Alpha Caius

Loraine: La Vie En Rose

[5 years ago….]

(a week before my life fell apart)

“Evan c’mon you are not going tough on me,” I whine as I glower at him. He gives me a boyish grin as he stares at me from, perched on his elbows. I stretch out my hand and help him up from the gym floor.

“If I go ‘tough’ on you, dad will do the same for me,” he says as he opens the cap of a sealed water bottle kept on the bench nearby. I put my hands on my hips.

“Really? Stop joking and let’s go another round.”

He gives me a side glance not lowering his bottle. Once he finishes the content, he lowers it and shakes his head.

“I have been training others too so I am beat. Find another guy to beat him up.”

"Evan,” I draw out his name as he ruffles my hair and saunters towards the gym washroom.

“Throw the bottle, will ya?” he says on his way. I growl and scowl at his retreating back. I stomp towards the punching bag. If he doesn’t want to fight. I will have to take refuge in this lifeless thing. I strap on the gloves and begin the session.

I did not ask or eg Evan for no reason. He knows that I need to burn this pent-up energy. My pack members think that I have this extraordinary potential to be a great beta when I am just trying to burn off my restlessness and anxiety and unreasonable anger through fights and trainings.

Mom says that this is natural before one turns 16th.

“It’s a sign that your wolf is ready to surface.” Even though her smile and words are reassuring, I feel that it isn’t completely true. I have seen Evan, and he is a year older than me. He didn’t look like that. He did not seek fights and train like he was going to war.

The burn through my body feels good as I keep on throwing kicks and punches. My birthday is in a week’s time and I am more nervous than excited.

“Lorraine Kayla Winters, you will stop that right now.”

Shit.

To put the last nail in my coffin, the punch is particularly hard and before I know the bag punctures and everything oozes out from it.

Well, here comes the lecture. As predicted, I hear footsteps, but I don’t dare turn. Mom comes to stand in front of me. She seems too calm for my liking.

I give her a tremulous smile. “Mumma, I….”

“Let’s go. I have something for you.” Before I can protest she grasps my hand and begins to tug me out of the gym. I can’t even voice my protests because when my mother is extremely calm, it usually means s**t is about to hit the fan. Pretty hard.

‘Evan will not get out of this,’ I think bitterly.

I am sweaty and gross, and I know I am not a sight for sore eyes, but the looks I get as I am almost dragged from the gym to my mother’s office are anything but pleasant.

“Why did you drag me down the hall like that?” I grumble, pulling away my hand and crossing them across my chest. Mom closes the office door.

“Why did you not listen to Evan and stop training? Like this, you will face a major burn-put. Remember, the first transformation isn’t easy at all. People die while transforming,” she says.

Anyone else listening in on our conversation might be appalled at mom’s straightforward way of talking, but it is what it is. She never sugar-coats anything.

“I just… can’t,” I mumble and feel my shoulders slump. She silently guides me to the small couch at the left og the huge desk that had several things piled up ---chaotic as my dad likes to call it.

“Sit here. I’ll be back,” she says and gets up.I know where she is going.

She presses a button somewhere in the bookshelf and the one shelf shifts to reveal a room behind it. When she steps inside, the lights turn on and then the bookshelf is closing again.

My curiosity always peaks when I see a glimpse of the room where literally magic happens. Literally, because my mom is a witch. However, she never lets Evan and me inside the room.

“Maybe one day, but not now,” she always says when I try to coax her.

Her coven has disintegrated and scattered. Luckily, dad and she found each other at the right time, and the rest was history.

Unfortunately, neither Evan nor I have inherited any of her magic skills, at least I thought so until she randomly told me one day that I might have some of her powers. By powers, the only thing I can do is block my scent, making it difficult for anyone to know my presence.

“It might come in handy someday,” my dad had said. I found it dumb. This was like an iota of what she can do.

My reverie comes to a halt when I hear the whirring of the bookshelf before mom emerges out with a small vial in hand.

“You will make me stomach one of those again?” I ask warily as I eye the glass vile with a brownish liquid inside.

She hums. “It will be good for your anxiety. It will tamp down your anger too.”

She hands me the vial and looks at me expectantly. I eye it and hold my breath because the smell is obnoxious. I down it in one go, hoping to not taste the vile thing. But I do which results in a fit of vehement coughing.

She gives me a proud smile, her eyes gleaming. “That’s my brave girl.”

“Do not tell me its ingredients,” I rasp as I make grabby hands for the water she hands me next.

“Don’t worry, I don’t want to lose another of my favorite carpets,” she says with a small smile and takes the vial from my hand.

True to her words, my anxiety becomes manageable and so does my need to train tirelessly. I am still in my top form, nonetheless.

Finally, I can look forward to my birthday.