Chapter Fourteen - The Savior

Roland's POV

Mon Dieu!

I'm a damn fool.

A fool standing across the street, cloaked in darkness, watching some teenager like a god damn stalker. I told myself I wouldn't follow his scent. That I wouldn't bow down to my wolf. But before I knew it here I was.

Damn stupid. I can't be here. I have responsibilities. The pack requires my presence. I need to leave. Now.

Even as I tell myself to go I can't bring myself to move. I stand rooted to the ground.

Christopher Eagle. A boy who could barely walk three steps without tripping over his own feet. He should mean nothing to me. And yet here I am, mere yards from his house, inhaling his scent like a drug addict.

His home looks as if it should be condemned. The porch is crooked and nigh collapsed. Numerous windows are broken and there's plywood covering holes in the roof.

It displeases me and my instincts scream to take him from here. My wolf is prowling within my mind, equally distraught.

Instead I watch. I can see him through an open window, sitting at a table, one measly little lamp turned on. He's reading from a book the size of an encyclopedia, jotting down notes on a torn piece of paper.

There's nothing unique or entertaining about what he's doing. Yet, I've been here for hours. Everything about him fascinates me. The way his brows furrow when he's concentrating. The way his lips move as he reads. The light blonde hair that keeps falling into his eyes and those damn glasses he keeps pushing up his nose.

I shouldn't find anything about this boy appealing. I definitely shouldn't find it arousing as hell every time he bites his lip.

I clench my jaw. This is bullshit.

Do not deny me.

I fight to ignore my wolf. I'd beat the crap out of him if I could.

Human. He's a human. That alone is enough to stroke my anger. Humans were forbidden for our kind. My wolf knows this.

Not my concern.

A growl sounds in my chest. Humans are fragile. Weak. I could kill him with one wrong move.

Turn him.

And face killing him in the process? There was a reason werewolves were forbidden to turn humans. They rarely survived the transition or the first brutal change into their wolves.

Excuses. We are strong. He will be as well.

And the fact that he's a god damn man?

Your denial is becoming tiresome.

Damn it! My fist connects with the tree beside me, the bark splintering under the force.

In truth I shouldn't be surprised by his choice, my wolf has never hidden his attraction for other males. I've always been able to deny him, pretend it didn't happen, find myself a woman to bury into and forget.

Not this time. This time my wolf would not be denied what's his. What's ours.

Rubbing a hand down my face I glance upward. Why couldn't my wolf have found us a nice werewolf female? One soft and sweet. This isn't what I wanted.

You can lie to yourself, but not to me.

In this moment I despise my wolf.

My ears twitch, drawing my attention back to the shithole of a house. I can hear someone shouting. An older male. He storms into the room where Christopher is reading, swinging around a bottle of liquor. Christopher gets up, immediately leaving, as if he's trying to avoid the confrontation.

As Christopher walks outside towards the street the man follows. He shouts something unintelligible, grabbing Christopher by the arm and yanking him around. The man, his father I assume, screams drunkenly. Then he raises his hand, striking Christopher across the face. The boy doesn't even try to avoid the blow, taking the hit with eyes squeezed shut, his glasses falling to the ground.

Kill him!

I'm across the street before I realize what I'm doing. Grabbing the drunk bastard by his shirt I spin him around. He lets out a surprised sound as my fist slams into his face. I manage to hold back at the last second, lucky for him because his jaw would be in a thousand pieces.

The drunk goes limp after the first punch, but I don't stop. I punch him again, and again, each one harder than the last. Red bleeds over my vision, my blood pumping hot. My wolf is howling with rage.

This little shit thinks he can harm what's mine?

I'll kill him.

Christopher's POV

I need more paper.

The tiny scrap I'm currently using for notes is already covered in my scribbles. Perhaps one of the teachers can give me a few more sheets.

The thought of begging for notebook paper makes my cheeks flush with embarrassment. One didn't get much lower than that. But I spent my last few dollars on more cellphone minutes. Logically, I know I should give the phone up entirely, but another part of me is too scared. It's my only life line if something goes bad. And in this house things went bad often.

Frowning I look around the dingy living room. I hate this house. Dirty and stained with old torn up furniture and a clunky television set from the eighties. Tacky crucifixes hang in every room, a mockery to religion if anything else. The air is damp and cold, the oil long gone. Winter's barely begun and we have no source for heat or hot water. It's like living in hell.

I used to try and make it a home. Cleaning and organizing each and every day. But no more. It was a useless endeavor. Each room is filled with trash and empty liquor bottles my dad simply tosses aside. Familiar anger flares through me. I hope his damn liquor keeps him warm at night.

As quickly as it came the anger dies down. It's a useless emotion and it won't change my current living conditions. And I don't want to feel upset now. I've had a good day. A really good day.

My lips twitch with a smile. Abigail wants to be my friend. My very first. My mind is already imagining all the possibilities. Could I sit with her at lunch? Could we study together? Maybe I can ask her for paper?

Pushing up my glasses I worry my lip. What would Abigail think of me if she knew how poor I was? A part of me feels she wouldn't judge me. I don't get that vibe from her. She's seems genuinely nice. And super dorky. But that's a good thing. I know too well how being a nerd makes life difficult. I wish I wasn't one, but I am. Naturally so. And I can't change that.

It's rather silly, but I feel as if Abigail and I are kindred spirits. Not like her roommate. My heartbeat quickens at the thought of him. Roland Landry. Never in my life have I met someone so intense. Or so breathtakingly attractive and frightening all at once. I can't stop thinking about him.

My fingers stray to my cellphone. I have his number. It's the only contact there in fact. It's exciting, even though I know it means nothing. Roland was just being helpful towards Abigail. He wouldn't want anything to do with me...

My heart clinches. I shouldn't feel bad about that.

Stretching, I let out a yawn. A sense of unease creeps up my spine, that feeling you get when you're being watched. Which is ridiculous. Who would be watching me? No one would ever be that bored.

"It's your fault!" my father's drunken voice hollers from upstairs.

I jump, quickly closing my book and stuffing it into my bag. I hear his heavy foot falls as he stomps down the stairs. He stumbles into the living room, a half empty bottle of whiskey in one hand. I don't say a word. I know better.

"You! It's your fault she left," he spats. His face is red and gleaming with sweat. My father is huge and his shear size never fails to scare the hell out me. His black eyes are a reflection of pure anger as he yells, "Damn, fag! You're gonna burn in hell!"

It wasn't my fault. Mom left long before I even realized what I was. Dad wouldn't even know if he hadn't caught me kissing Mike Wilson behind the football field in the eighth grade. But I keep my mouth shut, calming walking out of the room. It was always best to just leave and hope he didn't follow.

Apparently today my luck's run out. I hear him right behind me. Fear makes my stomach feel sick. I can't beat him in a fight and the last time I tried I ended up hospitalized with injuries consistent of a 'fall down the stairs'. Dad's always been stronger than me.

"Don't yah walk away fer meh!" he shouts, his voice slurred. If not for all my years listening to his alcoholic banter, I wouldn't be able to understand him at all.

I keep walking. Then he grabs my arm in a painful grip, spinning me around. I squeeze my eyes shut, preparing for the blow. It comes swiftly, knocking my glasses off my nose. Shit, I hope they don't break.

I wait for the next hit, only to feel my dad being ripped away from me. My eyes spring open in shock, watching as a massive male punches my father in the face. Over and over. In the light of the porch I see his features. And even with the slight blurriness from my poor eyesight I recognize him immediately.

My shock intensifies.

Roland!

He looks wild. Like an animal. His eyes are burning blue and I swear I see fangs in his mouth.

Can't be. Must be a trick of the light or my crappy vision.

His punches are powerful and my dad's face is quickly turning into a bruised mass of flesh.

"Stop!" I cry, reaching out and grabbing Roland's arm.

He stops immediately, rising to his full height, and turning to face me. I swallow hard, craning my neck up to look at him. I'm fairly tall at six-one but this guy looms over me like a giant. "You stop me, boy?" His voice! So much deeper and rougher than earlier today.

"You'll k-kill him," I stammer. I'm still clutching at his arm and I can feel how powerful he is. Sheer muscle. I should let go but I can't seem to release my grip.

His eyes, burning blue flames, glance at my hand then back up at my face. Behind him my father stumbles to his feet and runs back inside the house. Roland doesn't seem to care, his gaze remaining fixed on me. Then he reaches out, his big warm hand cupping my cheek. "He hurt you."

Realization dawns that he's upset over this. Furious in fact. I can see both rage and worry flickering over his face. A strange feeling spreads from my heart through my body. Something warm and comforting. Happiness?

"I'm okay," I murmur. My voice is soft and thick, laced with too many emotions.

"Non. Tu n'es pas," he rasps. His hand slides to the back of my head, pulling me towards him. My heart skips a beat and his eyes shoot to my chest as if he could hear it. His lips pull back slightly, revealing sharp fangs and teeth.

I know what I'm seeing isn't a trick. There's no way he's human. And even as my logical mind fights to understand that another part of me accepts it readily.

"What are you?" I whisper.

******

AN: Hope you all enjoyed this chapter!!

P.S This isn't edited or proof read so please excuse any choppiness or more than my usual number of errors.

Non. Tu n'es pas. - No. You are not.

Mon Dieu! - My God!