Wolf Teeth || Book I : Summer {M/M} ❄

Chapter #8

Oryen ran. He experienced a brief jolt of exhilaration as he kicked off, strides long. He realized with an electric thrill that he was faster than he'd ever been before the bite to his arm. That thrill only lasted a solitary lap though because, even at his current pace, the other werewolves were lapping him at twice the speed while appearing hardly winded.

At this rate, he would be here until sunset. If he didn't collapse first.

The sun cooked the rock beneath them, and hardly a breeze disturbed the air. The majority of the werewolves around him had removed their clothing—whatever they could—to keep cool. He didn't have that option. The tattoo on his collarbone burned hotter under the withering heat mirage and cloudless skies with a sense of foreboding. If anybody saw it, he would not have to worry about dropping dead from heat exhaustion. He would need to find a way to better conceal it, but for now he could only keep running.

At his back, Serove's gruff, twanging accent berated him. "You call that a RUN, I've seen puppies toddle faster!" "This ain't no tortoise and the hare bullshit!" And worst of all, "You sure you 'n the boss are even related?!"

At one point, Aryeta returned again with more recruits. Among them, Jezarri. She waved to Oryen as he passed. He managed to return the gesture, though his body felt composed of gelatine.

After watching her flee the tag collectors and seeing her stood next to two of the werewolves on that dais, Jezarri was the last person he'd expect to join the Kappas.

His keen ears overheard some of the introductions.

"What 'bout you?" Serove grunted

"My name's Jezarri." 

"Wha?"

"Jezarri."

"Squeaker, more like."

"Be nice," Aryeta scolded.

The new recruits joined their exercise. Some of the werewolves had completed their laps and begun the strength-training set to them by their Gamma task-master. With an encouraging smile, Jezarri slowed to keep pace with Oryen and urge him on. It was a lost cause. He was fairly certain this was what death felt like. Jezarri had to pull away or risk Serove's wrath.

With his strength waning, even the new recruits finished long before Oryen did. One of them, a middle-aged man with his hair in a thick braid, graciously delivered Oryen some water before leaving.

Serove stayed and watched him, the torrent of abuse endless. Oryen wanted badly to lash out. In all his time as captain of the Fens, he'd never treated a subordinate with the dehumanizing brutality characterized by many military operations before him. It had never worked to earn his respect in basic, only his fearful obedience. But then, that was all people like Serove wanted.

"My dentures'll need washing before you're done this one fucking simple ass exercise, Kappa!" Serove snarled as the sun set.

Stomach howling for food, mouth parched, clothes soaked through with sweat, Oryen passed his hundred and fiftieth lap. Every muscle in his body trembled and threatened to fail. Serove watched and said nothing as Oryen paused, trying to stop the quaking of his legs by rubbing his hands viciously up and down his thighs.

"Quitting?"

The triumph in that tone set Oryen's teeth on edge. He stood straight, but the moment's pause had been enough for his muscles to lock up. He made it another half lap before he tripped and went down hard on his hands. The gravel bit into his palms and knees. He tried to stand, but recognized the signs that his body no longer obeyed his commands. His vision swam and he went down again. This time, he stayed down, the smell of the stone still hot like charcoal beneath him. Serove, who had stood in the sun all day without water or food just to watch, stomped his way across the arena and picked Oryen up by the collar of his shirt. Oryen struggled to get his feet under him, even grabbing Serove's arm for stability. Anything to avoid his shirt ripping. That was all he needed, now.