Maisie

I woke up sobbing, drenched in sweat, raw pain and grief twisting in my stomach, with one word reverberating in my skull.

Malyshka.

And I had to know. Had to know if it was real. If I had simply conjured a terrifying nightmare, so vivid, it contested solidly against reality.

I had never seen Dad’s body. Mom didn’t let us. He died peacefully in his sleep. Heart failure, she said. The doctor said. Every one said.

And yet, it felt so real, I could still smell the blood, could still hear the sound of choking and gurgling. And there was also the little coincedence of having four of them inserted yet into another memory in my life.

Jericho’s bedroom was on the south wing of the second floor, and by the time I reached the huge oak door, I had begun to convince myself that the dream was absurd.

What would they have been doing within the borders of the Night Shade Pack six years ago? And how old were they at the time? Fifteen? Sixteen?

It was completely bonkers.

I started to turn away when I heard the sound of glass shattering inside. And a grunt. Then, a man’s pained gasp.

I should’ve hesitated. Should have remembered what he—they—did to me yesterday. But I was already grabbing the doorknob when I heard another soft noise that sounded like Jericho pleading.

I’d never been into Jericho’s room before and I was struck by how much different it was from mine and Quinlan’s. It resembled a cavern, but with modernities attached to it. Roughly strewn like Jericho was.

At the centre of the bedroom was a circular large bed, and Jericho was writhing atop of it, sweat wetting his body, his face stuck in pain.

I shuffled over as he twisted on his side. The rise and fall of his chest was too fast, and I saw that the sheets were ripped, his fingers lengthened into claws.

"Jericho?" I whispered.

He didn’t hear me. He arched off the bed, releasing a pain exhale. His eyelashes fluttered, but his eyes were glazed over, like he wasn’t really here, but stuck in some horror that would make a man like Jericho terrified.

"Jericho!"

No answer.

I clutched his shoulder to snap him out of it.

And yelped when I found myself trapped beneath Jericho. My heart leaped rapidly as my trapped hands pressed against the pillows above my head painfully, a knee digging into my stomach.

I stared into black emptiness as Jericho peered down at me. "Jer?"

There was no recognition, just his harsh breaths and a killing calm as his nails dug into my pulse, his eyes dark and unblinking. I yanked against his hold but his grip was made of steel, impossible to break free of.

He leaned over until his chest pressed against mine and his knee left my stomach, straddling me instead. I was suddenly aware of the fact that he was naked and I gasped when he ran his nose along my neck. "Stop wiggling so much. It excites him."

His voice was harsh and raspy against my neck. Almost unrecognizable, and I tried to relax, but I found I couldn’t.

My body hums with tension and fear, and I began trying to throw him off. It brought our groins flushed together and Jericho hissed.

Something hard poked against my thigh and I felt his teeth dig into my neck, just shy of my frantic pulse, and it wasn’t only fear that pooled in my stomach.

"Why are you in my bedroom, Adams?" he rasped. "Do you always take selfish pride in breaking all the rules and torturing us?"

My heartbeat echoed off his chest. "I—I heard you—you sounded like you were in pain—"

"And you thought yourself insolent enough to relieve me of it?" I felt his grip tighten on my wrists. "Did you think you would come in here, dressed in close to nothing, touch me like that and get out without consequences?"

My nostrils flared and my eyes stung again. "I was only trying to help." The coldness in his eyes didn’t change and I blurted, "What changed, Jericho? Why do you suddenly loathe me? I thought..." I swallowed. "I thought you cared about me. As a person, at least."

He laughed hoarsely. His fingers left my wrist and caught my hair, lifting me by the strands so that our chests were touching. My eye level came up to his sweaty torso and he had to yank my head all the way back to meet his gaze.

"Maisie Adams," Jericho said my full name in a sardonic, condescending voice, and his unwavering amber eyes were like ice shards cutting into me. "Whatever it is you think we hold in regards to you—whatever sentiment or weakness that you have so absurdly mistaken our pity for—it does not exist."

Pity.

"You matter," he said softly now. "Only if you get through the transition. Right now, you are neither here nor there. One foot in, one foot out. That makes you something. Or simply nothing at all. Our protection heavily depends on which point the scale tips, so do not reduce us to your fickle level of imaginations and useless emotions."

I gaped at him, stunned and wounded in an odd, surprising way. Something inside me cringed and curled up, feeling dumb for thinking I knew him.

But I said, "You claim not to care but shove your fingers up my vagina at the slightest inkling that I’ve had someone else between my legs."

I leaned up into him. I must have lost my sense of self preservation somewhere as I said hotly, anger overshadowing fear. "You want to know what it smells like in here? Bullshit."

His thick length twitched and bobbed to my insult. He played his fingers in my hair. "That smart, fucking mouth."

Jericho inched lower, his lips grazing mine slightly. I thought he might kiss me and my body tingled with anticipation, the traitor.

"Have you been reading the book I gave you, malyshka?"

I nodded, breathing labored.

"Then you know that we are deeply territorial of one another. That doesn’t make you different. Or special." He paused, kissing the spot under my ear. "Do you always cling to men who treat you like shit, or do you just lack self respect?"

I flinched away from him.

I didn’t know why I kept expecting more from people. Why I kept expecting them to change. To save me. It was always clear that in the end that I meant nothing. They always abandoned me, always rejected me. A few days here and I forgot what I was.

Pity.

Charity.

Jericho let me go and I half stumbled out of his bed. And his room. I felt cold in a way I couldn’t describe.

The next day, I ran into Lana in the bathroom at school.

I’d just gotten back from Mrs. Belarus’s office.

I was going to fail, just like I predicted. She refused to let me make up the marks any other way.

I was spiraling and I needed to catch a breath. Hearing and seeing Lana in the Cafeteria again, sitting with them, touching them, it was driving me mad. And I excused myself to come lick my wounds in the bathroom.

Lana followed me. Under the falsity of reapplying her lipstick, she ran an eye over me and laughed, "Dumb whore. Little wonder they’ve grown tired of your used goods."

I didn’t realize I had moved until I had a fistful of her beautiful blonde hair in my grip and smashed her face into the ceramic sink.

When we were pulled apart by Regina and Nick, who stared at me like I was some kind of monster, I was completely unharmed.

Couldn’t say the same for Lana. She might be needing a nose job to fix her face.

Did I feel guilty? No. I must really be losing my damned mind.

I was always angry. Always on edge. Always waiting for the next shoe to drop.

So when Atlas told me I was suspended, again, I felt a tinge of relief, alongside a lot of other varying emotions.

And I thought, at least, for the next week, I didn’t have to hear more gossip or deal with Lana and Cole’s bullshit. Or the Lycans and their ever rotating guests.

A moment’s peace was all I needed.

Apparently, I couldn’t even have that.

Because she came along and shattered everything I thought I knew to pieces.

****

Despite my suspension and the hostility brimming in the house, Brynn never missed a single lecture.

By the fourth week, I was familiarized with what was expected of me upon presentation to the Lycan Queen.

I had just wrapped up another hour of her tiresome lecturing and was headed to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, when I noticed the ruckus happening at the entrance of the mansion.

Luggage after luggage was being brought in by the men and women I didn’t recognize, and I frowned, inching closer toward the door.

"Careful with that," a voice snapped. "It costs more than I’m sure you’ve ever seen in your life."

Corazon walked in with a heavy box. "Demented witch," she swore under her breath.

"I heard that, human," the hard voice returned. "I’ll have you gone by the morning. Not sure why they waste all that money paying you when you can’t follow simple instructions."

Corazon let out more strings of curses, and didn’t spare me another glance before heading to the west wing.

I glanced up, only then noticing that the luggage was being moved into Soren’s bedroom.

Confused, I took a step forward, and she came to view.

I stilled.

Beautiful didn’t even cut it.

She was unreal, like a living, porcelain doll.

Great eyes, of an unusual cool tint, somewhere between grey and cobalt blue. They were outlined finely by kohl and luxurious dark lashes, underneath delicate arching brows. Her lips were full and sensual, colored with a pearly rose tint, so that a gloss reflection fell upon them, emphasizing the sexy rounded shape against the translucent pallor of her skin.

Her flowing moon-white hair cascaded down her shoulders. She was in a luxurious white furr coat that hit different when you considered the fact that it glistened, like it had been skinned from a werewolf, and a skirt that showcased perfect legs.

She was an impossible cross between an elvish goddess and Nefertiti.

Her eyes glossed over me. Narrowed. Sharpened. "Well? Get the luggage."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You’re excused," she cut in. Even her voice, haughty as it was, had a lilting quality. "Get the rest of the bags from the trunk. We don’t have all day."

When I didn’t move, she frowned, running an eye along my figure. I was in sweats and a baggy shirt. "Are you not the help?"

Heat stung my cheeks and I fought the urge to look down at myself again. "No. I am not the help." 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

She blinked slowly. There was something cunning behind her eyes, cold and displeased. "Who the hell are you?"

"No, who the hell are you?" I shot back.

She peered me down her nose. "Tessa Graham. The fiancée of Prince Soren and his brothers. Their intended Erasthai and future Queen."