CHAPTER FOUR

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light." – Dylan Thomas


"Are you fucking crazy?!"

Rudely shocked out of her reverie, Rachel whipped around to face the owner of the deep, angry voice who had snuck up on her. The peace of the moment was gone, replaced first by confusion, then by annoyance. She saw him moving towards her, a vaguely familiar face, one that she could not quite place. She thought she might have known him once, but time must have changed him, as it had changed most of what she used to know. Whoever he was, though, she was thoroughly unimpressed.

"Excuse me?" She flashed the young man a bewildered look, eyebrow arched incredulously. Perhaps he had mistaken her for someone else. Not that that would for a second excuse the general sense of jackassery radiating off of him.

"I said," he bit out through gritted teeth as he drew closer, "are you fucking crazy?"

Huh. This was a first. In all her travels, she hadn't yet had the experience of being harassed by a crazy foul-mouthed stranger. She would never have guessed that home would end up being the place to check that off her list. The people around here had gotten strange, but this guy took the cake. "What the hell is your problem?" she demanded, taking a step towards him, feeling more pissed off than she was afraid, though she knew full well that she ought to be afraid; good guys didn't do shit like this.

"What the hell is yours?" he shot back, waving his hand over her in disgust as if her very existence repulsed him. He came to a halt directly in front of Rachel, hovering over her, tall, large, and imposing.

Really? He marched over picking a fight and she was the one with the problem?

The man's eyes captured hers in a hard, stony glare that silenced her for just a moment. Just a moment, but it was a painfully long one. Rachel didn't know what to make of it, this peculiar feeling of looking into a stranger's eyes and swearing she could see right through them, into his soul, and being almost certain that he could see into hers too. She was almost drawn to his anger, in a deeply unsettling way. It made her uncomfortable and she was more than tempted to blink and look away, but she didn't. She held his gaze without so much as flinching; she refused to let this creep intimidate her.

"I think you're confused," she said to him bluntly, still having to raise her voice, both to counter the noise around them and match the tension between them. "You're the one who's fucking crazy."

He bristled, all six-foot-something of him trembling where he stood, his bare feet digging into the sand. He really was crazy, she thought. And maybe he was right – maybe she was too, or she wouldn't still be standing here. "What do you think you're doing out here in the middle of a fucking storm?" he snapped as he brought his face within inches of hers. She would probably have felt the spray of his spit if not for the fact that she was already drenched from head to toe.

Rachel knew that continuing to provoke this huge, possibly psychotic and potentially criminal half-naked stranger was not the best of ideas. There was not a doubt in her mind that this man could easily overpower her in an instant. But she couldn't help it; his rage fuelled hers. Something about him grated at her nerves like nails on a chalkboard, filling her with an inexplicable craving to put him in his place. She narrowed her eyes dangerously – partly because the rainwater stung, but mostly for his benefit. "How is that any of your business?"

: : : : :

She had no idea how much Paul wished it wasn't his business. But it was. It was every bit his business now. He had to know, even if he didn't want to. He had to care, even if he hated her. He had to look out for her, even if all he wanted to do was to look the other way.

It didn't stop him from trying to fight her, but the wolf tightened its grasp on him, choking him until he relented, forcing the concern out of him. Still, this was Paul and, true to form, it came out as harshly as one could expect coming from him. Even the wolf had to concede that this was probably as kind as it was ever going to get him to be. "You're going to die out here," he growled, his voice rumbling from a place deep inside his chest.

For the first time since he stormed up to her, he saw a flicker of alarm cross over her eyes as she mistook his words for a threat. Her face blanched visibly at his words, and he relished the moment. He would never hurt a woman, and it was probably physically impossible for him to hurt this one. But he liked seeing that he could get under her skin. Once he was done savouring the impact that he had had on her, he went on, "Do you want to get sick?"

He had a heart. He just didn't like being told how to use it.

Paul reached out and grabbed her by the elbow, tugging at it forcibly. A tiny flash of blue fell from her hand as she reeled backwards, but his grip on her remained firm. He heard the way her heart missed an entire beat before proceeding to pound like a drum in his ears. At first he thought that it was out of fear, but it wasn't fear that he saw on her face now.

It was fire.

And it was a fire that easily rivalled his.

She hit him square in the chest with her puny little fist. Stupid woman. Her fingers splayed wide for a second before she cradled her hand flush against her side, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. The stab of guilt that pierced Paul in the heart at the thought of her possibly having broken her hand was momentarily overshadowed by the rush of pleasure that he felt upon seeing her face contort in pain. Served the little bitch right. He smirked, earning a swift kick in the gut from the wolf, who was horrified at what had just transpired. Paul fumed inwardly at the wolf, and outwardly at her. He didn't like it, but he had to get her to shelter. Offering neither an apology nor an explanation, he yanked at her elbow again, not as roughly as he would've liked nor as gently as his wolf would've preferred.

Of course, she would have none of it.

Of course, she had to resist.

Of course, the spirits just had to go and send him a feisty one.

She snarled at him, her brown eyes blazing, her tone deadly, "Get your filthy hands off of me."

To both his surprise and hers, he did. He had no other option. He felt the fire in her order burn through him, from the tips of his fingers all the way up to his brain and back, until he had no choice but to let her go. She clearly didn't understand the significance of what she had just done, but Paul did. The little control that he had left had been relinquished over to her under the overriding power of the imprint. He was the tribe's, the alpha's, the wolf's, and now, he was hers too. Whether he liked it or not, from now on, he was going to have to submit to her will. This unholy burden was going to change him, the way it had changed his friends. It was going to eat him alive and spit out the bones, consume him little by little until he had nothing left to give. It was going to devour his spirit and soul and leave behind a shell of a man, the shell of half the man that he still was.

He was silent as he stood there, chest heaving up and down as he struggled against the urge to explode out of his skin. He couldn't let himself harm her the way Sam had injured Emily in a fit of rage. He refused to help strengthen the already magnetic hold that she had on him by adding guilt to the mix. As she stared at him in shock, he wondered if she could see the agony that he was feeling inside. Probably not. She had no idea that she was suffocating him. She had no idea of the power that she had over him.

She had no idea.

"Get out of the fucking rain," he muttered gruffly at last. His arms hung uselessly, fists clenched tightly at his sides. She opened her mouth to speak, no doubt intending to carry on arguing. He just needed her to be safe, to be healthy, to be okay. He needed her to stay alive, so that he could continue to exist. Why couldn't she just do that much for him? Anger raged inside of him, burning white-hot in its iron dungeon, unable to escape while her vulnerable form still stood before him. He was desperate to fight, to scream, to shove, to shake– but he couldn't. Instead, all Paul could do was beg, "Please."

And it broke him, having to utter that single word.

Perhaps she saw this. Perhaps she sensed this. Perhaps she'd just had enough. He couldn't be sure. But she did turn around and leave.

He stood there, a hollow look clouding his eye as he watched her go, and long after the rain had washed away her footprints, he was still there, staring at the empty spot that she had left behind. A speck of blue shimmered in the sand, catching his eye. He picked up the small, smooth object, turning it over and over between his fingers, examining it like it mattered.

Paul never begged. Not for anything. Not since the child from once upon a time pleaded with his mother to stay, to love him enough to stay. She did not love him enough. She did not stay. And a hardened young Paul grew up swearing that he would never again beg for anything in his life. Ever.

As the storm began to subside and the waters recede, the ghosts of his long-ago yesterdays whispered in his ear, fanning the flickering embers that remained of his rage. He was broken, but not dead. Until the day that he was, it was not over. He would fight, even if he was bound to lose. And he would continue to fight, until the fight in him was gone.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Paul left the beach that evening. Nursing his fractured identity, the young man made his way home, a cool piece of sea glass pressed into the heat of his palm as he disappeared back into the shadows of the shady forest path that had led him to her.