packs aren't always of the same species (a WayHaught au)

dognapped

If the wolf could physically talk, she'd probably be telling you you were a fucking idiot. And you'd take it. Because you agreed with her, completely.

You did pretty much walk directly into a trap that she was literally warning you about for days. Weeks even.

But whatever, it happened. Someone took you. Kidnapped you. Dognapped you. (Wynonna would've got a kick out of that one.)

You were just as pissed as she was.

And in just as much pain.

Of course, you figured silver would hurt because, ya know, werewolf, but you never expected it'd hurt this much. You might as well be on fire for all you cared, you'd actually probably prefer the fire.

No one ever told you what to expect. You never had a traditional pack, never had a mentor or a teacher to help you after you were turned.

You were bitten, you were left to die, you didn't.

You killed someone.

You locked yourself up.

You took care of it.

That was your story.

And only Shapiro, Dolls, and Earp knew anything about it. And they didn't even know the majority of it.

Now though, it seemed you'd have to add one more person to that list.

If you could even call him a person. He was more of a sadistic asswipe with an ancient Greek weapon kink than anything.

You were laid bare, in only your black sports bra and compression shorts, in a basement somewhere, under horribly bright fluorescent lights (really? He couldn't have gone for the LEDs? Save the planet a bit while trying to torture one of its inhabitants?), strapped to a cold metal table, large enough for your wolf's full form to lay on, bounded by silver lined straps around your wrists and ankles, a tube of something flowing into your veins, and a mask over your nose and mouth that you're assuming - hoping - was oxygen. You couldn't really move (so you're not sure why the straps were necessary, other than to irritate the shit out of your skin), your brain was a little fuzzy, and the wolf was almost entirely dormant and you think maybe that was due to whatever was attached to the IV drip in your arm.

How you got into these situations was beside you at the moment, but you had an inkling it had a lot to do with your furry friend.

The man spoke with a thick Londoner's accent and had an obnoxiously curled tuft of hair covering his top lip, thick eyebrows, and he wore a top hat and a trench coat that reached his ankles over a white button up, vest, and tie combo. It was all too much and you almost burst out laughing at the prospect of being kidnapped and silver-tortured (was that a thing?) by a magician, half expecting him to pull a white rabbit out of his hat and tap a wand to it to make it turn into a dove or some shit. But then he pulled over a cart and opened a black leather bag of knives and daggers and saws and 'magician' didn't seem so funny anymore.

When he actually started using said knives and daggers, you were entirely convinced he wasn't a magician and there weren't any cute furry animals hidden safely in the lining of his jacket.

It was weird, the way he would use the weapons and where. He wasn't trying to kill you, otherwise he would have already. It was almost as if he was doing research and testing out the weapons to see how much damage they did or how much pain they induced. He only always used one once, never stabbing or cutting into your flesh more than necessary to get the information or observation he needed before taking note and writing it down in a leather-bound journal. Somehow that was worse.