The Kitty Cat's Mates (ManxMen)

44 | Juice-coated Fingers

"Just 'cause you're an alpha, you think you can boss people around? You think you're the shit—"

King gasped when his nape was swiftly grabbed, and he was yanked forward. He clenched his teeth, fighting fire with the man whose face was only a few inches in front of him.

"... Excuse me?"

The werecat steeled himself, trying so hard to brace his stand. But unable to hold the itch that tickled his red nose, King's face contorted, and he sneezed. Right and square on Kain's face.

"What the f—!" Kain dropped his grip and reeled back, disgust clear on his face, concerned about the army of teeny little angry monsters under the microscope that catapulted towards him. "You brat! Why d'you do that?!"

Kain and King snapped their eyes back on each other on cue. They spat bitter gazes like they were dodging bullets and shooting at one another at the same time. Like those two cowboys facing each other on a random dessert in the west for a gunfight.

"Hmph." King harbored an indifferent look and threw his gaze to somewhere more deserving of his hazel eyes. A rock.

Kain clenched his jaw, a troubled crease lingering on his forehead as he stared at the brown-headed werecat in front of him. He was a little soberer now. In his case, he was. Most of the steam had flown away. He couldn't control himself when he's irritated, and it came and left. Years spent with the Du Marais, miseries, beatings, and so on have earned him an issue with anger management. And quenching the problem was always done through responding with violence. Just like the vampires did.

Kain slowly darted his eyes around. The words that twisted out of King started to sink in. Maybe he was really being unreasonable. Maybe he was being an asshat. And it wasn't even a question. Cause deep down, he knew he was. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Look," it's just annoying," Kain said.

In the corner of his eyes, King stared back at him.

The werewolf scratched the back of his head. It took him seconds before he continued with, "It's annoying, that kind of thing," his voice was low, "... being in a situation you don't have control."

The werecat was a little shocked. For once, they agreed on something. But that wasn't what stunned him. He just didn't expect that Kain could harbor such a sad look on his face.

With raised brows, King was aiming to examine the alpha's expression a bit more, but the werewolf turned and moved back to the entrance. King pinned his sight on Kain's head. Then his eyes trailed down from some incoherent black streaks on Kain's nape, to the notorious tattoo sleeve on his right arm. It ended its destination to the large scar branded onto Kain's back. King frowned at the sight. Kain was a werewolf, so how did he—

"That," King started, "scar on your back. How'd you get it—"

The werecat stopped when Kain looked over his shoulder and gave him a sharp look. King knitted his brows again. He thought they were already good. Guess he was wrong. Hmph.

A few seconds clocked in, and just when King was about to give up on his question:

"... I got it from melted silver," Kain replied. He looked away. "... They poured it on my back."

"Sil... ver?" A chill blew in King's core. He was stunned, and not. Silver is the werefolk's enemy, and it was the only thing capable of leaving such permanent marks on them. And melted silver? It was the same as hot tar.

King heard of weapons, saw a thing, or two museum showcases made of it. In this era, people would think they were dull and harmless-looking old displays to relive the laughable myths and legends told by their ancestors. Unbeknownst to them, it was not even a fraction of the weapons used by their forefathers to drive out the monsters of the night in the 15th century.