Bad Boy Alphas

Eliza's Interlude | 2.1

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

Cyrus was eight when he first started getting shoved into closets. He was eight when he first started taking bruises for losing. And he was eight when he first started starving because only winners were given all the food they wanted. If he was old enough to suffer, then he was old enough for anything else that came his way. That was his grand conclusion—at the totally wise age of eight, anyway.

Having already been ensnared by Dad's training regime, there was little else that dared to enter the little wolf's mind, for the Pierce bloodline could only go so far with nepotism alone. There was a blueprint to his future, a gain to his pain. The role of being Blood Moon's next leader loomed overhead, a crushing pressure to be reckoned with everyday.

"Brutality is your necessity," Dad once emphasized, a throaty growl to his vowels. "The Trials come ten years from now. Ten years from now, you'll prove yourself worthy as my kin, continuing my legacy should you win. Should you lose, there will be nothing left to come back to."

So when Cyrus didn't manage to finish his one-hundredth lap around the pack's grounds yesterday, like Dad wanted him to, he should've known that the darkness of Dad's closet would come to haunt him.

"Please, I-I'll do better next time!" he choked out, pounding at the door hard enough to rattle. His claws stung after having scratched at the mahogany barrier in between with fervent despair. Tears streamed down his cheeks in messy rivulets. "I can't stay here again! It hurts to stay!"

Suddenly, a punch resonated from the other side of the door, vibrating violently in Cyrus's ears. He couldn't help but flinch back, tears still seeping from the corners of his eyes. He almost whimpered, but covered his mouth to clamp it down at the last second.

That wasn't even the worst of Dad's blows, far from it. But the gesture was still enough to bring forth a wary silence.

"Cy, if you don't shut the fuck up, I'll have you in a worse place than this damn closet," Dad snarled. "That's a promise."

Once he heard Dad's footsteps retreating shortly after, he curled his legs up to his chest and sank his damp face in the scraped remains of his knees, from when he had fallen in the middle of his incessant running.

Regeneration was a slower process for him, as was his super strength. All he had was willpower, which currently hung by a thin thread.

The darkness of Dad's closet pressed into his sides, creeping forward like a serpentine force. Wringing around his neck. Suffocating what little air he possessed left. Everything closed in around him as his breaths cut short and his lungs burned. Another broken sob spilled, scalding his sinuses.

"Brutality is my necessity," he parroted, echoing Dad's words in what he believed to be a motivating mantra. In spite of cracked lips and watery vocals, he persisted. "Br-brutality is my necessity. Brutality is my necessity..."

Over and over, Cyrus mumbled what felt like his lifeline. Until the coherency behind his own voice disappeared. Until his hair screamed from being nearly ripped from his scalp. Tugging and pulling. Biting and crying. The darkness enclosed him even tighter, fulfilling the punishment he deserved.

In a decade's time, if he didn't already come out as the world's strongest alpha leader, then he'd fail Dad.

He'd fail himself.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The next time Cyrus had collapsed in the middle of training, further proving his incompetence, Dad made his promise come true.

A blindfold was fastened behind Cyrus's head. With no light in sight, the darkness threatened to smother him once more.

Rope dug into the skin of his wrists and ankles, disabling any attempts at escape. And as he vehemently squirmed atop Dad's shoulder, hanging off the edge like an unruly bag, he suddenly felt a halt in movement.

"Dad!" he cried out, a shallow gasp breaking out. Tears collected from the insides of the blindfold's restrictive fabric. "Dad, p-please don't do this! Don't leave me here!"

The darkness consumed him whole, drowning him in its shadows. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt.

Instead of a reply, the sound of the wilderness echoed back at him, for they were outside. Cicadas hissed. Branches rustled. Winds whistled. The evening welcomed them with one of its chilling breezes—the kind that would make his fur rise had he been in wolf form.

Suddenly, he was dropped onto the ground with a mild thud, the gentlest Dad had ever been. Regardless, his body recoiled from the impact, his fresh bruises still stinging from training.

Dad's footsteps circled him, leading with a heavier gait. And even though he couldn't see, he could still feel the weight of his stare grilling into him.

"Please not this," Cyrus whimpered, shaking his rope-bound hands together. "Please, Dad, please. A-anywhere but here. I'll even take the closet over this!"

"Tonight's gonna be good for you, Cy." Dad brushed off his pleas, his own excitement overriding. "This is where you'll show your worth. Survive the woods and come back to the pack. Find your own way through this. Should you fail this task, then I'll forget I ever had you. No blood of mine is allowed weakness to the wilderness. Not when we're werewolves—the best this world has to offer."

Just then, he heard Dad's claw snipping past. The ropes that kept him bound were loosened, but only ever so slightly. A glimmer of hope given and then taken once more. Cyrus would have to chew through the rest, for Dad wouldn't let him go that easy.

"Make me proud."

Those were the last of his words before he disappeared into the shadows. Blind as he was, Cyrus lunged forward to reach out to him once more, but all he could grasp at was air.

Cold, empty air.

And this time, he was truly alone.