Ariadne: Almost an Alpha | ✓

Chapter 5 - Pitch Black

Chapter 5 - Pitch Black

    I sit up again, startled. In the dark, I start searching for the source of the noise only to find that it was the curtains hitting the window from the breeze of the ceiling fan. I lie back down.

    All I can see through the windows are blurs of dark shapes, and they are taunting me, scaring me. I roll to face the door, but the shadows from the chairs grow larger and larger.

    When I pull the covers around me, something rustles in my ear, and I jump up again, my skull knocking against the wooden headboard.

    The door of the bathroom sits partially open, but the blackness of the space behind it doesn't allow me to see what's lurking in there. I stare at the crack, and my eyes start to pick up on a lighter figure in the dark. Is someone in there?

    I get up, my heart racing, and tiptoe to the bathroom. After flinging the door open, I turn on the light and examine the room. Nothing. This time, I close the door completely before getting into bed again.

    A howl echoes through the forest outside, and suddenly the shapes behind the window turn into human figures. The howl sounds again. My breathing picks up pace, getting louder. I rush to pull the curtains across the window, leaving me in a space of pitch black.

    I panic. My heart sounds unnaturally loud in my ears as I stumble about, trying to find the lamp on the nightstand by the bed. I stub my toe on the dresser but keep heading forward, hands stretched out in front of me. They find the nightstand, and I quickly turn on the lamp.

    I jump onto the bed. My head whips around when I notice a shadow move on the far wall in the corner of my eye. When it moves with me, I sigh. Only my own shadow. My heart still races. Sweat collects on my upper lip.

     Checking the time, my hands grab the cell phone plugged in on the dresser. Three AM.

    I find my "sleep" playlist, and play a familiar piece, Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." Focusing on the music and not the surroundings, I back myself against the headboard.

    When the song fades into "The Girl With the Flaxen Hair" and my back starts to hurt, I situate all the pillows behind me.

    I look at the walls. I look at the ceiling. I breathe. I sweat. I focus on the music instead.

    Time passes. "Claire de Lune." "Piano Sonata No. 14." "Reverie."

    Somehow, I drift off to sleep for a bit. However, at a particularly loud piano note, my eyes spring open again.

    I reach for my phone and turn the music off. Five AM. Well, I might as well get ready for the day.

    By the time I shower, get dressed, and force my curly hair into a ponytail, I can see some light coming in through the curtains. When I pull them open again, I admire the view as the sun slowly rises. Mist rises off the mountains in slow waves. The pine trees gently sway in a light breeze. A figure in a blue long sleeve t shirt heads towards the woods. Mateus. He pauses, turns around, and looks up at my window, at me.

Knowing I might as well since he already caught me looking, I awkwardly wave, and for a second, even from up here, it looks like his lips turn up in a smile before he disappears into the woods.

Before I make a call back to the pack, I stretch in the space between the bed and the window for a bit. Dylan updates me on the tracking situation; the wolves seemed to have headed back east, and Sam is healing normally. After, I make my way downstairs to see if I can help with breakfast.

Helena quickly puts me to work peeling and shredding potatoes for hash browns along with a group of other people. As I work, they include me in their conversation, one about movies, and I try to come off as friendly as possible. Dylan has always said I have a bit of a resting bitch face.

In the middle of washing the dirty utensils, a presence appears beside me. As soon as the goosebumps form on my flesh, I know who it is.

"You know, you don't have to help with this," Mateus says, grabbing a mixing bowl from the clean side and drying it off with a towel.

"Good morning," I greet him, smiling.

I catch the right side of his mouth curling up for a second, and my heart flutters a little.

"Morning," he replies thickly, continuing to dry dishes and place them on the counter.

"Anyways," I continue, not wanting the conversation to stop. I might as well enjoy his presence before I have to go home. "I want to help. It's not like I have anything else to do."

"Everything is ok in your pack?" Mateus asks. When I look at him, something in his eyes tell me that he knows something happened.

"You saw Dylan leave last night?"

"He said something to Joshua about an attack and needing to get to Washington as soon as possible." Mateus looks down, and I know he's trying to make it seem like he's not prying.

I realize the mate bond will make him worry about me, so I answer his unasked question. The less he thinks about me, the better. "A small situation occurred around the southern edge of our area. One of our members was attacked and left to die. The person I left in charge handled it well. I sent Dylan to oversee an investigation and organize border patrols."

I continue to wash the potato peelers, trying to make it sound like nothing but a small occurrence. However, out of the corner of my eye I see Mateus freeze and turn to look at me. His eyes bore into the side of my face.

"How many wolves attacked?" Mateus inquires.

"Three." I apply some soap to a metal pan, pretending this doesn't scare the shit out of me and that the situation is not a big deal. One rogue is ok. He's just passing through. Three rogues makes a group. The larger the rogue group, the more uncommon it is to find one of that number; their violent nature makes sticking together hard. Three is a rather large group.

"Rogues?"

"Yes."

"Is this a common occurrence?"

I look into the soapy suds, ignoring the question. I hadn't expected him to ask for more details.

"Answer me," Mateus demands, voice rising. My jaw locks and my spine straightens in an act of refusal. I don't take orders from men. He must see this because he lowers his voice and adds, "Please."

The emotion in that word makes my resolve falter, so i try to answer as truthfully as I can while still downplaying the severity. "Rogue attacks do not occur too often," I disclose, staring at his nose, trying my best not to look into his blue eyes, "but they happen often enough to not come as a surprise."

"Why haven't you asked for help? My job is to protect packs, to keep track of rogues, yet no one knew about you all until a few days ago."

I don't respond for a second, instead cleaning the last pan.

"We're not a pack officially," I assert. "You're job is to protect packs, not a group of misfits, from rogues."

"You should have come here before now," he states, sounding hurt. "I could've helped you."

Feeling the overwhelming need to console him, I dry my hands off with a dish towel and put one around his upper arm. "You're doing your job well," I tell him, looking up into his blue irises and squeezing his arm. "I can handle my own pack. That's my job, not yours."

Before I can think too much about how solid his arm feels beneath my hand or how the small ring of brown around his pupil seems to have grown within the past few seconds, I release my grasp and walk away to grab breakfast.

~~~~~~~~~~

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