely walk up them. Tomorrow, my knees and shins will be bruised from how many times they've bumped into the stairs.

"You need to stay quiet," Timothy hisses at me, turning quickly. His forehead is pressed against mine in some sort of power play. "No point in waking the pack now is there?"

Even if I wanted to reply, Timothy doesn't give me the chance. He turns away from me and begins pulling in the direction of his room. My eyes widen as a lot of possibilities run through my mind about why he's taking me here. Perhaps he's going to hurt me, hurt me like I've never been hurt before. Maybe he'll apologize for the years of abuse though there's very little chance of that happening.

Timothy grabs his doorknob and pushes his door open. My body stumbles onto his bed as he throws me into his room. Bracing for impact, I fall onto my hands, though with the following of my body, my wrists bend painfully. A groan leaves me before I force myself to lift up. As I do, my eyes come into contact with a navy blue comforter. Although it's not the time, I let my eyes trail over Timothy's room. His walls are a light gray and the place is softly illuminated by a lamp that rests on one of his nightstands. A desk sits across from the bed, a silver laptop resting on top of it. His floor is littered with clothes that I assume are dirty. Other than that, his room is pretty plain and pretty boring.

There's not really a point in having anything in the rooms when the packhouse is equipped with entertainment things like a home theater and playroom. With so many people in one house, there needs to be. It's one of the ways packs grow closer because there are family rooms.

"Are you even fucking listening?" Timothy's face is close to mine before I can move away. His eyes are slowly growing red again, instilling a fear inside of me. "You deserve a worse punishment then."

"What?" I squeak, pulling back from him. "What do you mean, Timothy?"

Timothy's hands come up to grab my wrists. His grip is tight as he squeezes them painfully. "Ever since you became worthless, I've been waiting for this. How can I have a weak, little human for a fucking mate? Then you started hanging around that mutt in the cells. Don't you understand, Gracie? You're mine."

His growl is so fierce, so loud that my whole body trembles. His eyes are completely red now, masking the normal dark brown. I watch as his canines extend just as they did before. The look he's giving me is enough to make my knees weak. Not the weak that I get around Rory that means unconditional love and happiness. This type of weakness is the kind a being feels when they're the prey.

Because I'm Timothy's prey and there's nothing I can do about it.

"Lay. Down. Gracie," Timothy commands. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's a natural alpha instead of a natural born beta. Though that could just be because I'm naturally weaker.

When I don't move, Timothy growls. He huffs and I feel drops of spit fly to my cheek. I swallow harshly, afraid I'll vomit on the monster in front of me. His hands grip my waist and he forces my body down into the mattress.

"Timothy, I'm sorry. What are you doing?" I dare to ask.

"I'm going to take what's mine." He glares at me as he crawls onto the bed. My eyebrows furrow, unsure of what that could possibly mean.

Though when he pulls his shirt off in a swift movement, it all comes together. My punishment or lesson won't be this man mercilessly beating me. It'll be something much worse, for I would rather have a thousand bruises than to have my innocence stolen from me. But as I sit here staring into Timothy's crazed eyes, I know there's nothing I can say that will convince him to stop.

Instead of trying to convince him to stop, I try to convince others to help. Opening my mouth wide, I let out a scream. My throat burns with the rubbing of my vocal chords as the sound rips through me. Tears leak from my eyes as multiple yells and cries come out of my mouth. I don't want to show weakness to Timothy, but I can't help the saline leaking out.

My screams make Timothy angry as he rears back, not expecting the sound. His features become distorted from the blurriness of my tears and from the way his face turns. He furrows his eyebrows and curls his lips, becoming uglier as he does so. All the while, his red eyes remain and his canines stay extended.

A burning starts to flare in my cheek as my head turns to the side. Moving my tongue inside my mouth, the metallic taste of blood fills it as my lip begins bleeding. But that's the least of my worries as I lift a hand to my face before pulling it away. When I rub my fingers together, I feel a thick, sticky substance. Only when I look, do I confirm that my cheek is bleeding. Another feel lets me know that there are indeed three gashes there. At some point, Timothy's claws had extended before he slapped me.

"Shut the fuck up!" Timothy shouts and I cry out as he presses his lips to my new claw marks. I'm unable to help the gag that comes up when I feel his tongue against my cheek. "I don't want to hear you again, Gracie."

But I choose not to listen. I can't let this happen without at least trying to save myself. I begin screaming once again, pleading for someone to come in and save me. The deepest sleeper would've been able to save me because werewolves are naturally light sleepers. Their animalistic senses don't allow them to completely relax during the night unless they are at an age before their first shift. Once a wolf is achieved, they become instinctive, so everyone has to be awake. Yet no one has come to my rescue.

"Please," I whisper now, my voice hoarse from the screaming. With his claws, Timothy rips at my pants, tearing the fabric.

He pulls the mangled pieces away from me then he tears my underwear off. My pleas for him to stop fall on deaf ears. Timothy won't stop, he's too far gone into some type of trance. A trance where he's nothing but a monster. Is this his wolf? Maybe his wolf is controlling him right now or Timothy is really a psychotic man.

Or maybe I deserve this for being the way that I am.