Boundaries

Chapter 5

*Trigger warning* - This chapter references scenes of a violent nature that some readers might find upsetting. Please read at your own discretion.

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Orion strolls home from the library, ducking his head as he imagines a forest of trees surrounding him, shielding him from view.

People in Ironhill look at him. They always have, and it used to make him happy. He felt special, because he was important.

Now it makes him feel on edge. Like he's too important. Like he's not good enough. Like he never will be. Like they know his secret...

He shakes his head, clutching his book tighter as he runs up the steps to the Alpha's house and tugs open the door. He stops suddenly, freezing as he carefully scents the air with his sensitive nose.

There's a stale, almost sour smell. He wrinkles his nose, recognising it. He's smelt it before, at feasts and parties. It's an adult drink, and it's dark, like blood.

Orion shifts, his unease settling a little. Perhaps something good has happened? Perhaps there is to be another feast! Orion likes feasts. He likes the desserts best. He always tries to sneak some to Dylan, when he can, because the only thing that's better than dessert is that shiny happy look in Dylan's eyes.

He pads through the house noiselessly, a small smile on his face as he looks for his father. He spots him in his office, a green bottle in his hand as he sips from the neck. He goes to knock when he hesitates.

Something in his gut is telling him that this is wrong, something about the picture not quite right. His dad is slumped in his chair, the air in the office claustrophobic and thick, warning him away. He backs off, his little heart racing all of a sudden.

He spots more glass bottles on the floor beside his dad and he realises that he was wrong. There is no celebration.

He's in danger. He knows it without knowing why, the knowledge certain in his bones.

His back hits the staircase suddenly and he feels the hardback library book slip from his fingertips. He watches it in slow motion as it tumbles, its protective spine clattering against the hardwood floor with a deafening thud. He looks up, his eyes wide and frightened as his father whips around with the speed of a panther, his dark eyes near black as he hones in on his target.

Reece Vice has had a hard life.

Raised by a bitter man whom he was never good enough for, except for the regular beating, and a mother who was, by all accounts, brainless, he didn't much care for his childhood.

His adult life hadn't been much better. His mate, a whore if ever there was one, died during childbirth and left him with offspring so undesirable that often, he wonders if it's even his own work.

He peers at that offspring now. His shoulders are broad, which is good, but they are permanently hunched forwards. His height, which is tall for ten years old, is negated by the fact that he is meek and bookish. His dark eyes are identical to Reece's own, but instead of proudly reflecting his heritage, their kind expressions paired with his chocolate skin emulate his late mate instead.

Reece can't stand the sight of his son, most of the time, but tolerates him. He is malleable, and for that trait he can thank his late mate. He has potential and is so eager to please, and Reece can work with that.

But right now, he hates the sight of it.

Reece's eyes hone in on the heavy, thick book that lies harmless on the floor of his hallway. It's got a tree on the back, and this makes Reece's blood boil.