Chapter 7
1866 Words
PATRICKS POV
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The taste of defeat did not feel good upon Patrick's tongue.
It was not a taste he was used to.
His blood set to be drawn every 4 hours and bones broken on a wim.
His body was exhausted and healing continuously, sending him into an unconscious state after every round of torture, with only a break every time they moved his location.
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He didn't know quite how long he'd been in this room for now, it was dull and dark, filled with old shipments of fish and dairy.. the smell was rotten.
He looked around to see hooks and equipment used to pierce his skin over, and over again.
He missed his family dearly, his wife would be distraught running that kingdom by herself.
His daughters at despair not knowing where their father was, or if he was alive.
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As if on cue to his thoughts, the terrorists were back.
The same questions likely to be repeated.
Questions he only dreamed he knew the answer to.
"To make this short" he gasped for air.
"I never knew Diego personally or otherwise"
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gasp.
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cough.
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"And I did not kill him"
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gasp
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His lungs recoiled from the efforts it took to speak.
He felt the first strike, and the second, and the final 13 without moving an inch.
He was to exhausted to cry out and his body used to the pain.
Nothing prevailing from him bar the gallons of blood and a single tear.
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He closed his eyes and took himself back to his family, of his wife dancing with him in the living room, to his daughters playing scrabble next to them and him helping both of them with words fairly until one would win.
Seeing them lavish in his riches and having his servants cook them up every meal they desired.
He vowed to treat them even better when he got home, and lavish them with his time aswell as his money.
He did not want to let them out of his sight ever again.
As the last of his blood entered the blood bag, his consciousness slipped and he was in darkness for the uncountable time today.
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He woke in the dark, he couldn't see.
Maybe he had gone blind from infection, he couldn't tell.
The sound of rain hitting the roof of whatever location they had him this time, soothing his aches.
It can't have been more than a day or 2 as he was still healing.
He tried to blink, and felt his thick lashes obstructed by something, he was blindfolded.
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He tried to squirm and to his delight, he had slight movement in his wrist.
Dumb fuckers, he thought.
He would attempt his freedom once again, just once he'd rested a little longer.
He was famished, parched and felt like he was drying up from the inside out.
He hadn't fed for as long as he was held, it must have been months now.
His consciousness failed him as he drifted off once again.
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"What if he doesn't?"
"He must do, every ounce of evidence point to him, witnesses, marks on the skin" came another voice.
Patrick was deadly still.
"Malcom ordered his move in an hour" came the first voice.
"We haven't even tortured him yet" the second.
"I guess this place is too hot" came the first again.
"mm"
He could hear a set of footsteps getting closer.
As did the first man's voice.
"I wonder how this lump got that petite little wife of his" he snorted.
"Even starved he looks like he needs to diet"
"Vamps for you bud, their anatomy is all wrong, practically dead aren't they?" laughed the second.
"Did you see his daughter?" He added.
"Yeaaah, fine little thing, even for a cold blood" the thirsty first guy responded, the arousal clear in his voice.
Patrick could feel adrenaline pumping through his body, but kept his breathing as it was.
"Imagine lying her on her back and tongue punching that-"
He was cut off by the sound of rope breaking, and menacingly deep growl.
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Patrick couldn't take anymore and without even his own knowledge, he had surpassed the captivity tools used against him and had man number 1 with his head in his hands, his body already hitting the floor.
Man numbed 2 went to call for back up but by the time he could even mutter a word, Patrick had his fangs at his throat and hunger had him by the balls.
He drank from the man like his life depended on it, and the fire of the Werewolf blood coarsed through his veins.
He felt invincible, and more powerful than he ever had.
Dropping the bloodless body to the ground, head separately, he leached onto the first man and drank from him also.
His newfound energy making him bounce with every step he took out of the derelict building.
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Patrick stalked the entrance of the warehouse awaiting the new guards to approach for their change in shifts and most likely his moving of location.
Not allowing them to even pass the threshold, Patrick drained them and left them decapitated on the cold, hard floor.
He did this until nobody else turned up, and confiscated a mobile from one of their many limp bodies.
Flicking through the text messages, he found the conversation marked with Malcoms name, and pressed call.
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After a few dials, he answered.
"Jacob?"
His voice sounded familiar, he'd been one of the guys to question and torture him, and from what the other guys where saying, he was the boss.
"Nope" Patrick replied, a smug smirk on his face.
Adrenaline caressed his veins and ran through him like an Olympic athlete.
"Patrick?" he questioned, lightly, as if his men may be pulling a prank on him.
"It's my turn to make you bleed, mut" he spat.
"I'm exactly where you left me, if you've got the minerals, come and find me" he added, cutting the call.
He waited for a few hours, doing pull ups, push ups and jogging to keep the adrenaline pumping.
For a 50 year old man, he felt younger than ever.
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His muscles were at peak, his speed back to it's original state before being drained but he felt hungrier than ever.
And worryingly, it wasn't human blood he craved, it was animal.. Werewolf to be exact.
It had to be revenge fuelling him, he thought.
Nothing had him feeling this powerful before, nothing had him feeling capable of facing whoever or whatever came in his way.
It felt like he could take on the world twice over and still come out with bouts of energy.
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After an hour he saw a sleek black Range Tover pull up and 4 men exit the vehicle.
Patrick hid behind the tree he was using as a pull up bar.
His grey curly mustache irritated his nostrils as his face was in close proximity to the tree base.
2 of the men came into view again, searching the doorway and they were armed.
Who he guessed was Malcom, the tallest but slimmest male covered with tattoos and not carrying any weapons in hand, placed his hand on the door frame. Patrick noticed that his hands looked very well preserved, and he knew this man rarely got his hands dirty.
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Patrick sped silently through the trees, edging closer to the 2 men closest to Malcom, disarming them and snapping their necks with his bare hands, not killing them.. just yet.
Picking up one of the colt m4's from Malcoms men, he grabbed Malcom and placed the barrel against his sweat beaded temple, he sofeelslt him trying to overpower his strength but the toxicity of the blood in his digestive system was no match for this weak mut.
He opened fire on the remaining pack member, hitting him in chest and neck.
Partick was a little rusty.
Aiming again, he put 3 bullets in the man's skull and ruthlessly enjoyed watching his body hit the hard cement floor.
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Now it was Malcoms turn to bleed, so he pushed him towards the chair he had been tied up to himself, and started strapping him up.
"Safety first" he smirked, while tightening the ropes more so than needed, causing the skin on Malcoms wrists to break.
His legs werr next and before long, the tall tattooed man was restricted in all movement.
He takes this time to tend to the guys outside, grabbing their heads in each hand whilst placing his feet on their neck, ripping them clean off and bringimg them to a spot above his mouth, letting the blood drip straight down his throat.
The adrenaline rushed back through him and he felt more powerful than ever.
He reached down and drains the men of the blood, each feed relieving him of his stresses and memories of the torture he had received.
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The 3rd man was still breathing somehow, and he decided he would now toy with Malcom using his own men.
He slowly used his strength to peel back the man's bullet filled face and held Malcom by his jaw, forcing the flesh into his mouth.
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"Chew, that's a good boy" he cackled.
Forcing Malcom to indulge in some of his new found diet.
He moves his jaw up and down for him, motioning a chewing sensation.
When his jaw is free, Malcom spits the raining flesh onto the floor.
"Mommy didn't teach you any manors?" asked the enraged, fight fuelled Vampire.
Silence fell upon the empty room.
"Why did you enrapture me?" He demands.
"Because of the death of Diego" he mumbles, trying not to throw up.
"Who is Diego?" he questions.
"The former Alpha" replies Malcom.
"I am the Alpha now, and what you have just done is a big mistake friend" he had blood down his chin, just like Patrick and was smirking, trying to keep up the impression that he is powerful and still in control.
"I think it is you that made the mistake, friend" Patrick boomed.
"I am a KING" he shouted.
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"Yes, a king with an uncontainable addiction" he smirked once again, fuelling a rage inside of Patrick once more.
"This is no addiction" he replied, "this is REVENGE" and as he spoke, he lunged at Malcom, tearing into his throat and draining him until nothing was left.
Then continuing to tear the half alive wolves head off, and devouring him too.
This wasn't addiction, he repeated to himself.
Feeling pride as his eyes darted the room, but it suddenly diminishing as he caught his own reflection in a puddle on the floor.
His face was stained with the auburn blood of his enemies.
The same colour as his youngest daughters hair.
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Had he become a monster?
All he could think about was the dull buzz carrying him through the night, and when he would receive a dose of it next.
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Was he addicted to this feeling of power?
Was he a monster?
- Writer
