Losing Leiah

Hey guys this is my first little short story. It's related to another, longer story that I'm working on so I'd appreciate some feedback please! Enjoy.

"Some say the world will end in fire, others say in ice, from what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favour fire..." 

"You really should consider less depressing poetry," his deep chuckle set the hairs on the back of my neck on end and his dark silhouette in the doorway started a fire in my chest which I had no idea how to control. 

Robert Frost had it right when he wrote those lines all those years ago. 

Rolling my eyes as I marked my page, I set my book down beside my bed. 

"Says the boy who just about manages to grasp Dr Seuss." I was suspended over his shoulder before the last 's' had passed my lips. 

"Aren't you a little charmer?" he laughed. The fire burned hotter down to the tips of my fingers.  

"Put me down or I'll let Chile in your room." 

Cat pee...the ultimate weapon for werewolf control. 

With my feet on the ground, the top of my head barely tickled his nose, but the size of him didn't frighten me: in those deep brown eyes I could see the same fire burning that was warming me to my toes.  

A brush of the lips; the merest whisper of a kiss cut short by a crash and a silenced shout. 

The instinct was fierce; brutal; hardwired into my DNA by whatever force of nature created my kind. It was a fury so deep that it turned my vision red as I hurtled into a battle ground. 

Blood. The walls were splattered with it and the wooden floorboards drank it up. That room would never forget the horror that occurred that night. 

"The window!" I knew that voice and searched for the face through a rage-induced haze. There she was: bloodied...furious...and kicking ass. My mother was everything one of the Custos should strive to be; fighting in only her pyjamas, bare feet causing as much damage as the knife in her hand. Pulling my own from its pouch strapped to my thigh, I spun around and kicked the Hunter who was climbing through the window squarely in the nose.  

It was then that I spotted Lizzie. Barely potty trained, the youngest of the Lucas children sat huddled in the corner of the room, trying to make herself as tiny as possible.  

I wasn't the only person who had noticed her. Blood was spurting from his nose as he ducked my knife and rushed towards Lizzie. 

A deep snarl stopped him in his tracks as John, Lizzie's father, limped towards him, blood pouring from the deep slash on his thigh. 

That momentary lapse was all that I needed. After a brief nod from my mother I let instinct take over. Flipping my knife in my hand to pinch the blade between my finger and thumb, I flung it towards the crooked-nosed Hunter.  

He was dead before he hit the floor. 

"Get her out of here!" John roared at me before another Hunter dove onto his back. With no time to dwell on what I'd just done, I tugged my knife from between the man's shoulder blades and bundled Lizzie up into my arms. She was only a child. 

I ran.  

I was out of the front door and into the relative safety of the woods before I noticed that that I wasn't the only one panting. 

We reached the small clearing where only a week before I had taught Lizzie to write her name (like many Wolves, she worked best outside), and I set her down on the exposed roots of an old oak tree, before leaning back against Jack's solid chest.