TO TAME THE BRUTAL LYCAN BEAST-Chapter 43: LEAVE!
VALORIA WILDEROSE
I shudder silently, entrapped by blue eyes that dim—void of warmth or anything remotely human.
Truly vicious.
What am I even looking for right now?
Even in moments when my blood boiled and my heart shattered, I held his gaze, searching for something each time.
Even when I told myself never to trust him again and made promises to stay away, I kept looking—kept talking, poking, and prodding for a sign of warmth, any at all.
Even now, like a fool.
I realize it’s because I’ve been looking for the slightest glimpse of hope not to kill him.
Because this foolish girl, even after being scorned and ridiculed, dragged through the earth like a creature lesser than a pig, can’t see herself going through with it.
I hesitate at every chance. I’ve been hesitating... because I want a reason not to have to kill anyone, even if the world might depend on it.
And that makes me even more pathetic.
I hate that my cowardice outweighs the greater good.
"Y-you seem-m to ha-ve us all f-figured out... but we-we’re not all like that. Th-there are go-od people too!"
"Maybe..." he whispers coldly. "Or maybe you’re just a delusional idiot who deserves the torment she gets from everyone else. You’re weak—not weak because of your speech impairment, but because you choose to keep yourself blind, believing in a goodness that doesn’t exist. That’s why all you ever do is endure and beg others for mercy rather than taking it. There is no such thing as genuine goodness or kindness. Not in this world. Most definitely not among werewolves."
I swallow tears and bitterness.
Bitterness that has remained stagnant in my blood for years—enduring, hoping, waiting for this exact moment to be set free.
Enough waiting. Enough hoping. Enough anticipation for an ounce of good in him.
Pathetic or not, if it has to come down to it in the end, I’ll force myself to do what must be done.
"You’re wrong, Azrael... the only truly evil and wicked thing in this world is you. And if there will ever be hope for any of us, it will be when you cease to exist—and every memory of who and what you were fades away from the sands of time."
And it will be by my hands.
He holds my gaze for a moment too long, a stiff silence enveloping us in a world built on hateful resentment—with one of us existing solely to end the other.
Something inside him dies, physically. His usual cruelty melts into numb resignation.
I see it happen in real time—the flicker of something raw and wounded before he buries it beneath layers of ice.
Suddenly, he rises from the bed, putting distance between us.
"Yes..." he nods to himself, a bitter smile curving his lips as he chuckles. "Now you resemble what you truly are—a werewolf. A true creation of your goddess, down to a fault."
He spits the words like venom, laced with loathing, making it sound almost like an insult.
My clothes are picked up like filth and tossed at me. His eyes meet mine again—now glowing scarlet red.
The transformation is terrifying. Gone is the man who had touched me with something resembling tenderness. In his place stands the monster everyone warned me about.
One cold, hard stare from him sends tremors through my veins. A surge of terror floods every cell in my body.
"Leave before I hold you down and take you by force. And this time, I won’t be taking no for an answer."
It’s no threat. I know it.
The promise in his voice is absolute. Final. He means every word, and some primal part of me understands that if I stay another second, I will not leave this room intact.
"LEAVE!" His voice echoes like thunder, crashing against the walls.
I barely manage to cover myself, throwing only my silk robe around my body before fleeing for my life—clutching the rest of my clothes in hand as I speed through the doors and down the hall without stopping.
The fear continues to course through me, and I don’t stop running.
My bare feet slap against the cold marble floors, the sound echoing through the empty corridors like a heartbeat. Every shadow feels like a threat. Every corner could hide another monster.
To think that just a moment ago, he was the same man who had made me see stars—who’d taken me to highs I’d never known before.
His tongue had been the greatest pleasure of my life, his touch a burn I craved, his lips a drug I needed to stay sane.
The memory of it makes my skin flush even now, even as I run from him. I hate myself for it. Hate that my body still remembers every sensation while my mind screams at me to forget.
But when I remember who those belonged to—who exactly he is—disgust chokes my throat. Anger. Frustration. That I had let myself enjoy this. Enjoy and crave him in the worst way.
And even now, despite the pounding in my heart, something different was going on with my body.
For the first time, I want to go home.
It might be the fear, the adrenaline flooding my brain and clouding my judgment—the tears blurring my vision—or the deep, hollow devastation in my heart.
But for a split moment, my mind tricks me into believing that a life of constant, predictable abuse from my family—a life I could anticipate and survive—is better than this.
At least then, I knew what to avoid, how to stay unnoticed, how to survive. I could bear the beatings and even last a week in solitary confinement if need be.
It was all familiar.
The punishments had a pattern. The cruelty had a rhythm. I knew when to hide, when to stay silent, when to disappear into the shadows and wait for the storm to pass.
None of it compares to being married to a monster I must kill—or die trying. To be tortured and toyed with merely for his amusement while the clock ticks down on my remaining time.
There is no pattern with Azrael. No rhythm. No way to predict when his mood will shift from playful cruelty to genuine danger.
One moment he is touching me like I am something precious. The next, his eyes glow red and I am running for my life.
How am I supposed to survive someone I cannot predict? Someone who makes me feel safe one breath and terrified the next?
My feet carry me through the front doors and out into the vast night—right in the middle of a heavy storm rattling the dark sky with rumbles of thunder and flashes of lightning.
The rain hits me like a wall of ice, soaking through the thin silk robe in seconds. But I don’t care. I welcome it. Let it wash away the memory of his hands on my skin.
I run, knowing there’s no end, there’s no freedom from all of this.
I run until the soles of my feet are scarred and peeled, hurting more than anything else, and my lungs sting painfully, barely able to hold in another gush of air.
And still, I keep running.
Because stopping means thinking. And thinking means remembering. And remembering means facing the truth I am not ready to accept.
That somewhere in the chaos of tonight, between the pleasure and the terror, something inside me shifted.
And I don’t know if I can ever shift it back.
