The Alpha's Lover

Beastly

There are myths about us werewolves. Some are terrible, some are beautiful and some are so far from the truth that they are almost comical.

You cannot be bitten into a werewolf, it’s genetic. It’s the blood, the strange assimilation of the chromosomes that make us what we are. We are not beautiful creatures of the night, we are sedated monsters. We do not have eternal mates, that’s silly, who created that myth and where did the insistent “mates for life” come from?

Possibly from an overly romantic human who couldn’t bear to part with their lover for a minute.

Whatever the case, eternal mates has no place in the world I live in. We have just as much unattached sex as everyone else, the only bond we share is our curse and our similarities. In some aspects we are humans, but what makes us monsters outweigh those normal characteristics.

We can shift at will, the moon does nothing. Silver bullets will not kill us, unless they strike a fatal area. Crosses do nothing at all, save those for the vampires masquerading as humans…if you’re looking to be sucked dry of your mortality.

Shifting is not painless, but it’s not so painful that we don’t like to do so. It’s an unbearable pain at first, the ripping of limbs, the distorting of bones, the structure of everything that gives you the semblance of a human and renders you an animal. After awhile it becomes a bearable pain, but you’re still aware of the change.

There are not two of us, only one. We don’t have a wolf side or a human side. We are one and the same. Our wolf does not speak to us, we speak to ourselves, we are conscious of every choice, but in our primal form we are dangerous, reckless, impulsive and of course animalistic.

Long ago before America became to be, before Mount Vesuvius erupted we were already here. There. Everywhere. Nomads traveling from pillar to post, searching for a home to lay low until the torches came, or the fire that we knew would come soon to burn our homes down and the guns we waited to kill us off. There was a time when we were free to roam without secret when we lived among humans who didn’t mind what we were, when every supernatural being lived in harmony

Good things must and always come to an end.

It was the more humanly of the supernatural who made the first rift in the delicate fabric of the world. The elves and the fairies, those who did not change but rather exuded a power that we could only admire from afar. They were the doctors and the counselors to the kings and queens, and they were our betrayers. They whispered lies into the monarchies itching ears, fed them stories about murders they committed and blamed on us, vampires and any other being they sought to eliminate.

Soon they came for us, for all of us and we fought back the only way we knew how in our own forms. But soon enough we backed down for fear of causing more trouble than we were worth and offered a treatise: we would live among our own and keep as far away from the humans. The vampires promised the same, and the elves and fairies, those wicked beings were cursed by some unknown force with eternal life and banished to the forests and the woods.

That’s the story I’ve been told, but what I don’t understand is what we were first.

Some say we were humans before we were wolves, others say we were wolves before we were humans.

In Ivaylo’s case it didn't matter, he was born a beast.

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It could have been the bandage pressed tightly against my tender eyes that kept me from knowing what time or day or what location I was when I woke up. The heavy darkness didn’t soothe me, neither did the cluttering pots or pans or the low rumble of feminine voices somewhere near.