Alessia Stocklin and Ezra Withers are polar opposites, but they can certainly agree on one thing: their mutual hate for each other.
He's an Alpha deadset on killing every rogue he comes across, while she's a vigilante - known as Nightshade - intent...
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As the days soon morphed into weeks, my newly acquired cloak remained dormant on a stack of clean-ish clothes in the corner of my room. My watch chimed off more than usual, reminding me to take the medicine I was not prescribed. The notifications, however, piled up, creating a backlog of unanswered notifications. It got to the point I couldn't look at my phone without catching a glimpse of what I had been ignoring.
Or, more accurately, who I was ignoring.
With a new scent-blocking cloak in my possession, I had little room for excuses as to why I had shelved my Nightshade persona. Except that, I did have a valid reason to stay in the shadows. My urge to kill Ezra — while not as strong as it once had been — slowly ensnared my brain. It was not so much all-encompassing, but I would jolt wake up in the dead of night, breaking into a cold sweat with one thing on my mind: killing Ezra.
I convinced myself staying away was the right thing to do. Not just for me or for Ezra, but for the rogues as well. I didn't know if that made me presumptuous, but it sure felt like it. I convinced myself they were better off without me in such a distracted state. No matter how hard I tried to reason with myself, I could never fully accept my doubts as truth.
Even if I didn't know when Ezra's trial to eradicate rogues would commence with the Werewolf Committee, I knew each day put us closer to a historic decision, whether that was in favor of rogues or not. History was on the horizon, and the odds were stacked against rogues, especially with the resurgence of Ferals.
One of the Werewolf community's most-read new sources, The Howling Herald, wrote a piece on the re-emerging Ferals, instilling fear in packs around the nation. It would certainly not reflect well on the rogue community as a whole — not that they had even been afforded the luxury of good press. I would have my work cut out for me if I wanted to change the tide, but time was something I did not have in spades.
Once Ezra abruptly departed from our pack, Alpha Byron went into full doomsday preparations. To begin, Alpha Byron initiated a curfew. No one was supposed to be outside wandering the streets after 9 PM. Beta Ichabod would now be the first line of communication for a Feral sighting. If someone saw even what they thought was a Feral, they would be expected to mind link Beta Ichabod, who would ready our pack's Warriors.
Along with these protocols, everyone was required to attend at least two training sessions a week. Even the children who were not yet old enough to shift began learning how to fend for themselves and wield a weapon.
As a result, pack meetings also became a familiar occurrence. While they used to be few and far between, we now had a weekly pack meeting along with any impromptu meetings either Byron or Ichabod thought necessary. Just as my mind wandered to thoughts of the cumbersome pack meetings, Beta Ichabod's voice shook through my mind:
ATTENTION: PLEASE REPORT TO THE PACK HALL NOW.
Slowly pushing my comforter off my body, I brushed my hair and teeth before putting on a change of clothes. My body venomously protested every movement after a particularly grueling training session the night before. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes with no care as to how graceful I must have looked, I shuffled out of my apartment and headed toward the Pack Hall.
