Anastasia

I grab the jacket off the floor, feeling somewhat guilty for throwing it like that. I had no reason to be angry with Derek. After all, he'd been nothing but good to me ever since he reminded me of the mate-bond we once shared.

In fact, for the first time in my life, I didn't feel unwanted. Even if Derek and I decided to remain friends, he was one of two people who didn't make me feel as if there'd be no one on Earth who'd bat an eye if I died.

There it is - that word again. The reminder that death seemed a better option for someone as unwanted as I have been all my life. And tonight proved that the one person I wished would care to stick around and hear me out, really doesn't care at all.

Huffing a frustrated breath and mildly blowing off some steam, I gather Derek's jacket and leave it hanging over the railing at the bottom of the staircase. I find myself fiddling with my pockets, my fingers mechanically searching for that one thing that would provide me with the relief I so badly crave.

It's not on me.

"For fuck's sake!" I scream into the void, and count the steps up the staircase to bring about calm.

"One, two three."

I automatically bring my hand up to my chest, my fingers toying with the neckline as I fight the urge to tug it down.

"Six, seven, eight."

I grab the rail and stop, those urges getting the best of me when my finger finds the jagged rim of one particular scar.

"No!" I yell to myself, and hear my own desperation reverberate through the four walls of Jacob's empty house. "Breathe!"

There is something so undeniably commanding in my voice, that even as I hear the echo of that single word, I know that it's not just the sound that escaped my lips. It was a voice from deep inside me, and it demanded I listen. But it takes me a few seconds to snap out of the initial fear, and heed to the voice inside my head.

I had never been strong enough to fight those impulses that gave me pleasure through the pain. But here I am, forcibly pushing away those thoughts and acknowledging that a simple cut wouldn't do the trick. A slice through my heart seems fitting - but it's something Jacob already did tonight.

"Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen."

I reach the landing and decide to clear up Jacob's room. Why, when he'd blatantly disregarded my feelings and what I would have told him, I'm not really sure. All I know is that my heart, no matter how many pieces it would continuously be shattered into, would always remain his, even if he didn't want it.

I gather the soiled swabs and stare at them as I wonder what happened for him to get hurt that way. It was clearly an attack from another wolf - no weapon could possibly cut that deep without severing the whole arm.

No! It's none of my damn business! I scold myself and throw the stuff away, then leave his room with a satisfying thud of his bedroom door.

It's the sound that spurs my next decision, and when I finally gather the scarcity of my things, I know I've made the right decision.

~

There's not much comfort in a house almost torn to shreds by a very powerful bomb. I open my eyes to the ghastly discomfort in my bones, and crack my neck from side to side.

The metal frame covered in clothes in place of the burnt excuse of a mattress would not have been my first choice if there was anywhere else I could have slept on. But with everything crumbling in my hands and under the soles of my sneakers when I walked in last night, I didn't have many options.

I cough to clear my throat, the residual fumes of ash still lingering between the walls surrounding me. Another day or two cooped up in here, and I would surely be dead just from the air.

Even my windows are gone, and whereas the sun's rays would have woken me up, it was the cold breeze that whistled through the empty window panes.

Dragging my feet through the rubble, I enter what used to be my kitchen and squeak the complaints of my tummy.

"Urgh!" I complain when I rummage through the cupboards, finding nothing but burned packets and the ashy labels on what used to be canned foods. I wouldn't even dare open any of those when they're probably cooked to smithereens.

Maybe I should have stayed back at Jacob's, I lament but quickly slap my palm to my forehead. There is no going back now, and no matter how tough things would be from here on out, I wasn't about to go back on my decision. What I need to do, is sort my shit out, and return this house to a semblance of its former glory so it could be considered a house at all.

I wrap my jacket around my body, shivering inside it but choosing to forego using Derek's. It'd already caused me enough trouble, and the last thing I need is to have more. I sink to my knees at the iron bed frame, closing my eyes briefly just to say a quick prayer.

"Please be safe, please be safe," I mutter while I pull open the secret underground compartment under the wood, and almost as soon as I feel the crisp, still-intact notes I kept hidden there, I belt out a grateful "Thank the Moon Goddess!" and shove them into my pocket.

The first thing I need is food if I have any hope of figuring out how to fix that sorry excuse for a house. Thinking back to that one time Gisele, Jacob, and I sneaked out of the school grounds and hid at the local diner to get something other than the cafeteria lunch, I make my way towards Little Kitchen.

The diner is empty save for the staff, and after placing my order and finding a table in the corner next to a window, I breathe a sigh of relief. By myself, as I often am ever since the incident, I'm finally able to grasp what I'm doing.

Reminiscing. That's what. And maybe I'm here for old-time's sake, but a part of me longs to hear Jacob's laughter from across the table. Gisele's too. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Too late. The waitress brings over my lunch and when her fingers accidentally brush against my shoulder, she wipes her hand on the towel hanging from the front pocket of her apron. As if touching me is a filthy habit. Hah! What a way to jog my memory of all the times I was besmirched to nothing more than a chewed up piece of gum under the soles of the Blood Moon pack - Medeia and her gang to be precise.

I find it amusing, and instead of lingering too long on the recollection, I bite into my toast when I hear a familiar voice that sends a frizzle of unease down my spine.

The devil herself.

Her voice is inside my head, knocking at that unguarded corner of my brain that's so used to being abused by her. And like the coward I always am, I sink into myself and attempt to hide my face underneath the window sill, ignoring the look of suspicion the waitress shoots me from across the counter.

"Did you hear what happened to Connor last night?" It's Megan's voice as they enter the diner.

Medeia chortles in that condescending tone I'm so used to, that I find myself keeling over the table, praying to the gods that be that she doesn't see me. I would have entertained the idea of having her and her minions kick my face in if I wasn't determined to make better decisions. But why did trouble always come knocking on my door when it's the unwelcome guest today?

"'Course I heard about it." I eye her through my periphery to see her shrug in nonchalance. "No one told him to stick his fingers where they don't belong."

"But he's Tanisha's -"

"Oh come on, Megan! Why the fuck should I care even if he died cause of the rogues?"

Rogues? So the rogues attacked again. That explains why Jacob was hurt last night...

Medeia and Megan walk up to the counter and place their orders, when I see the reflection of the devil in the window I crane my neck to stare out of.

"Ana?" she giggles humorlessly, "what's a mutt like you doing in a place like this?"

I puncture my bottom lip with my teeth as a wave of bile rises up my throat. I'm not in the mood for this.

I grab all the notes from my pocket and slam it down on the table before getting up to leave.

"Leaving so soon?" Megan taunts from behind Medeia, having lost her prior concern for her friend's mate, and following suit of her chief. "Why don't you stick around so we can have some fun?" She brings up a clenched fist and bares her teeth in a mock-smile.

"Don't!" I assert, shoving past both of them and darting towards the exit. I hear the sound of the bell as the door rattles behind me, and use all my strength to run as fast as I can back to the cottage on the border of our territory.

Once inside the shell of a place, I drop to my knees and shuffle through all the debris on the floor in search of the one thing I know will give me the comfort I need. It would have been so much better if I'd lost my memory completely, or better yet, if I burned to ashes like everything around me that night!

"Fuuuck!" I yell at my blackened hands, turning them over to dig my nails into my palms. "Where the fuck are you?!"

Think, Anastasia, think! It must be here somewhere!

Yes! The bedroom, where I'd last wanted to see the blood trickle from veins that are now covered in ash. I spring to my feet, almost tripping over the burnt carpet but regaining my balance just as quickly to find my knife behind the bed.

I reach for the knife and plop my weight onto the cold, hard metal of the bed before snapping the blade from the clip. The cool, sharp metal on my skin doesn't feel the way it should, And when I trace the handle with my thumb, I realize why it just doesn't feel right to do this.

I fold the blade back into the casing, and bring the knife back up to inspect the damages it endured from the fire. The name engraved on it is gone now - and so is the pestering need to harm myself.

"You're the daughter of an Alpha!"

It's the voice inside my head that calls for me to find a reason to stop adding to the tally of victimization on the journal of my skin. I'm brought to tears as I remember my father - my real father, Kierren - begging me to go back to the pack I was born into.

Maybe this town, these people, and this pack just wasn't where I belonged. And maybe there was a place out there for me. But still I find myself unable to come to a firm decision, the sense of something holding me back here rolling in my mind as I turn the knife over and over in my hands, my finger hovering over the release button.

There's noise in the distance, snapping me from the toughest decision I ever had to make and sending me rushing over to the window. Maybe Medeia came following me here, and I strain my eyes to catch a glimpse of my impending assault.

But as I stare across the woods, it isn't my attacker I see. It's another group of attackers.

The rogues, made recognizable by the jetted fur of their leader. The same man who killed the Alpha of Blood Moon.

I throw my switchblade down and run out through the back, invoking my wolf just as I step onto the threshold. Willing all my might, and perhaps drawing on the Alpha blood I only recently learned about, I howl with urgency shaking my voice.

The rogues are back to finish off whatever started the night before. And at the forefront of this battle for supremacy? The wolf I love.

'Jacob! They're coming!'