❝ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇᴡᴏʟꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴ ᴀʟᴘʜᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴍᴇɢᴀ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀꜱɴ'ᴛ?❞
For generations, the Blood Moon Pack and Grave Shadow Pack have been at war, the werewolves from each side bearing high tensions and malicious in...
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"When you said that we might find our answer on how to kill Luna through history, I didn't think you'd have Zeke bringing in childhood fairytales of her," Cyrus whines, his hands digging through his scalp. "How are we supposed to find anything useful with this crap? This is meant for pups, not us. Aren't we supposed to be digging through real books instead?"
In the background, Zeke is dusting the shelves, keeping himself occupied in his little corner.
Leaning into his office desk for what feels like hours by now, Jax turns to the next page of a book that he's already cracked open. His ears are open, but his eyes are scanning over the words before him. "I am going through real books. You're the one who's getting the fairytales." He grabs what must be his second cup of coffee already and takes a sip. "I told Zeke to give them to you specifically. Or would you prefer that we switch jobs instead?"
As far as Cyrus's trained eye can see, there's no sugar nor cream in that murky sludge that he calls coffee. He must drink it black, as dark and bitter as his soul.
Yuck.
"Nah, I'm good."
He'd rather stick to his new cinnamon honey latte, which he was able to request from Grave Shadow's kitchen through Zeke. According to Zeke, he actually made it himself and it's pretty damn good. So much better than Jax's caffeinated poison.
"That's what I thought," Jax says.
See, it's stuff like that that has Cyrus wanting to smack him upside down the head, but he stomps down on the desire to.
For now.
He knows he can't really hurt him, but it won't stop him from still wanting to try, even if his hands only get to meet the cold barriers of the hex.
A few of these fairytale books are sprawled out across his lap. As he tries to entertain himself with the paper illustrations flopped onto his knees—a multitude of colors awaiting him—he instead sneaks a glance over at Jax, drinking in his appearance.
Tousled waves of silky black locks descend past Jax's forehead, accompanied by a faded undercut in the back of his neck. Deep red eyes narrow in concentration. Metallic piercings glisten underneath the light, shiny and sharp around his ears.
As he plucks out another book in his reach, the tattoos that consume his left arm practically shift in movement, smooth slopes of black ink tastefully adorned across a milky canvas of pale skin. His scarred hands flip through the pages, steady and stable.
"You're staring," Jax suddenly says without looking up, snapping Cyrus out of his daze with the low timbre of his voice. "What do you want?"
Immediately, Cyrus's face burns and he blurts out, "Just die already."
