Page 13 of Runt of the Pack
“It’s not much, I know. But it suits me well enough.” I keep my tone light as Vlad hands me a steaming cup. Our fingers brush briefly, and the spark of contact kindles a flutter low in my belly that catches me off guard. I pull back swiftly, disguising my surprise. What was that? A mere accident, nothing more.
We sip our tea in pensive silence as dawn’s light strengthens beyond the windows. My thoughts keep returning to that odd pang of awareness from our chance touch, probing it for meaning. This man is still largely a mystery to me, one I have opened my door to but not my heart to. I cannot explain my wolf’s urgency in dragging his battered form out of the darkness—or the way her fascination has bled over to tinge my own human perceptions as well.
The details of Vlad’s violent history may remain obscure, but his hardened physique and self-contained intensity leave little doubt that he has long walked in savage territories. His is a strong spirit, burned and honed by suffering into something powerful yet broken. Everything in his manner suggests he is unused to relying on others... or freely trusting anyone beyond himself. I suspect he finds the vulnerability of convalescence here galling, no matter my assurances of welcome.
And yet, beneath that stern exterior, I sense flashes of a kinder soul—one who mourns loss deeply, takes blows hard, and desperately craves connection. One who would be gentle with beloved friends, though merciless towards enemies.
In our brief interactions, he has revealed little of his inner self. But I find I wish to learn more, to solve the riddle of what hardens him... and what wounds him. My she-wolf stirs with unease, equally drawn by this enigmatic stranger in our midst.
Abruptly, I realize Vlad is studying me in turn, perhaps reading the pensiveness on my face. I drop my gaze, a flush creeping up my neck. How long has he been observing me while my mind wandered? What untold thoughts might show in my features?
An awkward silence swells between us. I clutch my cooling cup of tea just for something to do with my suddenly trembling hands. Vlad seems content to sit and scrutinize me a while longer, no hint of his own thoughts in those fathomless grey eyes.
12
VLAD
Needing to dispel this electric tension, I rise swiftly to pace the cramped room. What is the matter with me? I’m trying real hard not to act a fool around Anya, but one look from those big doe eyes and I’m back to square one—tripping over my own tongue like a blundering schoolboy.
I try to keep our interactions light and courteous, sincerely concerned for her well-being as my caretaker. But my voice always comes out too gruff, words sharp as gravel. Curse it all. I’m usually quite charming, effortlessly navigating social nuance. Yet somehow, that talent fails me completely in this girl’s presence.
Anya makes me feel off-balance in ways no seductress or battlefield has ever managed—and she likely has no idea of the effect she has on me. I’m torn between fascination with this waifish artist and frustration at my fumbling reactions. I survived the harshest winters and bloodiest wars through discipline and ironclad control. So, how can one wounded young woman unravel my hard-won composure so easily?
Perhaps the head injury I sustained has rattled me more than I realized. Surely, that must explain these strange obsessive thoughts circling Anya no matter how I try to dismiss them. Why I find myself dreaming of her velvet brown eyes and chestnut hair fanned across my chest as we...
Abruptly, I halt my aimless pacing, cursing under my breath. There it is again—reckless imaginings creeping in completely unbidden. I drag a hand roughly across my face, as though I can physically wipe away the heated memories. Control yourself, man. Anya deserves respect, not crude fantasies.
Squaring my shoulders, I decide to stride out of the cramped studio before my traitorous thoughts can continue down dangerous paths. I need a bracing breath of crisp air to clear my muddled head. Away from Anya’s distracting proximity, surely reason can reassert some mastery over my unruly impulses. With patience and distance, I can weather this strange fixation until it passes. Can’t I?
Dull pain flares in my leg as I head outside, but I grit my teeth against it. Anya’s head jerks up, features creasing in renewed worry. She startles at the noise when I brace myself against the doorjamb.
“You shouldn’t be walking like that,” she says, her soft words pinning me in place. “I think your leg is broken.”
I test my weight gingerly. “It’s not,” I state bluntly. In truth, the bone has already fused back together with preternatural swiftness. Lingering soreness slows me, but the strength has returned.
Anya’s brows knit together skeptically. “That’s impossible. I felt the fracture myself two days ago. Come to think of it, you should be bedbound still.”
I shrug, feigning ignorance. “Perhaps it was just a bad sprain. I’m a fast healer.” Let her make of that what she will, so long as she does not guess the unnatural cause. Seeming unconvinced, Anya opens her mouth to argue but I cut her off.
“So, uh… you’re an artist.” I gesture at the half-finished canvases propped around us, eager to redirect the conversation. If I can keep her off-balance, she will have less opportunity to scrutinize me too closely.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Anya mumbles, picking at her stained apron self-consciously. “But, yes. I paint a little.”
I move slowly among her works, examining the wintry scenes comprising her modest portfolio. “Are these all yours?”
She nods, discomfort growing at having her creations so openly appraised. I pause at a small piece depicting a snow-laden pine forest. It strikes some deep chord within me, cherished yet forlorn.
“These are beautiful,” I murmur. “This one reminds me of my childhood.”
The snow-capped pines and icy river could be transplants from the ancient forests surrounding Saint Petersburg, where I spent my early years. I see the shining palace in the distance, the sweeping neoclassical facade where my family, the formidable Alexeev Ursa clan, still keeps ancestral lands and property.
Unthinking, I reach out to trace the evocative brushstrokes that vividly capture a landscape from my most distant memories. I recall playing in the snowy courtyards with my younger brother Gavriil, our pealing laughter and rapid footsteps chasing away the heavy silence that blanketed those grand halls. We were rambunctious and inseparable then, two cubs roaming our domain without a care—not the Alpha youths of decades later, battling to outshine each other, always in constant competition.
As I run my fingers over the textured oil paint, pain instantly lances through my wounded shoulder at the careless motion, jolting me rudely back to the present. I stifle a hiss between clenched teeth as the sweet nostalgia sours in a heartbeat. Those golden days were long ago, turned to ash by tragedy and betrayal. Now Gavriil lies broken, and I am a defeated outcast, far from home. The gulf between past and present has never felt more acute, more biting.
Anya rushes to my side, gently steering me towards the room’s lone chair. “You should lie down,” she frets. “I think I have some painkillers in the kitchen.”
She takes a step forward but hesitates, glancing between me and the hallway beyond. “I’ll go check.”
