Chapter 3
1063 Words
For two days, Willow had lived in a state of hyper-alert
He was meant to punish her by now. where was he?.
The longer he drew the upcoming confrontation the harder it was for her to relax.
But things at the academy was far from normal. Students snickered as she walked by. Even the ones she swore never noticed her before.
Chloe stayed far away but it felt like a distance borne from victory and not defeat.
She had spent the morning being summoned to the infirmary for a "routine blood test," then redirected to the Headmaster’s office, only to find the door locked and the office empty.
By the time a junior student whispered that she was needed in the West Wing archives to retrieve "misplaced files," she knew exactly what this was.
Exasperated she glared at the wolf but didn't want to make things difficult for her as she knew the orders were coming from 'above'
She sighed wondering when the game would end. every waking moment since the slap, she had been bracing for the inevitable.
She’d mentally rehearsed her defense, her apologies, and even her defiance in front of her mirror.
Tristan was supposed to corner her in the cafeteria, or perhaps drag her into the courtyard in front of the entire academy but he didn’t and that was worse.
the school was like a pressure cooker now and she wishes it to come to an end soon.
perhaps she should speak to Miss Walter? no that would be worse
By morning of the third day, Willow found herself in the abandoned West Wing with only one wish to escape all the drama, gossip and stares.
She wanted to apologize before but now the anger that got her into the situation in the first place had began to flare up
The floorboards creaked as she walked through to get to the old books. She hoped Tristan followed her so they could end it once and for all
"If he doesn't come today then maybe he’s just going to let me rot in here until I quit. hopefully"
She pushed open the heavy double doors of the archive room which was filled with stacks of forgotten records and some broken furniture.
The windows were shut tight, and the whole place was dark.
She fumbled for her flashlight. Laughing to herself
“Maybe They should have given me a manual called the chronicles of Mordale” she muttered to herself, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence.
“One: Don’t slap the Alpha’s favorite toy. two: Don’t die because you broke rule one.”
She let out laugh.
her light cut a weak, flickering path through the gloom as she looked through the shelves.
Finding the flashlight a useless invention, she took to her wolf senses and her eyes glowed.
Almost on cue, something around her began to feel off. Even her wolf whined in retreat.
Immediately she became highly alert. Taking in her surrounding. Every shadow looked like a crouching figure. every creak of the building sounded like a prowling beast.
Her fangs grew and even her claws were out. waiting.
It went cold. A shadow flew by. Then, it went heavy.
The scent of pine needles, ozone, and fresh, wet iron flooded the room.
Willow froze. She knew that smell. Or did she? her mind began to grow a bit foggy.
From the darkness at the far end of the archive, a sound erupted that stopped the blood in her veins. it was a low, guttural, vibrating snarl that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room.
Willow dropped her already useless flashlight. It clattered to the floor, the beam rolling wildly to illuminate the far wall.
She turned to the direction the flashlight had rolled to.
There, crouched atop a pile of discarded oak desks, was a shape. It was massive. Easily the size of a mountain lion, but with the hunched, predatory structure of a wolf. Its fur was a dark, matted charcoal, and its eyes glowed like two dying embers in the dark.
It wasn't Tristan. or was it him?
Blood was dripping, thick and hot, from the creature's jagged maw, pooling on the floorboards with a sound that felt like thunder in the silence. It was panting, its chest heaving with a rhythmic, wet force.
The wolf’s movements were unnatural. too fluid, too jerky, lacking the polished restraint of an Alpha. It twitched, its neck snapping at angles that felt wrong, its limbs coiled with a frantic, unhinged energy.
“Tristan?” she whispered, her voice barely a thread. “This is a bit much for a grand entrance, don’t you think?”
The wolf didn’t answer with words. It let out a sound that was half-growl, half-whimper, a high-pitched, screeching noise that curdled her blood.
Then it happened. It lunged with the desperate, clawing scramble of something losing its grip on sanity.
Willow scrambled backward, her breath hitching. She turned to run, but the space was cluttered with jagged metal shelves. In her blind panic, she shoved off a heavy iron filing cabinet to gain leverage. As she swung her arm, her palm caught the edge of a rusted, protruding bolt.
The sound of her skin tearing was sickeningly audible in the quiet room. Blood welled instantly, dripping onto the dusty floor.
The scent of fresh blood hit the air, and the wolf’s reaction was instantaneous. It snapped.
It closed the distance in a blur of fur and muscle, slamming into the shelf inches from her head. Willow collapsed to her knees, looking up just as the creature pinned her against the debris.
It didn't kill her. It stopped, its snout inches from her throat, its breath hot and metallic.
The light from the rolling flashlight caught its face.
Willow stopped breathing. She was currently looking into a void. There was no recognition, no arrogance, no.. Tristan.
Who was it. Rogues don't grow this big. Not even most alphas.
There was only a primal, fractured, and terrifying madness. a glint of something so broken and raw that it felt like looking into a furnace of pure, unfiltered hate.
The wolf’s jaws parted, a low, wet growl vibrating against her own skin, its eyes locked onto the blood on her palm with a hunger that defied everything she knew about the pack.
- Writer
