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Whoever uses this room takes minimalist to the next level.
The man at the window smells familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. He smells like graphite and darkness, which is a weird thing to smell like, but it’s the only way I can describe it.
He’s tall, probably the same height as Atticus, and has a similar build. He’s got the same blonde hair colour, but his clothes are nowhere near the same.
He’s got on a pair of jeans, but they’re faded and seem to come from a supermarket. His jacket has a hole in the top from where he’s ripped the tag out, and is a light grey colour—but it may have been white.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demand, and as the man turns, I’m hit with a rush of memories and a sense of familiarity.
I remember the panic in Atty’s eyes.
The way he commanded me to run.
His roars and the hunter’s screams as I left him behind.
The way this man, Cevon, told me that Atticus was dead.
I don’t know why he lied. I can clearly tell that he’s lying because the bond we share—the very incomplete one—is still there in my chest.
Unfortunately, that’s all I can sense.
The familiarity in the man in front of me is the fact that he’s Atticus’s brother. I refuse to accept any other reason.
Their dirty blonde hair is the same shade and has the same naturally wavy look to it. Unlike his brother, though, Cevon’s hair is long. Not as long as Orson’s, but it frames his face like Griffin’s does. He smells different, but they’ve got the same sandy skin tone.
His eyes are where the biggest differences are. Atticus has ocean blue eyes that are beautiful, with thin, short and fair eyelashes. But this man’s eyes, one look in them, and I feel like I’m drowning in the depths of his depression.
It’s like looking in a mirror.
They’re blue. Maybe green. I don’t really know.
All I can focus on is the pain that he’s struggling to hide.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, and his voice is rough, hoarse, even. If I liked him, I’d offer him some water, but I don’t.
His accent is similar to Atticus’s, but has a different twang—likely from the years he’s been away from the pride.
“I’d like to say the same fucking thing,” I snap, crossing my arms in front of my chest. His eyes stay trained to my face, which gets him a teeny, tiny, point. “But, somehow, I don’t think you deserve it.”
“I don’t deserve it?” he sounds truly shocked by this.
“You kidnapped me, stole my clothes, and left my mate behind to die,” I say angrily.
“Stole your clothes.” He scoffs, looking me up and down with a sneer on his face. “You’re not my type. Maybe gain a little bit of weight and wash up, and, maybe, you’ll breathe some life back into my dick.”
I gag, and his lips tilt up in a smirk. “The day I take your advice, is the day…”
“The day?” he prompts.
“Fuck you.” I roll my eyes, trying to get back on the offensive. “I want to go home.”
“No.”
“Why did you save me?” I ask, changing my stance. Maybe… maybe he wants to be the hero.
“Save you? Who says you’re not going to die?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Kill me if you want,” I say, shifting my hands into claws. I look down at the nails and smirk at him. “I’m not going to make it easy for you.” He groans and shakes his head.
