Shielding the Beast (discontinued)

Six | Blackmoon

The hospital sheets are soft beneath my calloused and stained feet, like silk to them after walking miles across tree bark.

The floor is a glossy white, grey specks littered throughout it. The walls have a strong resemblance to morning fog, a mixture of light shades of grey and white. Various machines that I hold no interest in are placed around the bed which supports my weight.

Asher sits in the sill of a window whose measurements look to be near five foot wide and eight foot tall. Settled with one foot tucked behind the bend of the opposite knee, his other leg is braced on the floor to hold him.

His eyes watch me with worried fascination, raking over my every inch of exposed skin-- that consisting of everything besides my bandaged chest and sweatpant-clad legs.

A sense of self-consciousness pervading throughout my chest and torso, my careless confidence is stolen from me; his presence cursing it to dust.

The dying light of the sunset outside shines through the glass behind him, his shadow casting over me. A small stream of white light catches on the ear turned towards the transparent glass, the silver-colored metal piece in his earlobe snatching the last rays of yellow sunlight and turning it into a colorless reflection.

"I don't need to be here. I have no wounds." My same argument is recited once again, all the while trying to keep the coldness from my tone.

His eyes remain clouded in thought, resting blurrily on my face. "It will only take a second."

My eyelids close, taking a deep breath of self-control-- pushing the dominant animalistic instincts aside for only a moment.

"How?" His masculine voice speaks again, a change of subject evident in the air, "How did you survive?"

Eyes snapping open to uncover the fading green irises of anger, my heart begins beating rapidly as if with the objective of vibrating my whole body. Agitated fear grips my whole being in its gnarled, invisible hands.

How did I survive?

A question I can't even answer, and one that no living soul should know enough about to even ask it.

His straightforward curiosity irks me, and his apparent knowledge of my forbidden past is life-threatening beyond that of any lethal element.

Feeling my eyes change and the moonlight begin to flood from their depths I tilt my head down to conceal my face, hiding any further identity from him and attempting vainly to smother out the savage anger.

"It was cyanide, Amber. The first five darts at most should have killed you, but you took fifteen. That's impossible. Even for a werewolf."

Processing his words, relief washes through my body like a year's worth of rain off a mountain. The previous overwhelming anxiety vanishes like smoke into the atmosphere.

He doesn't know. Good.

To tell him the truth would make the sparing of my life turn vain. To tell him a lie would only cause myself dismay. So my tongue avoids a straight answer as if it were acid.

"Maybe your wolves are just bad shots." Speaking the disdainful diversion as my head remains turned, I refuse to look at him.

"They pulled the darts out of your body." His statement is deadpanned, dropping my excuse to the ground like a poisoned bird.

Gaining enough control to force the emerald back into my eyes, they are lifted to face him.

Inevitable sorrow generates behind my sternum, flowing through my limbs and lodging within my throat.