Heart of a rogue

* Chapter 17

Since our arrival at my old pack, we have been resting, trying to gather our strength and prepare for what lay ahead. Declan, ever the assertive one, claimed me in the guest house. The old wooden structure, with its creaky floors and rustic charm, seemed to be the perfect witness to our union. The room was dimly lit, a single candle flickering in the corner, casting shadows that danced along the walls.

At first, I tried to keep silent, biting my lip to stifle any sound. But Declan, with his relentless passion, made me call out his name repeatedly. His touch was both gentle and demanding, a paradox that left me breathless. He made me come many times, until he was satisfied with my cries of pleasure. His lips trailed over my skin, igniting a fire that I couldn't extinguish. He moved with an intensity that seemed almost primal, each moment a claim of ownership. My resolve to stay quiet crumbled as waves of pleasure washed over me. I screamed his name, a proclamation to the pack and anyone within earshot. Declan wanted the others to hear, to know that I was his. Only when I was hoarse from shouting, and my body trembling with exhaustion, did he seem satisfied.

The next day dawned slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains of the guest house. We awoke leisurely, our bodies entwined beneath the warm covers. The air was filled with the scent of pine and the faint, earthy aroma of the forest surrounding the pack's territory. Declan's arms wrapped around me, his steady heartbeat a comforting rhythm against my back.

We took our time getting ready, moving through the small kitchen of the guest house with a sense of purpose. The old stove groaned as we boiled water for tea, its antiquated design a stark reminder of the pack's struggle with modern conveniences. Declan was quiet, his eyes thoughtful as he prepared a simple breakfast of eggs and toast. The eggs were a rare luxury, given the scarcity of food due to the curse that plagued the land. But we were important guests, so we received at least a few eggs. 

As the day progressed, we made preparations to discuss the curse that had befallen the pack. This discussion was to take place during dinner, a meal that promised to be as tense as it was vital. When dinner time arrived, an awkward atmosphere settled over the room. My parents hadn't invited the rest of the pack, so it was just Declan, me, my parents, and Isaac. The dining room was dim, the heavy wooden table in the center dominating the space. It was a large table, one that had seen many family meals in happier times. Now, it seemed almost too big for the five of us.

My father took his customary seat at the head of the table, his expression stern and unreadable. His eyes, however, betrayed a hint of the worry and exhaustion he felt. The table was sparsely filled, the effects of the curse painfully obvious. The lands were cursed, and food was hard to come by. Only the greenhouses had been spared, allowing vegetables to grow. As a result, our meal consisted mostly of these vegetables, their bright colors a stark contrast to the otherwise bleak surroundings.

Despite the scarcity, there were two roasted chickens on the table, a small blessing that had come from the pack's surviving chickens. Their golden skin glistened under the candlelight, the aroma mingling with that of the roasted vegetables. The chickens had been cooked to perfection, their meat tender and juicy, a small comfort in these trying times.

The conversation at dinner was stilted at first, the clinking of cutlery against plates the only sound breaking the silence. My mother, still looking neatly put together, tried to initiate light conversation. She spoke of the weather, the state of the greenhouses, and the latest gossip from the neighboring packs. But the tension was palpable, and it was clear that everyone was waiting to discuss the more pressing matter: the curse.

Isaac, sitting to my father's right, looked as uncomfortable as I felt. His usual cheerful demeanor was replaced with a somber expression. He picked at his food, his mind clearly elsewhere. Declan, on the other hand, was calm and composed. He ate methodically, his eyes occasionally meeting mine, offering silent reassurance.