Wrath paced left and right for painstakingly long minutes. Sol watched on as he patched his bleeding lacerations with his hands.
Wrath finally came to a stop with eyes blazing and a crease between his eyebrows that represented just how crumbled his self-control was.
He raised a sharp, threatening finger and pointed it at Sol who wouldn’t have been surprised if a bullet exploded out of it. “Anything,” Wrath rasped.
His head shook manically as he analyzed the many ways this dilemma could play out. Artemis could arrive home safely, or... he snarled at the other scenarios. His mate getting marred either physically or psychologically wouldn’t get entertained as options.
“If anything happens to that woman...”
He felt an ancient pulse of motivation that he hadn’t felt in centuries empower his senses. Only the goddess and himself know what happens when he gets motivated: He becomes reckless, bouncing over boundaries and knocking down anyone suicidal enough to get in his way.
If he had to resort to the fortre that got him the lycan title in the first place— murder, to get her back. He’ll do it with a fucking smile on his face.
None of the sins— pride, envy, lust, gluttony, sloth, or greed would get in his way.
No goddess or god.
No curse or threat.
No moral or insecurity.
“I’ll end you. Immortality be damned.” His menacing message was carried by a gravely cool voice.
For the first time in a long time, Sol, who usually had speeches inked with sarcasm and satire, didn’t mutter a word.
What is it with her family and falling?
As Artemis fell to gravity’s mercy, she remembered that at one point, Zena and Lukas survived a plane crash. The trauma made Zena develop a fear of transportation vehicles.
History does repeat it—
Needles punctured her skin when she landed. Pain was everywhere, concentrated on her right wrist. Her wide eyes turned to the hole in the sky— the traitorous hole that dropped her on the lap of the enemy.
She searched for Sol’s face, looking for confirmation that she did indeed just fall from the roof. The lycan wasn’t there. The only other presence was a stampede of footsteps coming her way.
Realizing the seriousness of her predicament, she kicked into alpha gear. There were too many pounding feet for her liking. As seasoned as she was in combat, she couldn’t evade punches from multiple attackers as well as she could throw them.
She was doomed to become their prisoner and subjected to their questioning. As a werewolf, the questions she would receive would be far more specific than ones a human would. Thinking fast, she repressed her wolf, muting its existence and giving her human side full control.
She cringed from the discomfort caused by the imbalance. Werewolves were supposed to share their body symbiotically with skin and fur. Giving full control to one side took skill and guts, as the separation could have dire effects.
She had no other choice. She couldn’t afford to be anything other than human right now. Hiding her werewolf identity would give her the element of surprise.
She yelped when an angry hand pulled her off the ground. Her wrist made sure to expressed its displeasure with the sudden movement. A second hand fell on her, grazing against her cheekbone sharply.
She was fuming, not keen of the disrespect. Just as she was about to pounce, lock the man’s head between her thighs and snap his neck, she remembered that she was supposed to be a naive human.
She forced a whimper and bowed her head, though the latter took effort since submission went against her nature.
“Shut up, bitch!” her captor venomously spat.
“Someone get Ezekiel!”
She counted nine pairs of shoes against her own. She didn’t like those odds.
They didn’t have to wait much for Ezekiel to join in on the action. The crowd parted as the mastermind took over the reins. Artemis’ braid got yanked demandingly, pulling her head out of its slump.
She was now staring into the eyes of Lust.
The lycan looked much older than Sol and Wrath who stopped aging in their twenties. Ezekiel had lines stretching across his middle-aged face. Lines that Artemis suspected came from laughter and not stress.
He smiled broadly, making said lines become more prominent. The gesture reminded her of a bubbly Sol. But unlike him, Ezekiel’s smile didn’t awaken an urge to return it. There was a dormant sinisterness there, making her hold her breath as she waited for it to lash out. His eyes were nearly as wide as his grin, earning him another adjective: creepy.
“Did you fall from heaven?”
Artemis blinked at the absurdity of the question. While she felt no fear, there was a great deal of discomfort. Ezekiel was kooky; a riddles and games kind of man. This made it hard to read him, an irritating trait that he shared with Wrath.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she implores, evading his question and following her script. Once again, her gut twisted with disgust for her meek pleas but she ignored the urge to assert dominance. Sol might have dashed off for safety or backup, but the mission remained. She would decapitate some heads, knock Ezekiel’s teeth out, save some girls, and get home.
Nothing less was expected from Alpha Artemis Clark Rhee.
The tasks proved themselves to be a challenge when Ezekiel bent and kissed her unwilling lips.