Shielding the Beast (discontinued)

Eleven | Deny

A/N:
Written in Asher's point of view.

Enjoy!

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She's hurting. She's hurting like she has nothing left to love, nobody left to care for.

Her heart beats in sync with mine, the decelerated rhythm of hers slowing my own to match. Her pain is in my chest, crippling, harrowing, and controlling.

She's in agony. And it's all my fault.

Regret all but strangles me, its gnarled fingers wrapped around my neck, its phantom hands pushing the air from my lungs.

I shouldn't have yelled. I should have understood. But instead I acted like an ass.

Stress pushes down on my shoulders like the weight of the world. My world-- the mysterious girl laying in my bed, grief-stricken-- is crushing me. And my tolerance for it is diminished.

A knock resounds from my office door, the small event injecting adrenaline in my veins with the slight chance that it could be Amber.

When the hinges squeak without my permission, my hopes are shattered and crushed like paper-thin glass. Only one man needs no consent from anyone to do what he do wishes; my father.

His tone treads lightly, "Son, we need to talk."

The sight of him only flips a switch within me, reviving all the rage burning inside when the glass of that hospital window shattered.

I've respected him like a god my whole life, but I don't bother keeping the anger from my response, "What the hell is there to talk about? The fact that you caused my mate to jump from a third story window and cross five different territories to get away from you? I'll let you start."

For a mere second the vexation for my disrespect flashes across his face, quickly concealed by defeat and understanding.

"I'll let that slide. But only because you're confused and hormonal," the door clicks shut behind him, "Is she alright at least?"

I wish I can answer that. I wish more than anything that I can know for myself.

Is she alright?

She's not. Despite my dire yearning to make myself believe everything is fine, I know that it's only a lie. Only so much can be hidden, and she's over her limit. She has a past and she would sacrifice her life before letting anyone learn it.

"She's sleeping now," I answer, partially avoiding his question, "What do you want to talk about?"

My father takes his seat in front of my desk, positioning his arms on the polished black leather, "Last night, the moon. You know what that was, don't you?"

Slumping diagonally in my own chair, my posture turns purposefully lazy in order to show my lack of interest in what he has to say.

"The moon was black," my eyes are piercing, daring him to say what he really wants to, to be direct rather than sparing me the pointless pleasure of conversation. "An eclipse. What more of an explanation do you want?"

Leaning forward, his elbows brace themselves on his thighs, and his brown irises show me a seriousness that has only made an appearance very few times in my 17 years.

"Asher. Don't play dumb with me. Look at your desk," he throws a rash gesture towards the various marked up maps, articles, and literature strewn across the surface of the oak wood. "You've spent your entire life engrossed in trying to change the past, in trying to correct the mistakes made by the world when you were nothing but a child. Obsessed with righting the deaths of the Lycans all those years ago. You know exactly what I'm talking about."