AllFreeNovel
Share Us
West jolts as the wave of fear rushes off of me. I didn’t mean to do it. So focused on the threat in front of him, West had locked down his emotions like a cage: nothing getting in, nothing getting—except, it seems, for my terror.
He’s not the only one who senses it. Breathing in deep, nostrils flaring, the feral throws back his head and groans loudly, delighting in the scent of my fear. To my horror, his cock jerks, a small spurt of come exploding from the head. He didn’t even touch himself. Bastard got off on knowing I’m terrified.
I’ve never felt so disturbed in my life. Covered in his scent and his claw marks, I didn’t think I was dirty until I saw that happen. Though I don’t want to distract West any more than I have to, a whimper escapes me.
West reacts.
The feral should’ve known better than to take his dilated eyes off of a threat for even a second. With his head still thrown back, West lunges forward, claws outstretched in front of him.
He swipes his claws from gut to chest. He starts low, digging all the way across the feral’s bulk, left to right. The force of his hit sends hot blood spewing across the room. It slaps me in the face, landing on my cheeks, my tongue, my neck, even the bodice of my dress.
Don’t throw up, I tell myself as the tang on my tongue tastes like poison. It’s just a little blood.
Feralblood.
I gag, frantically wiping at my face and my mouth. It’s an instinctive reaction. I don’t think I could’ve stopped myself if I tried. And when I finally drop my hands, watching the feral gaze down at the hole torn through his chest, I wish I had kept my face covered.
Even worse, the feral digs his own claws into his gaping wound. Pulling them back out, he sticks his bloody fingers into his mouth, licking them clean. “Delicious,” he hisses.
I don’t know if he means his blood or mine. It doesn’t matter. The taunt does something to West.
His earlier strike at the feral was calculating. Designed for a massive impact with the least amount of effort, he used the momentum of his swing to tear through the feral’s body.
What happens next? Pure instinct.
Fangs bared, claws ready to rend, he falls on the feral.
The feral expecting him to attack. I’d bet anything on it. But West is smarter than that. Instead of attacking, he dug his claws back into the wound, almost mimicking what that feral did to himself. Only West… he wasn’t after the blood. He need a good grip, and when he got one, he dragged the kicking, howling feral out of the bedroom and into the front room.
My legs are much better. Leaping up, I hardly feel a twinge as I follow after West.
He has complete control of the fight. Throwing the feral to the floor, I hear a crunch, then a low snarl as the feral tries to recover. West doesn’t even give him a single opportunity to turn the tables. The feral leaps, but West is ready for him. Kicking out with his boot, he catches the feral in his ruined chest, sending him flying out through the open front door.
Blood and tissue clung to the sole of his boot when he took his foot back. He leaves a trail on the floor as he stalks forward, prepared to finish the feral off.
For me. He’s doing this for me—but he doesn’t want me to watch.
“Stay inside,” he orders before he disappears outside.
I almost refuse.
So what if I’m an omega she-wolf? I’m not as strong and fierce as most of my packmates, but I’m still awolf. I’m not going to quail and hide while West fights a feral for me.
But then I realize… if he wanted to put down the feral in front of me, he would’ve done it in the bedroom. And maybe he didn’t want to wash my territory in the feral’s blood. Fine. The fight could’ve ended in the living room.
That’s not where West tosses the feral. He brings him outside. Whether he’s keeping death out of our cabin—not the feral’s den, butourcabin—or he really doesn’t want me to see what a Beta is capable of, I’m not sure.
He told me to stay inside, though. For West’s sake, I’ll listen.
I hear the rest of the fight through screams, grunts, and, finally, a death rattle. Hoping like hell that inhuman sound is coming from the feral, I drown it out by forcing myself to look around the front room instead.
Aside from the tracks of blood, there are strewn flowers everywhere. It looks like West had gathered enough to bring back a bouquet, but he’d dropped them to rush for the bedroom.
I can’t go outside. Returning to the bedroom by myself… I can’t do that, either. And maybe it’s a trauma response because, suddenly, I need to clean up this space. It’s West’s and it’s mine, and I can’t stand looking at the scattered petals, broken stems, and bloody boot prints for a second longer.
Bending low, my thighs give a small shot of protest as I try to gather up as many petals as I can. Once I have my hands full of them, I think about dumping them in the trash—but I don’t. That would require leaving the front room and I… I can’t do that until I see West, whole and safe, with my own eyes.
I drop the flowers on the couch, then return for more. I’m just about done gathering them all when, out of the corner of my eye, a figure appears in the doorway.
