Hi readers! I'm using this story to try out some darker personalities and using the third person point of view. PS-this is rated T for language, might be changing it to M if I feel the need to use harsher words.
Paul's paws pounded the dirt that turned to sand as the beach met the forest. He was far away from the recreational part of the beach, and that was a miracle in itself. At least here there was no one she could snatch up, and no one that would see him. And, if he was being honest, no one that could become a casualty of his rage.
A growl escaped his chest as he watched the red headed vampire they'd been chasing for weeks dive smoothly into the ocean. He contemplated diving in after her, regardless of the advantage she'd have in the water.
Paul, stop.
The deep, thick tone of Sam's voice in his head made it clear that this was a command, and it only made him angrier. He'd been so close—he'd chased her for miles through the woods, urging his legs faster because he knew where she was headed. But her head start had been too much for him, and that too only fueled his internal rage.
The rest of the measly Pack skidded to a stop on either side of him. The only reason Sam hadn't gotten there first was because Paul had been on patrol when he'd picked up the scent of the red head. Paul was a better fighter than Sam, but the power that came with the Alpha made him faster and stronger. Paul's inherent ferocity was the only thing that gave him an upper hand, but that damn command could bring him to his knees.
Paul, you're off patrol. Jared, you're on. I'm going to keep an eye on the Call kid; he's close.
The dark brown wolf that was Jared's other form disappeared from view as he went to run the perimeter of the Reservation. When he was out of earshot, Sam phased back to his human form. Paul didn't.
"Paul, go home." It wasn't a command; it wasn't laced with that deep bass Paul hated so much. It was a request, laced only with a hint of pity. Paul hated that even more.
Sam had it rough before Jared and Paul phased, and Paul was fully aware that Sam was scarred by the scars he'd left on Emily's face. But he didn't need his pity; he didn't need it from anyone.
Sam sighed at Paul's returning silence before phasing back and leaving Paul standing there alone. But Jared's nagging thoughts about what Kim was doing right now, what Kim was thinking right now, what Kim had eaten for breakfast invaded his brain, so he phased back to his human skin. He didn't mind Jared too much, but he hated what the imprint did to the wolves almost as much as he hated Sam's commands.
He was grateful for the silence in his head as he fought back the beast, locking him in the back of the head. Paul was already violent and feral; he didn't need the added distraction of a wild animal in his mind. But no matter how hard he tried, it was always there, coaxing him towards the phase and away from the life he'd been forced to leave behind.
He spat in the dirt and ground his teeth as he pulled on his shorts and contemplated his options. He could stay on the beach; he liked it here—the wind rushing off the ocean helped to take the edge off. But he hadn't been home at all since yesterday, which guaranteed that his mother was frantic with worry. Her life had been hard enough thus far, and Paul phasing only made it harder for her.
He needed to go home.
Trying to grasp the idea of returning to the human world, where his rage was frowned upon and his absences were suspicious, he decided to run there. Maybe it would help him focus.
Probably not.
He ran anyway.
Maybe running would have helped if had any effect on him; he could hardly even get his heart rate up at a near-sprint. He found himself staring at the back of the little clapboard house he'd lived in his entire life. For much of his life, he'd hated it here. Up until the phase, that is, when his father had raised his hand for the last time to his mother.
Paul shuddered at the memory. He felt no remorse for what he'd done, but he couldn't forget the look on his mother's face as her husband hit the wall across the room.
Paul had heard the yelling from a mile away. They weren't his mother's screams; she had stopped screaming years ago. Instead, his father was yelling in her face, his drunken slurs leaving her trembling in the corner of the room. He climbed through his bedroom window and his father never saw him coming.
"Don't you dare," Paul had said, his voice low and lethal. He'd known somehow that he was finally strong enough to truly take his father on. He'd tried, of course, countless times. But this time he knew he would win. It was about to be over.
Or, so he'd hoped. Instead, it was just the beginning. Paul was minutes away from his first phase.
His father had turned to him, looking repulsed by his presence. It was a damn good thing Paul had stopped yearning for his approval when he was just a kid.
"And you're going to stop me?"
It had been a loaded question; Paul had taken hits for his mother on almost a daily basis, but his father was a large man. He worked on a construction site when he wasn't drunk, making him physically stronger than a teenage Paul could hope to be.
Paul had never even answered; he'd simply cross the room in three long strides and flung his father across the room with a backhand. He crashed into the opposite wall, splintering the wood. But Paul couldn't stop his temper, even then.
He'd moved towards his father as he struggled to get up, opening the door and throwing him to the ground outside with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs and make his head connect with the ground with a crack.
And then he'd shut the door. Leaning his head up against the wall beside the door, he'd tried to catch his breath and grasp onto any semblance of sanity he could. His vision was red with rage, and the haze didn't recede until he heard his father's car start and pull out of the driveway.
He'd turned slowly around, only to see his mother cowering away from him in the same way she'd done in an effort to protect herself from the very man that had just been tossed outside.
Fear. That was the only thing he'd seen in her face. Not the relief he'd expected.
Paul knew now exactly what his eyes had looked like when he'd turned to her: they were a glowing yellow, the eyes of the wolf. He'd had the sense to leave the house immediately, climbing back out his window. Sam had emerged from the woods and beckoned to him, and he'd gone with him.
He hadn't seen his father since. He was glad.
His mother hadn't been that afraid since that day, but she'd been worried. And rightfully so; he was gone for entire days at a time, had barely graduated high school, slept around the Rez and Forks, walked away from any friends he might have had, and had a temper that flashed impossibly quickly. She probably assumed he was on some hard drugs.
She was the only family he had, and yet he still couldn't tell her. Only the imprints get to know.
And so he was alone.
That wasn't too bad; he could easily maim or kill anyone who came too close, simply by accident. He was volatile, and he knew that alone was the best place for him.
And so he felt nothing as he climbed through the window of his tiny bedroom. He seriously considered just staying here and avoiding his mother all together, but that was the whole reason he'd come here. He was hungry, anyways.
It was under that façade that Paul made his way to the kitchen, walking past his mother who was waiting at the table, her hands folded on her lap.
"Where have you been?"
Paul had always hated authority figures, but the wolf made it worse; both parts of him despised answering to anyone, his mother included. But he wrestled it down knowing that if he let his rage out his mother could be dead in a second flat.
"Out."
She scoffed at his one word answer, disbelief coloring the sound. She shouldn't be surprised; he never had an answer to that question, or any of her others. The fragile relationship between them had crumbled when he'd phased, and the decision of the goddamn Council kept him from being able to repair it.
He could easily hear her get up and come up behind him, but he wasn't expecting her to set a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Paul, please," she pleaded, and he couldn't help her. Hell, he couldn't even help himself. "God, you're burning up!"
He shrugged her hand off, snatching up the milk and cereal.
"Mom, don't." He stalked away from her, shutting the door to his room shut with a little too much force.
Collapsing on his bed, he wondered if the Pack could manage without him. That Embry kid was close; he could replace Paul.
He tried to imagine his mother managing without him, and he knew she would eventually.
He wondered what, besides a vampire, could kill a werewolf.
Let me know if you liked it at all; I'm trying out some darker stuff to see if I can manage it. Reviews are greatly appreciated!