Marked By Him

Chapter 5

I wake up with my body aching all over and my head throbbing. Before I open, I know something feels… off. Different. The bed feels different—more comfortable, softer, like it hasn’t been slept on. Brand new. The room smells different too. It smells forest-y like pine and grass.

I bury my face in the pillow and suck in a deep breath, almost greedily, like I cannot get enough of it. I start to become lightheaded, and I feel the ache in my body dull and my headache stops the incessant throbbing. I bury my hands under the pillow, pulling it closer to my body. I forget that I’m in a room that’s not mine; a room I’m not supposed to be in. My eyelids become heavy, and I blink slowly. Just when I’m about to fall asleep, someone snickers, snapping me out of my daze.

I snap my eyes open, scream, and fall out of the bed. I never make an impact on the floor because suddenly there are arms around my body, keeping me from falling. I gasp, and, in my attempt to step back from the arms around me, I fall back on top of the bed.

“You’re always running away from me,” a deep baritone voice says. A familiar voice.

I look up and come face-to-face with Mr. Big Wolf. He looks as handsome as that night—black curly hair falling into his amber eyes, sharp jawline, straight nose, high cheekbones… and that small, jagged scar on his left eyebrow. He sits down on a chair situated by the bed. His intense gaze falls on me.

“Where am I?”

He says, “In my house, of course,” and then leans back on the chair, legs spread. The sleeves of his black shirt are rolled up, revealing veined, tanned arms. His black tie is hanging loose around his neck.

“How did…?” I trail off when memories of the night before flash in my mind. Vampires. Fangs. Bite. My hand automatically flies to my neck, inspecting it with my fingers. I wince when my fingers brush against fang marks.

“Here, drink this.” He reaches to the bedside table, grabbing a glass and holds it out to me.

I look at the glass, at the bubbling, gooey liquid inside. I grimace, recoiling backwards at the offending smell. I cover my nose. “What the hell is that?”

“Drink it,” he demands.

Stubbornly, I cross my arms and say, “I’m not drinking…whatever that is.”

“Drink it.”

“I’m not drinking that.”

His eyebrow shoots up, and then— “Okay.”

“Okay?” Confusion paints my face. I didn’t expect him to relent that quick. He looks like the kind of guy wants his orders to be followed.

He doesn’t answer me. He places the glass back on the bedside table. “That was to help with that” – He motions at my neck – “and the pain in your body and the headache.”

How did he know that?

“The mark on your neck, that’s how I know,” he answers my silent question. Did I ask the question out loud?

Right. The mark. It doesn’t feel itchy anymore. It feels like it isn’t there anymore, but when I touch my neck, it is still very much there.

“Why did you mark me?”

“You’re my mate,” he says easily, like it is the most obvious thing in the world.

“You could’ve, I don’t know, told me,” I say, “instead of marking me.”

“I could’ve, yes,” he says. “But that mark is a claim, a protection from other werewolves.”

“Well, sorry to break it you, Mister, but I don’t need your claim or protection,” I say. “In fact, take me home.”

“Mace,” he says.

“That’s my name.”

“Do I look like I care what your name is?” I ask. “Take me home. If you don’t, I’m sure I can find my way home.”

His eyes darken, jaw hardening. He leans forward, face close to mine. “I don’t appreciate your tone.” And then he gets up, shouts, “Dominic, get in here!”

The bedroom door—huge with golden carvings—opens and a bulky man enters. “Yes, sir,” the man, Dominic, says, standing by the door with his hands behind his back, awaiting Mace’s command.

“Take Ms Baker to the washroom and make sure she drinks the medicine,” Mace says, fixing his tie. At this point, I’m not even surprised that he knows my last name; he probably knows my name too. Turning to look at me, he says, “I have a meeting to go to. I’ll be home for dinner. I want you to behave while I’m gone.”

“What, no.” I get out of bed and almost fall because my legs are weak. “Take me home. Now!”

He walks towards the door. “Make sure she eats breakfast,” he says to Dominic, completely ignoring me. He adds, “If she misbehaves, call me.”

And then he’s gone.

I’m left staring at Dominic, giving him “What the hell just happened” face.

Dominic opens the door and says, “Right this way, Ms.”

Instead of doing what he says, I stand firm and say, “Take me home.”

“Boss told me to take you to the washroom, Ms, not home.”

“Well, I’m telling you to take me home,” I say. “You know this is kidnapping, right? My brother has probably reported this to the police.”

“Boss told you not to misbehave, Ms,” he says, completely unfazed. “Do you want me to call Boss?”

I stare at him, considering. Maybe I can escape. It’s not like Dominic will come inside with me into the washroom. There must be a window that I can use to escape.

“Fine, take me to the washroom.”

*

There is a window, alright. But I can’t escape. The washroom—which is spacious with a huge-ass bathtub—is not empty at all.

“They will wash you, Ms,” Dominic says, referring to the two maids, who are, apparently, waiting to wash me. “They are your handmaidens.”

What is this, ancient times? I wait for Dominic to tell me that this is some joke that Mace put him up to, but he looks dead serious. I turn to look at the two handmaidens again, who look ready to do their job with big smiles on their faces.

I can’t help but think: This is some crazy s**t.

“Fine.”

*

Breakfast is okay. At least no one is feeding me. Dominic is standing by the door to the dining room, hands behind his back, looking like a bodyguard. Is that what he is, a bodyguard? Maybe.

Beside me and Dominic, the dining room is empty. The chef that had served me my breakfast disappeared into the kitchen a few minutes ago. I eat my breakfast in peace and without complaint because my stomach is rumbling like crazy.

After breakfast, and after I have drunk that vile medicine, I tell Dominic that I want to do a tour of the house—which I swear is a mansion because of the many rooms in it—because I’m bored, but Dominic says: “No.”

And so, I spend the rest of the day in front of the TV, because that’s the only thing Dominic allows me to do, bored out of my mind.

*

At six o’ clock on the dot, Mace comes back. He has on a knee-length, black coat. In his hand is a briefcase.

“You can leave us, Dominic,” Mace says, as he puts his briefcase on the coffee table before taking off his coat and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and loosening the tie around his neck. When Dominic leaves, Mace asks, “Did you enjoy your day?”

“No.”

He sits down next to me, feet on the coffee table. So casual. “Why?”

The nerve of this man. I give him an incredulous look. “Because I want to go home.”

“It’s not safe,” he says.

“What do you mean it’s not safe?” I ask, but then remember the vampire. I sit up straight. “Is it that vampire?”

“No, I took care of it.”

Took care of it? What does that mean? Oh my god, did he… kill the vampire? I move away from him, sitting at the very end of the leather couch, looking at him wide-eyed, mouth agape.

“That thing was going to kill you,” he states the obvious. “You’re my mate. I must protect you, and if I must kill to do so, then so be it.”

“I did not ask you to kill for me!”

“You didn’t have to,” he says. “I wanted to do it. Needed to do it.”

“Why would you do that? You don’t even know me!”

“You’re my mate,” he says.

“Stop calling me that!” I fly to my feet, angry. “I’m not your mate! I do not want to be your mate! Take me home! Right now!”

“I told you it’s not safe to go home,” he says.

“I don’t care!”

He shoots to his feet, face so close to mine I can feel his breath on my face. “Well, I care!”

My breath catches in my throat. He’s so close. So, so, so close.

He sighs. His hand reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ear, and then, softly, he says, “We should go eat dinner.”

“I don’t—”

“Stop being so stubborn!”

“f**k you!” I push his hand away from my face and turn around, stomping to my – no, his bedroom.

“Rue, come back here!” he calls from the living room. I don’t turn to look at him, too angry at him to do so.

In the bedroom, I slam the door shut and lock it before getting into bed, tears falling from my face.

I cry myself to sleep that night.