Scarlett Romero has spent her entire life as an ordinary citizen; going to school, getting a job and definitely not killing people in the middle of the woods on a Friday night.
Until one Friday night, she does.
All she can remember is acting out of...
I keep remembering - I keep remembering. My heart has no Pity on me.
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Chapter Twenty-Seven "This is Why I Shouldn't Socialise"
Scarlett's POV:
"Well, now what?" Kylie says what we're all thinking. After we caught Natalia up on everything that happened in her absence, we spent ten minutes wallowing in our own thoughts. We've escaped the prison that controlled us... now what?
"Find safe place to stay," Achilles announces, naturally taking charge. None of us bother refusing, either in agreement or too intimidated by the towering body of lycanthrope muscle to voice their concerns.
Natalia and Kylie hover around Monica, fussing over torn clothing and the sensitivity of her healing bullet wound. As they discuss the best way to transport her, I turn to Achilles, apprehension slowly building in my stomach.
"You have a safe place in mind?" I ask, more a statement than a question. While primal and mostly fuelled by instinct, Achilles isn't stupid. We can't just roam the bushland in hopes of finding a secure location away from Tolkien – that wouldn't be lucky, that would be a miracle.
"Grandparent's farm, two-day walk. Maybe three, with Monica and detour to get Natalia's small pup," Achilles nods down at me, eyes calm and fur flowing with the light, damp breeze.
I hum, eyeing him carefully. At first glance, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong, but the way he's standing is... off. His shoulders are tense, clawed fingers twitching by his side and snout flaring every other second. His feet are spread wide, one in front of the other, like he's prepared to run at a moment's notice.
"What's the matter?" I inquire, something in me hating how troubled Achilles looks. For a while, he doesn't answer, staring at the abyss of water in front of him so intensely I wonder if he even heard me.
Then he answers, words a low growl slipping between his teeth, "The dryad, one who snapped at you, smells different. Like bitterness and angry hatred that burns when we breathe."
I frown, part of me wanting to defend Monica from the lycanthrope. But then I recall the way she looked at me not even an hour ago, with a resentment that dug permanent residence in my gut, and I decide against coming to her defence.
"She got shot, Achilles, and it's my fault. That's why she... smells the way she does. She's blaming me, and rightfully so," I mutter, making sure to keep my voice as calm as I can.
In hindsight, I should have remembered the way both Alexander and his animal counterpart have defended me time and time again in Citadel prison. Then, maybe I would have been smart enough to keep my self-degradation silent.
Achilles turns, crouching so our eyes are level and I can see the full extent of his snarl. I cringe and look anywhere but at him – to the cloudless sky, the moss on the rocks, the leaves of a tree crumbling under the pressure of the wind.
