Chapter 8 - Amelia
I wake up to the sound of the kettle whistling when it’s done boiling, rubbing my eyes to adjust my vision to the dim light in the confines of the cage.
I’m not sure what day it is, or if it’s daytime at all. Without a clock to tell the time or the sun to indicate the break of a new day, I’m not even sure how long I’ve been a prisoner here. Despite the lack of the construct of time, I’ve fallen into a routine of sleep, waking up to shower, having something to eat from the supplies in the kitchenette, then waiting for whatever Jackson and his henchmen have planned for the day.
Usually, it entails the release of an anesthetic-like gas through the tiny ventilation holes that line the top of the cage, which knocks us out. Dorian and I have tried everything to stop from breathing in the gas, but we’ve failed. He’s inspected the cage with the fine-toothed comb of his sharp eyes, but he hasn’t found any spy cameras in our cell.
It seems that Jackson is relying on some intrinsic intuition to fill the cage with enough gas to ensure that Dorian is unconscious before he’s taken out. By the time I wake up, Dorian is back, lying cold on the unforgiving floor.
I sigh when I glance at the kitchenette where Dorian is busy spreading a few slices of bread with butter. At least he’s not as grumpy as he was when we first met, except for the days when he’s thrown back into the cage and wakes up visibly weakened from having his blood siphoned by my brother.
His fury and frustration are understandable, and I can only imagine what torture he has to face now that he’s discovered that my brother is not just a ruthless kidnapper, but a monster who’s stolen the powers of a supernatural species of beings that has been hidden from the human world for many centuries—according to Dorian.
Even now, I can’t believe that Jackson has gone to such measures. Is he even concerned about curing cancer? Is he even human anymore?
If our dad was on the trail of the werewolves’ existence, he would have used his discovery for the greater good of humanity. I’m sure of it. He was the reason I studied to become a nurse in the first place, and I always thought my gentle nature was an inherent trait I got from my father.
I can’t even consider Jackson my brother anymore.
“You’re awake…” Dorian remarks when he turns around with a mug in his hand. He offers it out to me with a feeble half-smile.
It’s only been a few hours since he was thrown back into the cage. His arm glistens from where he’d used the ointment I found in my bag the other day. I smile wistfully, pleased that the werewolf man has been taking my professional advice, even if my intent was far from professional when I advised him to use the rubbing ointment for his bruises.
At least Jackson was kind enough to throw me in here with my handbag, obviously without my cell phone.
“As you always point out,” I giggle as I take the mug of steaming herbal tea. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Dorian replies as he lifts the plate with buttered bread from the table and slides it over the bed. “I figured that if we’re stuck here together, we might as well be civil about it.”
I sip on the tea, nodding timidly. “Well, if this is what it means to have a husband…” I tip the mug forward. “... Then it’s something I can get used to.”
Dorian chuckles, and for the first time, I notice the dimple on his right cheek when his lips spread into a smile. The smile is almost identical to the one I saw in my dream on my “wedding night”.
If I can call it that.
To my surprise, I’m pulled back to those disruptive thoughts of Dorian, mentally fighting the urge to reach out and touch a fingertip to the natural dent in his cheek. It’s almost hidden by how thick and long his beard has grown, but it’s prominent enough to be noticed.
To fight my impulses, I decide to redirect my thoughts to something else.
“Do you always keep your hair that long?” I ask hesitantly, clearing my throat as if I can take back my words. But when Dorian sheepishly runs a hand through his long, curly locks, I can’t help but wonder what they’d feel like if it was my fingers running through.
“Not this long,” he chuckles, avidly avoiding my eyes as he takes a tentative seat on the edge of the bed. It’s uncharted territory for him since he’s been sleeping on the floor ever since our imprisonment. He wrings his hands on his lap, and I detect his nervousness.
It’s little ticks and traits like that that I’ve learned how to observe in my line of work when patients refuse to voice their feelings. Body language is easy to read from the elderly, and Dorian has been a closed book.
Until now.
“If we had scissors, I would have cut it for you,” I offered coolly.
Dorian looks up then, his surprise evident in the way his eyes widen. “You would?”
I shrug nonchalantly. “I mean… I’m no professional, but I’ve had to groom some patients when they refused to see the barber.”
He chuckles then, eyes sparkling with jest. “Are your patients difficult?”
“Sometimes,” I sigh, a pang of longing squeezing my heart. I didn’t think it was possible, but I actually miss Candice and her maternal warmth, along with her mischievous antics. “But I love them. Being surrounded by the old people, I missed my parents a little less.”
Dorian nods slowly, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “I’d trust you to clean me up, but your brother’s smart. He won’t let us have access to any sharp objects.”
“Of course not,” I scoff. “And for the record, I don’t want you to refer to him as “my brother”. He’s dead to me.”
“Not yet, or we wouldn’t be stuck here,” Dorian quips with a snort. When I scowl at him, the smile slips off his face and he clears his throat. “Sorry. That was tasteless of me.”
“No,” I shake my head. “It’s not that.” I sigh heavily. “It’s just hard to come to grips that he’s changed so much. Jackson wasn’t always like this.”
“What was he like, then?” Dorian asks. From how serious his expression remains, I know that he expects an answer, but it prompts me to frown.
“Why would you care?” I ask.
Dorian sighs, hanging his head to stare at his interlaced fingers on his lap. “Because I have a younger brother who doesn’t speak to me.”
It’s as if a dark cloud has emerged in the air above our heads, the silence that stretches deafening as Dorian keeps his eyes on his hands as he clenches his jaw.
He’d just scratched at a wound that he’d been hiding, and for some reason, he felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable. As I stare at him from the side, it’s not just his immaculately chiseled features that make him attractive, but this moment of vulnerability that sheds a different light on his allure.
There are so many more layers to Dorian than just his Grecian nose and honey-golden skin or his richly deep voice. There’s a sadness that lurks in his eyes.
“You have a younger brother…” I repeat softly, treading eggshells so that I don’t lose this moment. “What is he like?”
The question lifts the corner of Dorian’s lips in a faint, wistful smile just as he lifts his head and stares at the wall ahead. “He’s a brave fighter,” he says as his chest puffs out with pride. “He’s the Alpha of the Valley Walker Pack now.”
“Alpha?”
“Yep,” Dorian concedes with a firm nod as he finally turns to me. “The Alpha is the highest rank in a werewolf pack. As Walkers, we’re born from the bloodline of the most powerful werewolves in history. We’re descendants of the lycanthropes that existed in Germany.”
I nod slowly as I digest this information—which isn’t exactly new, since I’ve read about werewolves in mythical books.
The stories were true.
“So, Dorian Walker, then?” I mull over his full name.
He nods. “Alpha Dorian Walker. You would have known my name if the mating ritual was a real one.”
As if in response, I rub my neck where his mark still pebbles my skin. Of course, the mating ritual wasn’t a real one, but it was real enough for him to bite me and leave the mark tingling long after it happened.
“Alpha? I thought your brother was the Alpha of the pack,” I frown.
“My old pack, yes,” Dorian explains with a sigh. “The pack I was born into isn’t the one I lead now. I left after a fallout with my father and ended up in my uncle’s pack. He left the pack to me before he died.”
The sadness in Dorian’s eyes returns, and I suspect that it isn’t brought on by his uncle’s death. There’s more to his story, and why his brother doesn’t speak to him anymore.
I decided not to press any further, since all Dorian was trying to do was find common ground between us.
Instead, I say, “Death is supposed to bring families together…” Sighing, I look into the mug where the now lukewarm brew swirls on the surface. “But it only drove Jackson to insanity. For what it’s worth…” I look up to meet Dorian’s eyes. “... I’m sorry for what he’s doing to you.”
Dorian stares at me for a long moment before he reaches out and places a hand over mine around the mug. My breath hitches when the physical contact sends a current of electric awareness shooting through my arm. It steals my breath and has me dropping my gaze only enough to see him through the veil of my lashes.
“You don’t have to apologize for your brother’s mistakes, Amelia,” he solemnly declares. “None of this is your fault, and it’s not your burden to carry. You’re as much a victim as I am.”
As my eyes become hazy with tears pooling to the surface, I sniff. “He’s my brother…” I whimper, gulping to swallow down the sob lodged in my throat. “... I feel responsible for him, even after all this time.”
I’m not sure if I’m deluded by the tears in my eyes, but I think Dorian’s eyes become watery too. “I know the feeling, Amelia,” he says as he hangs his head bashfully. “I know exactly how you feel.”
There’s a part of me that wants to fling my arms around him and allow us to both shed tears for our grievances, but I hold myself back, only basking in the slight touch of his warm fingers wrapped around my hand. We seem to share a similar pain, but he is greater with every drop of blood my brother steals from him.
When Dorian removes his hand from mine, it feels like I can breathe again, although a wave of disappointment washes over me. My conflicting feelings need to be extinguished, so I clear my throat and bring up something we’ve both been avoiding ever since the night of our forced marriage.
“What’s gonna happen when he figures out we’re not—” I pause uncomfortably, clearing my throat.
Dorian turns to me with a sniff, plastering a coy, knowing smirk on his face. “You mean when he figures out we’re not having sex?”
I blush profusely, averting my eyes and chuckling under my breath to hide the unforgivable path my mind has taken. I’m suddenly reminded that the werewolf man is literal perfection carved in the image of Adonis himself, and I can’t deny that my body naturally responds to that.
Even the air becomes thick with tension so carnal, that it might be mistaken for the aftermath of a passionate tryst.
Dorian chuckles nervously then. Luckily for me, I’m snapped out of my daze and those heinous thoughts that seem to keep haunting my mind.
I can’t help it. Even when he’s being bashful, like right now, his naturally striking appeal doesn’t subside.
“Don’t worry, Amelia. I might be able to find a way out of here soon,” he assures me with a sheepish smile. “We won’t be forced into anything neither of us wants to do.”
I gulp, averting my eyes and tentatively nodding. There’s just something about his statement that doesn’t sit well with me, even if I know it’s best this way.
We’d been forced into a marriage that neither of us wanted, in any case. It’s just that he’s so frustratingly attractive, that my body is at war with my better judgment.
That’s all it is—sexual attraction. The strongest kind, which has me catching the way he stares at me for a long while even after dismissing any idea that we could be linked in the most baser way.
The way his eyes gloss over with darkness that hints at a plethora of mysteries has me wondering if any of them involve the likes of my thoughts and how badly I’d throw myself at him if he said the word.
Feeling too unsettled to breathe the same air as Dorian, I slide my legs off the bed and hastily make my way to the kitchenette to throw out my since-forgotten herbal tea into the metal sink.
“I’m gonna go take a shower,” I announce in a flat tone, trying to maintain composure in my voice so he doesn’t suspect that I’m disheartened in any way.
When his reply comes only as an unintelligible murmur, I don’t dare to turn around as I scurry to the bathroom stall, breathing a sigh of relief only when I’m out of sight.
I hear shuffling in the room as Dorian moves around, oblivious to the torment I have to deal with. I turn on the faucet and allow cold water to pass from the crown of my head all the way to my toes, hoping that it will do the trick and wash away my sinful thoughts.
It was only a few days ago when I learned that werewolves exist in the real world, and somehow I find myself more attracted to the werewolf I was forced to marry when I should be repulsed by him.
Closing my eyes, I say a silent prayer to be rid of these feelings and for Dorian to find a way out as soon as possible. That way, I can go back to the little life I created for myself as a nurse, without worrying that my short supply of clean panties will get ruined at every turn.
But as hard as I try not to think about him, I have no control over my mind as I recount the little he’s told me about werewolves. Why am I intrigued by the mysterious nature of a species that’s kept themselves hidden from the human world for centuries? And why can’t I dismiss the idea that even if he’s a werewolf, Dorian dominating my body would bring the greatest pleasure I could ever experience?
Goddamnit! I have to stop.