my personal devil in prada // lydia martin

Like something from a dumb horror movie.

As soon as we're inside we slam the doors closed behind us. Not that it'll do much against that thing. Which is fucking huge.

And I mean, huge fucking huge.

"Lock it, lock it!" I fumble around, looking for a lock, and find it, with -- of course -- no key.

"Do I look like I have a key?" Stiles snaps back at Scott, waving his hands through the air to convey his frustration.

"Grab something!"

"Like what?" I yell, because there is a distinct lack of anything around here to wedge through the handles. Which means there is a distinct lack of anything stopping us from being dog -- and I say dog loosely because it looks closer to a hellhound -- chow.

"Anything!"

A look overpasses Stiles' face and he shoots up from our squatted hunch to look through the windows. I follow his gaze to see the bolt cutters we'd used to break in not 10 minutes ago.

"No," Scott protests, thinking it to be too risky a move. Which it absolutely is. Anyone who tries to run for it will most certainly die a terrible death.

"Yes," Stiles argues back and I get a very stupid idea. A very stupid and reckless idea. That means I'll be the one to most certainly die a terrible death. But at least it would be a big and dramatic distraction so the boys get a chance to get out.

"Fuck this shit!" I yell, and shove past them into the open night air. Which is -- obviously -- eerily still.

I tear down the front steps and bend down to grab the cutters.

And that's when I hear it.

The low, guttural growl of an alpha.

A seriously pissed alpha.

I slowly look up at the ugly beast, and have to swallow back the acrid taste of memories, because having a panic attack right now, really wouldn't be helpful -- having flashbacks of getting torn apart while being torn apart a second time does not sound remotely fun.

I take in a slow breath, and it turns its red eyes towards me. And it takes a step forward. And another. Coming right towards me.

I snap right out of my daze when I hear the desperate clamouring of fist being slammed against glass, and see Scott and Stiles screaming for me to run. Pushing past the lead in my legs, I sprint back up the steps, hauling a fuck-tonne of ass until I reach the doors again.

I fall through the doors, turn and slam each handle of the cutters through each corresponding door handle, blocking them from opening very far.

We all wait in silence, holding our breaths as if it'll make a difference -- it knows exactly where we are.

But nothing happens. Which is almost worse. Actually, it is worse. A thousand times worse -- having a drawn-out death is always terrible.

"Where is it? Where did it go? That won't hold, will it?" Scott asks and I look down at the cutters. Tough for a human. And absolutely no problem for the alpha. So we're twiddling our thumbs, waiting for our faces to get gnawed off.

"Probably not," Stiles speaks the honest, and depressing, truth. I start looking for any possible escape routes, but come up empty-handed. Unless squeezing in a locker counts as an option. But even then, that doesn't guarantee that the alpha won't find and kill us. And that is not a fun way to go -- skewered by a werewolf whilst stuffed in a high school locker.

My planning is interrupted by the trembling of the cheap linoleum floor as a demonic roar reverberates through the halls. And it feels like the whole building is shaking, breathing, panting in absolute terror.