431- The Wrong Enemy
POV Thalyndra Moonclaw:
I looked around at the scattered books — some torn, pages loose across the floor. I turned my gaze back to the dagger, realizing it would be the only thing I had left that had belonged to him. The only object I would be able to carry with me.
I got to my feet, still unsteady. With my free hand, I wiped the back of it across my face, clearing the blood and tears.
The grief had been momentarily replaced by rage. The hunger for revenge was growing fierce and relentless inside me.
I leaned against one of the empty shelves and breathed — slowly, deeply — once, twice, three times. I closed my eyes and focused on the scents, trying to distinguish and separate them, the way my father had taught me. It would be through those scents that I would identify the men who had attacked our home, the bastard who had killed them.
It was difficult to isolate them. The smell of old, musty book pages permeated the air, dominating it almost entirely. I pressed the handle of the dagger harder, my knuckles going white.
I couldn't determine exactly how many people had been here. My sense of smell wasn't as sharp as that of an older, more experienced wolf. Or one who lived within a pack.
Because I had lived among humans, I hadn't needed to use my instincts with any great frequency — and as a result, I wasn't as skilled with them as I imagined others were.
I let out a low growl between clenched teeth, startling myself with the sound, and opened my eyes.
Well. That certainly didn't sound remotely human. It was my beast — my most primal self — reacting to the pain of loss, to the rage, to the hunger for revenge, and to the frustration.
I fixed my gaze on the closed windows, narrowing my eyes, trying to see through the curtains. There appeared to be no light outside — as if several hours had passed since I had first stepped into the study.
I steadied myself and breathed in again, deep and slow, filling my lungs with the scents that composed the room. I exhaled, then inhaled again, repeating it many times. After a while, I managed to isolate the scents belonging to my parents, along with those of the old, musty books. I recognized the woody undertone of the Mercantes — a predominant characteristic of theirs. I broke the aromatic traces apart until only a few remained, identifying each one.
I didn't yet know exactly how many had been present, but I believed it was around three men — those were the lingering scents.
It was enough. Enough for me to recognize them when I found them.
I had been so absorbed in the task that I almost missed the sound of the front door opening.
Every muscle in my body locked in the same instant I was overtaken by rage.
They were back. It had to be them. They must have returned for the rest of the books and objects left behind.
I clenched my teeth, my fangs lengthening, my eyes pulsing.
I was about to kill every single one of them — until I could feel nothing more, until all the pain had drained away and all the rage had been consumed, until there was nothing left of me at all.
I pressed my fingers around the steel handle of the dagger. The metal seemed to burn my hand, as though it sensed what was coming. The thin, sharp blade hummed, ready to drive into the heart of the Mercante who had destroyed my life.
The scent of my parents' blood, marked into my skin, served as a reminder of everything I had lost and the wreck I had become.
It was supposed to be a happy night — a family dinner, an ordinary moment in our routine. Nothing more than that.
But it wasn't. And it never would be again.
I slipped between the shelves, leaning my body so he couldn't see me. With precise, careful steps, I moved backward, letting the bookcase cover me.
He was clever and silent. There was no trace of his approach. Yet it was as though, somewhere deep inside, I could sense him — detect him. Perhaps it was my instincts. My beast acting defensively, warning me of the danger drawing near.
If I had any sense at all, I would run. Run as fast as I could and get as far away as possible.
But good sense had never been my strong suit.
I was not foolish, nor weak, nor defenseless. My father would never have left me unprepared — not when he had spent half his life hiding from the Mercantes and the other half trying to hide me from them.
I sniffed the air and caught the faint trace of the approaching presence. It was subtle and distinct, but it hadn't been there moments earlier, when I had been trying to isolate the scents.
My fingers had begun to ache around the hilt of the dagger from the force of my grip. I clenched my teeth, jaw grinding, and stopped breathing.
He might hear my exhale, even if it was barely a sound. In some way, he might also pick up the rhythm of my heartbeat, and he would catch my scent in the room — but that would easily be masked, swallowed up by everything else in the air, and most of all by what dominated it: blood.
I watched, alert and completely still.
I noticed the shadow growing across the floor, tracing the outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man.
My greatest weapon would be the element of surprise.
There was a hierarchy of strength and power among wolves. Alphas were the strongest — especially the leaders of packs. They were always male and were born with a certain natural superiority. If he was a leader, or even the son of one, I would be in very serious trouble. Then there were the betas, the weaker ones. The females neither became pregnant nor went into heat. And finally, the omegas — like me. The males tended to be stronger, while the females went into heat and could become pregnant, carrying the species forward.