76. Finian
Finian
An imbecile stands at the back door of the house, picking the lock while my pack cares for our omega’s heat upstairs.
It’s the third day. I’m proud of the young alphas.
They’ve taken care of Clara in ways I can’t in my state—feeding her, bathing her, and making sure she has everything.
I may not be able to care for her in the traditional ways, but I can take care of her in this way.
So I let him come in, unlocking the door for him.
He freezes for a moment, then smirks at his assumed lock-picking prowess.
He tries to hide his appearance but I recognize his aura as that of the Deputy.
The one who'd been swooning over Clara that first night. I watch, unseen in the shadows, as he creeps into my house. He’s holding something.
I lean forward, my form stretching closer, and I see it.
Rage, white-hot, floods my senses. The man is holding chloroform and rope.
A black bag. His intentions are quite clear.
A growl climbs up my throat. As a spirit, what used to be simple responses manifest in the physical world as something else.
The room grows darker, as if the moon itself had been swallowed by my anger, and the small light in his hands goes out.
He curses and smacks it around a bit, but technology tends to be nothing to me—so easily manipulated.
Still, he makes his way to the stairs, gunning for my mate’s nest. The red-hot anger turns to power in my hands.
He will never even reach the first step.
I shift, finding myself at the top of the stairs.
He stops dead. In the blackness, I must look like a shadow pulled into the shape of a man. Just a trick of the light… until I start moving toward him. He stumbles back.
“Wha—what the hell?”
I’m not in my alpha form. That takes too much willpower to create.
I’d only exert that much energy for my Darlin' and my pack.
For this absolute piece of refuse, I only bother with my shadow form.
He takes another step back. I use all of my focus to rip his phone from his hand.
It clatters to the floor, shattering the screen.
The alpha puts up his fists to fight me.
I laugh. The sound is wrong, hollow, echoing, as if it comes from somewhere behind him.
The sound makes his eyes go wide in fear, and he trips over his own feet as he goes for the door.
I shut it, wanting to make absolutely sure this man never thinks to come back here.
He fumbles with the knob, but it doesn’t move.
A horrible, high-pitched whine scrapes its way out of his throat. Pathetic.
The switchblade I carried in life slides into my hand as if it’s been waiting. His gaze darts to it. He lunges straight through me. Nothing can touch me but my Darlin'.
I turn to where he lies sprawled on the floor and strike.
My blade runs through his flesh over and over.
It cannot break flesh, but it can ignite the nerves just below the surface, accomplishing the same pain.
The anguished cries fill my soul with satisfaction.
For what he planned to do, he more than deserves it.
I’ve made sure the sound waves from this pathetic worm will never reach beyond this floor.
I allow the door to unlock with an audible click.
The deputy bolts, flinging it open. I follow, stabbing at him with every step.
He runs wild, with no thought for where he’s going—just as I intended.
The night is moonless, the bluff treacherous in the dark.
He stumbles near the edge, and for a moment I almost believe he’ll tumble over.
At the last second, he catches himself, panic sparking in his eyes before he spins and bolts up the road.
A car waits in the brush. A door slams, an engine roars to life, and I watch his taillights vanish into the distance.
I go out to the desk where Clara’s pen and paper lay. Since we’ve bonded, I no longer have to resort to using her hands to write. Interacting in the physical world has become easier, especially at night.