My heartbeat pounds in my ears as the bedroom door clicks shut behind us. This stranger has an iron grip on me, not to mention an aggressiveness that could terrify anyone.

I want so badly to feel safe in my mate's arms- to let myself relax against his warm chest. But I can't. Anxiety only grips me tighter as he carries me towards the bed. The sheets rustle quietly as he sits me down on the edge and begins pulling off my jacket. My heartbeat pulses in my throat as the panic begins setting in.

Once the jacket is off he tosses it onto the floor, almost in a disgusted manner. He pauses for a minute after that, raising his nose as if to sniff the air. I take this opportunity to squirm further onto the bed, and further away from him. I hug myself tightly and pull my knees halfway to my chest. Suddenly the white T-shirt that I'm left with feels much too thin for comfort.

I swallow nervously, watching as he walks over to an attached room and turns the light on, revealing a bathroom. My skin prickles as I watch, the saliva cold in my mouth.

What's he going to do?

In one swift motion he raises his arms over his head, peeling off his shirt. My eyes feel ready to bug out of my head.

I did not sign up for this.

The light behind him illuminates his figure, creating a sublime, muscular silhouette made of rigid lines and defined curves. I can only faintly see the center of his outline, but it's enough to tell that his abdomen is no less apparent.

Striding towards me, his steps are slow and confident. He stops in front of the bed, looking down on me with intent, dark eyes. I lean back as he reaches forward, but I don't lean far enough. His fingers touch under my chin, igniting the area with a tingling feel as he gingerly pushes my jaw closed.

Heat rushes to my cheeks when I realize my mouth had been open. Was it that obvious?

My eyes flick to his uncertainly. What happens now? Because there's no way in hell that I'm letting these clothes leave my body.

"Wash his scent off," he orders, his voice like steel. There's no denying that it's a command, not a polite suggestion.

He then drops his T-shirt carelessly into my lap. His voice is cold as he instructs me. Begrudging even.

"Then put this on."

With that, he lets his gaze linger for a few seconds. Then, he turns and strides out of the room, closing the door behind him with a loud click to disrupt the nerve wracking silence.

I scrunch my face up in both discontent and confusion.

He wants Nathan's smell off of me. That's the only conclusion I can come to, and a likely one considering his earlier disgruntlement with the scent. Being treated as a doll to be dressed up is irritating. But in this case, I don't want Nathan's scent on me either.

Cautiously, I slide off the bed, watching the door like a hawk. I half expect him to burst through it at any minute, spewing more demands.

With shirt clenched tightly in my hand, I pad into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and making a point to lock it.

Mate or not, my privacy is my own.

The searing water is uncomfortable, drumming against my back, between my shoulder blades. My skin is burning to the point that I think it may peel off.

I've always preferred the cold. And I'd never choose a hot shower over a moderately room temperature or even a slightly cold one. But I need to feel the pain. I need to have the distraction it provides. Almost like it's a pause button.

I fight to keep my mind off the situation at hand, along with the questions that go with it. Did this stranger- my mate whose name is a mystery- take over the pack? How many of my pack members did he kill? Am I still expected to marry Nathan?

I shake my head, pushing away the curiosity. Whatever happens, happens. It's not like I was allowed to control my life before. What's the difference now?

My focus turns back to my reddening body as I turn the water off and step out of the shower. I'm shaky as I put my clothes back on, my muscles lulled into a trance from the heat. Even more warmth pools in my stomach when I take a deep breath of the addictive scent clinging to this ominous stranger's shirt.

I'm not a petite person per se, but it's still oversized to the point where I might be able to get away with not wearing anything else. Nonetheless I slip my jeans back on anyway. There's a certain line drawn in my dignity that I'm not quite ready to cross yet. And walking around pantless with a shirt tail barely covering my ass would require crossing that line.

When I reenter the bedroom, my lovely and very congenially mate is nowhere to be found.

Is this my window for escape?

As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I ridicule myself for such a ridiculous idea. Running away from everything I know just to be killed on sight as a rogue? I'd rather not. Yet, at least.

I wander out of the bedroom- which has to be the guest one considering its lack of a scent- and down the stairs, right out the front door I was carried through. The stranger doesn't stop me, nor is there even any sign he was here.

Outside, the entire village still looks deserted and desolate. Everything is dark, with only the moon acting as a dim lamp of silver light. The snow crunches beneath my feet as I wander through the empty streets- which are really just worn out paths weaving between the cabins.

My nostrils flare when a certain hair raising smell reaches my nose. Immediately goosebumps rise over my arms as I slow to a stop in the middle of the village, smelling the air more intently now.

Blood.

No... It's more than just blood. It's carnage.

If that smell, combined with the dark, soulless streets, isn't enough to send someone over the edge, then having your every move watched is.

Just as before, when I look up, I find the curious, frightened eyes peering at me through the windows.

A growl escapes my throat.

I'm some kind of spectacle for them, and that fact piques me.

I stare right back, but whoever it is doesn't budge.

If they won't come out, then I guess that means I'll go in.

The heavy door of the pack house shutting behind me is louder than it should be. Usually I would avoid drawing too much attention to myself, but between Nathan's ceremonies and whatever the hell this can be called, I haven't been left much of a choice.

When I turn the corner going into the grand living room, I'm met with about a dozen pairs of those staring eyes, glaring at me through the dark hue and blue shadows of the room.

"You're wearing his shirt?" Mya's irritating, high pitched voice exclaims as she throws her arms out dramatically. She's standing in front of one of the large windows beside the couch. There's no doubt that she was peeking out of it just a moment before.

I'm not sure what she's trying to imply by her comment, but it runs right through me nonetheless.

"You're clothed at all?" I regurgitate her exaggerated shock right back to her. More often than not, she's usually showing more skin than she's covering. And it's far from being subtle, which is why I'm surprised to find her covered from head to toe in winter apparel.

I can sense the room grow impossibly tenser. Everyone silently watching shifts uncomfortably in their seats and standing positions, but some of them I can feel staring holes right through me.

Mya crosses her arms and sneers. "You're calling me a slut but you're the one who just went to bed with a FUCKING TYRANT!"

I freeze.

Tyrant?

Then it clicks.

This is the tyrant everyone has been whispering about. The monster that Aimee warned me to stay away from.

So much for that.

"Enough, Mya," Alpha Andre growls, entering through the kitchen. His presence immediately weighs down the air, making it heavy with tension. "Adrienne," he motions past himself, gesturing for me to enter the room he just came from.

Alpha Andre may be the last bastard I want to talk to, next to his son, but I gratefully take the opportunity to get away from Mya. As I stride across the room to Andre, I stick my tongue out at her in a taunting sneer. She always hated being scolded by Andre instead of being his lap dog, and I've always loved her indignation over it.

Once in the kitchen, I clench my jaw when I see Nathan sitting at the table. There's no denying that I have strong feelings for him. Just not the feelings he wants me to. But repulse is a very strong feeling nonetheless.

Although repulse isn't what I get we approach the table. It's more like happiness. Because there's just something about of him, with his head down, held between his hands, with stress creasing his features, that's satisfying to me.

"Explain to us," Andre says, leaning past me to lay his palm flat on the tabletop, "What that monstrous bastard wants with you."

"Explain to you?" I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "You're the ones who watched it happen!"

"And you're the one who he took into my goddamn house," Alpha Andre retorts coolly.

"So I'll say it again," he stands up straight as if to add an intimidation factor, "What does he want with you?"

I realize that I don't want to tell them. This thing between me and 'that monstrous bastard,' assuming it is what I think it is, is too personal to be ruined by Andre's opinion and Nathan's hatred.

So I play dumb instead.

"I don't know what he wants," I answer, adding an irritated tone to make it sound believable.

Andre hums as his eyes rake over me, from head to foot and back. Deciding whether to believe me or not. Whether to kill his prey or let it walk another day.

"That's his shirt," he observes, stroking his black and grey beard.

I notice his nostrils flare subtly, smelling.

"Did he make you wear it?"

I nod.

Half a minute passes by. Half a minute of Andre deep in silent thought and half a minute of Nathan and I in silent confusion.

Then, he speaks.

"You're the meat," he says.

"Come again?"

"He was watching the ceremony from the dark," he concludes, "He knows you're Nathan's chosen Luna. Taking his pack is one thing, but taking his Luna is a statement of further dominance. He's baiting Nathan to challenge him and you're the bait. The meat."

I blink, dumbfounded. His theory sounds... surprisingly reasonable? Probable even.

My stomach drops as I consider the possibility that he's right.

The feeling of stupidity heats my cheeks. Maybe I didn't know as much about this stranger as I thought. Maybe his ferocious desire to replace Nathan's scent with his own had a different motive than I thought. Maybe what I thought I felt for him was nothing at all.

Out of the corner of my eye, Nathan stiffens in his seat. His jaw is clenched without a doubt, and I'd bet money that the vein in his neck is just waiting to make an appearance.

"So he's toying with me?" Nathan growls, balling his fists on the table top.

Alpha Andre pulls out the chair opposite of his son and slumps down in it, stretching his long legs out. He crosses his arms over his chest and heaves a sigh. Three prominent stress lines crease the old Alpha's forehead.

"Riot Sydney doesn't toy with people. He destroys them."

A forceful shiver jerks my entire body and my breath audibly hitches in my throat. My chest is like a drum locked in a room with metal walls, every beat being echoed right back to it. The affect that this name has is terrifying.

Riot Sydney, I repeat in my head. The Exiled Alpha. That's his name.

My eyes blur out of focus as I remember his face. His perfect jawline covered with just the right amount of stubble. Stubble that I haven't gotten to feel against my skin or in my palm. His sharply cut nose and strong cheekbones. Somehow, there's something about everything about him- right down to that minuscule scar that cuts off the tip of his right eyebrow- that Riot Sydney fits perfectly.

An aggravated growl demands my attention. When I look up, Nathan's fierce glare is settled on me.

"You're thinking of him now? Because you think he's gonna win this game?" Although they're formed in questions, his touchy words are identical to an accusation.

I raise an eyebrow, taken aback by the confidence in himself. But of course he would have confidence. Assholes always do. And with his pompous need to have confidence comes my profuse need to crush it.

A devilish grin starts to pull at the corners of my lips.

I blow air out of my nose in a laugh, "How could he not? He's already taken your pack. Now what's dominating it to him? Nothing."

There's the angry vein that I've been waiting on.

I anticipated Nathan's reaction; irritation so beside himself that he bites his tongue and clenches his fists like a red-faced child trying not to have a tantrum. But Andre's, I didn't anticipate. Andre's, I didn't even think possible. Not for this.

A quiet growl rumbles in his throat as he slowly comes to sit up straighter in his chair.

"Nathan," he growls, not looking nearly as relaxed as he had five seconds ago, "Take her back to the cell."

The color drains from my face. My stomach twists so violently that I want to puke. My hanging jaw is trembling. Spasming. Visibly shaking.

"She won't be of use to him down there."

I take a step back.

"Don't fucking touch me." My voice is weak. So weak and unsteady.

Nathan reaches out to grab my arm. "Adrienne-"

"NO!"

I jerk back, backing toward the door. I register that the side of my face is twitching, involuntarily.

"Adrienne-"

"Shut up."

"Don't make this difficult."

I reach behind me and fling the door open, rushing out so fast that I nearly trip over my own feet. When I turn back, he's in the doorway, making a hasty grab for my arm. The door is slammed shut, and in the same instance a scream tears from the other side of it.

I see the shiny nails of four fingers sticking out before I turn and bolt thoughtlessly into the brush of the forest.

I hope they rot and fall off. Asshole.

• • •

The snow from the previous day is mostly gone, only a light dusting left on the frozen ground. The trees, leafless and bare, still provide hiding places, not that I'm using them.

My claws click against the hard dirt and frozen carpet of dead leaves on the forest floor. My heartbeat pounds to a frantic rhythm in my chest and hot breath heaves from my mouth, warming the clothes between my jaws.

I can hear him nearly a mile back. He's also breathing heavily, claws scratching the dirt every now and then with a faltered, lazy step. And sometimes, when the wind blows from behind me, I think, just maybe, that it carries the smell of his bloodied, broken fingers with it.

I remember this game from when we were kids. I remember playing hide and seek with the Alpha's son before he turned into a bastard. I was always better at it, because I knew the land better; every tree and every bush, memorized through every season. While he hardly left the village, I strived to get away from it.

But he never gave up then. And he won't give up now. Especially not now. Not when his daddy has given him an order.

My run slows to a jog, then to a walk, until eventually, I come to a stop and drop the clothes behind a mound of piled up brush. I sit for a handful of seconds behind the barrier of fallen limbs and sticks, catching my breath.

Taking in the deep and light browns of both the ground and the trees and brush surrounding me, I curse the sky for not having snowed the night before. Against this background, my cream colored fur is nothing but a white flag waving surrender.

I grit my teeth and bare the pain of my body shifting, exchanging fur for skin.

I all but get the dark jeans buttoned and the shirt pulled down before the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

He's near.

I suck in a sharp breath to shallow my breathing. But it's pointless.

An arm shoots from around the brush pile, it's hand grabbing the collar of my shirt. A gasp rips from my throat when I'm jerked sideways, pulled face to face with that piece of egotistical shit.

My hand wraps around his wrist, trying to crush it.

"Stop.. RUNNING!" He manages through heavy breaths. On instinct, I swing my free arm around, dragging my clawed fingers across his face with burning hatred.

If only it were his throat.

As soon as he expresses his pain- vocally, through a string of choice words- I break away and flee off into the woods once again.

If we keep on like this, maybe he'll bleed out first.

The frozen mud seems to bite at my feet, my boots having been abandoned at the beginning of the chase. It stings, no doubt the skin gradually being scraped off the bottoms.

I make a sharp turn and run a few more yards before picking a tree and feverishly climbing. Hiding is a long shot. I know that. But my folder of options is progressively getting thinner.

It's only when I drag myself up one last limb and lean my back against the trunk that I realize just how much fire is burning in my lungs and how shaky my hands are. I suck in air, breath after breath, hoping to cool the heat in my chest.

When I look down, a bright red in the corner of my eye catches my attention. On my collarbone, staining the brilliant white of Riot Sydney's t-shirt, is two drops of blood: one thumb sized and the other slightly smaller.