Confessions of a Killer

18 Red meets Black

Skye:

It's usually a mans duty. Heaven knows my brother won't approve. Pissing him off makes my days go by so nicely.

Since he's been gone I've been bored. The daily grind of this pack is getting to me. Women aren't really 'allowed' to fight. Or spar. Or train. Or anything fun really.

Its what I love to do though.

I hate knitting. Sowing. Laundry. All the assigned tasks that the women have here. My big overbearing brother thought it would be a good idea to leave me here. Said it might teach me a thing or two about being a lady.

Right.

I'm not a lady. I'm a Queen. Of sarcasm.

Heath never cared before... why care now?

Seriously. Since the virus... its like the 50's again.

Screw that white noise.

I hadn't intended to be on guard duty. It's easier to hide my hair in their uniform though. It's too long, too red for most people not to notice me. Makes it damn hard to blend in, or hide away when the Alphas want something from me. The mask the guards wear really makes it easier to be among them.

I'm supposedly  here to be a liaison between packs, Alpha Damien has yet to meld with the Blood Moon pack, but its in the works. Or some such.

Once I'm done with my own espionage maybe I'll tell Malcolm what a bad idea it is to have these uniforms.

Naw.

Most people can't mask their scent like I can. They don't have tempers like me either.

The uniforms are great.

I'll never tell my secret.

Sighing, I look over at the man next to me, the one astutely ignoring my gaze and looking forward. He's only a few feet taller than I am. Just a little under my brothers height. Smaller in the shoulders too.

Everyone's smaller than Heath though.

The man in the cage won't stop screaming. I suppose screaming isn't the word, but I don't think the word agony can be put as an adjective for sound right?

Wailing is too feminine, what he's doing is definitely male. Yelling imbues that there are words involved. There are no words coming from him.

It is loud, grief filled, mourning. If ever there is a word for the pain emanating from the man... it wouldn't be enough.

Broken comes damn close though.

He'd stopped slamming himself against the bars twenty minutes ago. Laying on the ground, clutching himself as he rocks back and forth. Trembling as he struggles to keep his human form.

I've heard about what happens when a mate dies. It sounded horrible. It's one thing to hear about it versus actually seeing it.

His scent is intriguing though.

My nose has always been sharper than most unmated females. Mountain Lions are a little different than the rest, a little more physically advanced because, duh, we live in the fricken mountains and they are un-fucking-forgiving.

This man... smells like danger, making my heart race.

His face is shadowed with beard growth making him look dark, diabolical, riveting. Feral fury, beast and rage makes his smell even more enticing. Most men don't smell like that. At least the ones around here don't. They rely on civility, a mirage of humanity to mask what and who they truly are.