A.N.: I know! Shocking, isn't it! An update!

Anyone else bugged by the way werewolves' eyes cause lens-flare in photographs? I'd like to correct that—that werewolves can do it, but they have to focus, and it's mostly for things like when Derek had his mug-shot taken. I'd like for werewolves to be able to document their better memories.

And why do we never learn anything about Derek and Laura's pack, prior to them coming to Beacon Hills? Because seriously, after the importance of a trio of Betas in Derek's own pack, for strength and power, who were the other two Betas in Laura Hale's pack? Where are they? Or was it just Laura and Derek, trying to get by?

Anyone else agree with me that perhaps a werewolf's eyes change from amber to blue when they've killed? Because neither Scott nor any of Derek's Betas have killed, but Peter and Jackson have…

Oh, and I CHANGED Chapter One, so re-read it.

Jekyll and Hyde

02

Get Your Motor Running…

Muscles searing with burning pain, her lungs splintering as she sucked cold air into them, blood rushing past her ears, sweat warming her body even as the breeze kept her cool, the chaff of her black sports-bra against her sweat-slicked skin, every footfall vibrating powerfully through her body as she raced through the woods, scenting the warm, rich earth, the decaying undergrowth, the pollen of wildflowers, the rocks wet with water from gurgling streams, the clear air in the woods away from the suburbs, it was heaven. To run here amongst the moss and trees teeming with life was dizzying. The silver moon caressed her where its light dappled through the tree-canopy, she splashed through a rippling stream to feel its warmth unhindered, vaulting over a fallen log, kicking up dirt as she followed her nose, exploring as she had every night since they had arrived in Beacon Hills. This was bliss, to run, to feel the moon's warmth on her face in a way no other creature could appreciate. It was…ecstatic, pure pleasure, to run; to know she could push herself for hours, keeping her werewolf traits tethered, unleashing them at will because her heartbeat, what prompted the transition, was tested, pushed to its limits by her rigorous training regimes… She ran for control, over herself, and to get away from the place she felt completely and utterly powerless. She ran to exorcise her uncontrollable lust…

As a werewolf, everything was magnified. When she hurt, she really hurt. When she loved, she could feel her heart expanding too big for her chest… When she needed boy, nothing but boy would do—the rougher, more selfish and more aggressive, the better, since she couldn't find another werewolf in Beacon Hills, to match her strength and aggression. And endurance! If she had no boy but was unendurably turned on, she could take the edge off by herself, hand in her panties, but not as she wanted to, in her parents' house, and to truly tamp it down, she had to run. Some days in the past few weeks, she had run a hundred miles in a night, pushing herself to the brink of complete and utter exhaustion.

To go from numerous burning-hot fucks daily, her male always knowing (just as every other werewolf male did) when she was in heat, making sure she never endured the pain of unsatisfied lust, to entering the barren wasteland that was Beacon Hills, Mary had had to improvise. There were plenty of strong, nubile boys in town (even a few men)…if she saw someone she liked and was in the right, i.e. unbearably horny, mood, she would sample. Tonight, though it had become her M.O., she couldn't face another impersonal coupling, couldn't endure the disconnect and emotional hollowness that came after meaningless physical intimacy, having sex for the sole purpose of getting off. To release the tension, the feeling of being powerless, frustration over her lot, and to momentarily forget how broken she was.

She had gone home to change out of her school outfit, into her sports-bra and little shorts, plaited her hair, and as she ran, pushing herself to extremes, she couldn't help but laugh breathlessly at the irony, Allison's face flickering through her mind as she introduced the boy she had brought home.

That wasn't normal behaviour for Allison, who had sworn off boyfriends due to their constant moves. But oh, the irony, Allison falling for a little wolf! The poor kid had no idea what he was about to put himself through. To have to hide what he was, from the experts who had dedicated their lives to eradicating his—her—kind. Mary's mother and father would never imagine a teen-wolf would come sniffing around their younger daughter, but Mary couldn't help but be amused by the development. A cruel irony, perhaps, one of fate's humorous tricks to keep people humble—it would certainly horrify her parents if they ever found out, definitely bring out their worst side.

Mary had been hiding what she was from her parents—a deeply honourable father and a contrastingly psychotic mother who terrified the shit out of Mary, and always had—for so long that she had perfected it as an art-form. They had never gotten along, but the Mary they had known when she was a little girl had disappeared a long time ago, and they had never really discovered who the adolescent one had become. She hadn't let them, and it was on her that their relationships had been so poor before, but had she not felt the need for complete privacy where her life was concerned and, even more so, secrecy, from her parents, well…it wasn't her fault her parents were Hunters who would give her a free hemicorporectomy in her sleep if they ever got wind that she was one of the monsters who went bump in the night.

But Pippin had once given her some very sage wisdom: "The closer you are to danger, the farther you are from harm. It's the last thing they'll expect."

It had worked so far. Well, Mary had never been around her parents long enough for them to suspect she was anything more than a rebellious teenager hell-bent on getting away from her parents to have a good time in the city, drinking too much, meeting strange boys, sneaking into clubs, possibly contracting an STD or two while she staggered around in too-high heels and too-short shorts, experimented with dramatic makeup, was frequently stoned or staving off a hangover by drinking more. Her friends, her pack, had been a joyous, exuberant gang of people all drawn together by the Bite, either wolves by heritage or accident—or a lifesaving choice, like Mary—a sprawling, larger-than-normal pack with its own sub-cliques; the career adults and parents, the teenagers and young-adults (who made up the majority and had their own territory in the city, threw the most hardcore parties and had the most fun) and the baby.

All gone, now.

Mary was alone.

An Omega.

After a year of escapism, using the bond with her pack-mates to get away from the rigid terror imposed on her by her domineering, she-dragon mother and build herself a safety-net of strong friendships, a family, and even a relationship that had helped her through the worst time in her life, she was suddenly, inextricably…alone. She had been driven out, abandoned by the people she had come to look upon as her family, with much stronger bonds with any of them than her own flesh and blood.

She now lived in complete, undiluted terror of discovery—of the threat of what would happen if she was discovered. And she had no escape. For the first time in her life, Mary had had friends, deep friendships based on one single mutual circumstance, a bond she had believed was unbreakable. She had had a boy she loved, who helped her forget, and forgive herself, and live. Above all things, her pack had taught her how to, not just survive past tragedy, but thrive in its aftermath.

They had taken all that away by pushing her out. For something that was out of her control completely.

Mary scowled, pushing her burning muscles harder, running faster, feeling the searing pain in her lungs that let her know she was pushing her limits. When she ran, pushing her body, her muscles burning, her lungs about to explode, her blood rushing to every part of her body, thundering in her ears, the confusion of the scents kicked up around her, the focus it took not to trip while her eyes scanned every tiny detail and almost got hooked every time, she stopped feeling the punishing, gnawing ache in her chest, the one that had grown daily since the pack had made their decision, engulfing her chest, her entire being.

She couldn't forget the ache was there, a permanent part of her like her tattoo and her retractable claws, but when she ran, she could stop feeling it. And that sweet reprieve was what she had striven for each night, as much as trying to work off the sexual frustration her male had sentenced her to by rejecting her.

It wasn't just that he had rejected her from a relationship. He, and the rest of the pack, had agreed amongst themselves to reject her from the city.

A year… A full year, Mary had become part of their family. Just like that, and with no real reason, she had been kicked out of it.

She was stuck with parents whom she lived in terror of, and a little sister who was too perfect in said parents' eyes for Mary to really like most of the time.

She kept running, revelling in the freedom, the release, and as the breeze shifted, the fine hairs at the back of her neck rose, her senses sharpened, every fibre of her being going on alert, rigid with tension as she took in the scent, and dodged, knowing whoever it was anticipated her to do so, ducked and took an aggressive stance, arms straight, fangs bared, a low growl sounding from deep within her chest as the werewolf who had been tracking her roared and tumbled over her, instead of knocking her down as they had intended. She had the advantage, her attacker disoriented by her abrupt change in stance.

She was in brand-new territory, hadn't until today picked up the scent of any werewolves in town, but she wasn't a submissive and never had been, wouldn't back down, and would fight to protect herself and show her mettle to whoever dared attack her. She had been trained—and if someone threatened her, or her pack, Mary was ruthless.

In her pack they'd called her Bloody Mary for a reason.

Because if the right buttons were pushed, she could test even an Alpha in ferocity—considering she had been trained as a Hunter before receiving the Bite, her skill in combat had been one of the first things the pack had noticed during her training…when they finally got her to respond. Getting her ass royally handed to her every day had been some sort of physical penance to assuage the emotional turmoil she had endured for months after her accident.

But this was new territory, there was no pack here that she had yet discovered, if this was another Omega she had to protect herself to prove her strength, or kill the other werewolf for her own survival if they didn't back down.

As they settled, she instantly noted the other werewolf's stance—eyes blazing icy-blue, elbows bent, head ducked, not a submissive stance, but not an aggressive one either. In the canine world, the play-bow was a sign between two dogs, or wolves, that they were playing. That it wasn't aggressive, wasn't a threat. Her attacker didn't intend her harm, at least not yet, but with her aggressive stance, he knew she wasn't messing around. She couldn't afford to.

Mary sighed, ran her tongue over her fangs, and straightened, dusting her hands and eyeing the male as he took stock of her in turn, slowly straightening, never making an aggressive movement. Panting for breath, her adrenaline doing its thing, her legs trembled after so much punishing exertion, and she took in his appearance. Very dark hair slightly mussed from a tumble in the woodland debris, and skin so starkly pale in contrast he made a stunning visual; combined with luminous grey eyes hard and guarded, and very strong arms, he made a very attractive visual.

"I didn't intend to attack you. I just want to talk," he said calmly, but with a steely edge Mary recognised from alpha-males she had known (not even in the werewolf world; there were some men who just had the authoritarian bite in their tone that made others aware of their elevated status). It was the kind of tone that chased away any thought he might be lying. And anyway, the impression she got from him was that he was more curious and wary of her than anything. As for herself, Mary was rife with tension; having stopped running, all of her heightened senses—her heightened lust, the desperation burning between her thighs, the hopeless yearning and betrayal mingled to make her tremble with the effort it took to try and suppress those feelings. She didn't know who this was, but he was no Alpha, and within hours of meeting Allison's boy-wolf Scott she was being accosted by another Beta?

"It figures there'd be an older werewolf in town just in case," she panted softly, wincing in discomfort as she shook her legs to ease the muscles jumping, bones about to break from such vicious exertion followed by a complete and unexpected standstill.

"Just in case what?"

She glanced up at the male. Those mercurial grey eyes were hypnotising in the moonlight. She canted her head to one side, thoughtfully, and said, "In case a migratory Alpha left a few turned victims behind and didn't bother to claim them."

"Migratory?" He scowled. Mary eyed him carefully.

"If the Alpha who bit Scott isn't in town, where are they?" she said. "I've been running around this whole county for weeks, trying to figure out if there are other werewolves around, making sure I'd not run into any local packs' territory accidentally."

"There are none," he said quietly. There was such starkness to his harsh, mesmerising features, his face so expressionless yet so full of anger, anguish, a tangible sorrow that…that a tiny part of Mary recognised it, because every cell in her body was drowning in it too, and that flicker of recognition, of understanding and compassion, softened her. The tension between them melted, and Mary sighed softly. She glanced at him, searching his face. No local packs, but here he stood, a strong Beta, old enough to assume Alpha status in his own pack if the old one died, alone. There was so much loneliness emanating from him, Mary felt a deepening pang in the persistent ache in her chest. "You have your aunt to thank for that."

Mary frowned, canting her head as she glanced up at him, surprised. "My aunt?"

"Kate Argent," he said coldly. Rage roiled off him in waves so virulent Mary could almost taste it. She blinked, a little bemused… She hadn't seen her aunt for a year, but before that she had done her best to try and twist her way into Mary's head during her father's rigorous training of Mary as a Hunter. There was something so deeply warped about Kate that Mary had never trusted her, and that distrust had only grown after she had joined her pack in San Francisco and learned what her aunt, what her family, was truly capable of.

The most prolific werewolf-assassins in the world, the Argents were very widely-known in the supernatural world. The Argent family were cautionary tales, stories were told at bedtime to natural-born cubs to warn them what happened to werewolves who didn't learn control. A werewolf never incurred the wrath of Gerard Argent if he wanted to live.

Mary frowned gently, a slight crinkle to her nose as she regarded him. If this male had met Kate…that much anger, she guessed he had run afoul of her a time or two. He was still alive…but thanks to Kate, there were no local packs in Beacon Hills.

"How do you know Kate is my aunt?"

"Scott told me you're Allison's sister," he said quietly. He had firm lips, set sternly, but sometimes there was the tiniest flicker in his eyes that softened the rest of his features.

Mary sighed. "I am."

"By your limited response, I'm guessing you don't think it's any of my business who your family is," he said coolly.

"It's my business to keep you from that family if it means my secret remains a secret," Mary said sternly, gazing unflinchingly at him. Eye-contact was one of the first things her father had taught her during Hunter training; before that, the self-conscious, lonely fifteen-year-old had been too shy to hold someone's eye. Those silver eyes glowed back at her, a hard edge to them trying to mask curiosity.

"They don't know what you are?" he asked.

Mary gave him a completely humourless smile. "Would I be standing talking to you if they did?"

"They would kill their own daughter?"

"The Argents have a code of honour," Mary said quietly. Eye-contact, and the Code, the two things her father had taught her that had always stuck with her, more than any other aspect of her Hunter training. The Code referred to their treatment of werewolves in the battle to protect the human race…but it also made reference to what an Argent did when they found themselves bitten and turning into the very thing they brutally assassinated on a regular basis. "If you don't take care of what they think you have to do, they'll do it for you."

"They'd kill their own daughter?"

"They'd kill the elder if they thought she was a threat to the younger," Mary shrugged. It was a harsh but accepted reality of her life that she was in no way, shape or form the favoured child. She was too resistant, too rebellious; she had her own mind, had stopped taking her parents' advice when she was thirteen, and walking away from Hunter training had been the first in a series of events and arguments that had served to create a wall between them. Said wall was like the Black Gate into Mordor. Impenetrable, littered with mutilated creatures that represented every vicious argument she had had with her parents. That ugliness was a constant reminder and made the wall even tougher to breach.

"Ah. Favouritism," he remarked, with a slight quirk of his lips that seemed to warm his features infinitely.

"Mm," Mary murmured gently, sighing.

"I know the Argents begin training their children as teenagers," he said, those silver eyes glowing at her from the semi-dark. "Did you receive the Bite during one of your first Hunts?"

"I'd walked away from Hunter training before I was bitten," Mary said quietly. His dark eyebrows flickered, bemused. She eyed him carefully. He knew what her family was, knew what she was, so if he wanted to he could make her life a living hell, but he was here, talking to her, a little confused and wary, probably wondering why she was here, in Beacon Hills, an Omega with blue eyes and Hunters for parents. "I decided a life immersed in the supernatural wasn't what I wanted for myself."

The irony wasn't lost on her. And his lips quirked as he let out a soft chuckle. His features softened, flicking those grey eyes to her almost hesitantly.

"Scott mentioned an accident," he said quietly, losing that momentary humour. Mary locked eyes with him, frowning bemusedly, head slightly tilted. How did Scott know about that? She let out a breath, a little stunned… Allison had talked to Scott about Mary? She'd told him about the accident? Memories started niggling at the back of her mind, the screech of tires, rain pattering against glass, metal scraping stone, soft whimpers…the metallic tang of the scent of blood thick in the air, she could almost taste it, the pressure in her ears as she dangled upside-down… Her heart-rate rising, Mary's body started to shiver and twitch, she winced and her lips parted on a gasp at the remembered sound of the sickening, wet crunch of a skull shattering on rock, trying to suppress the memories that she had trained herself to only revisit in her very worst nightmares.

She gulped down the threat of bile, her throat thick and burning, and she took several steadying breaths as her heart-rate skittered. She eyed the male in front of her. "The accident…was nearly a year after I walked away from training. I wasn't…conscious to…to reject the Bite."

"You would have rejected the gift?" He canted his head to the side, curious.

"All I got in the accident was concussion," Mary said, and there was a hard, bitter edge to her voice when she spoke that surprised even her. Her bitterness and anger, her grief, was still there, despite everything she had done this past year to move on from the debilitating guilt and grief that had consumed her—consumed her so much, she was one of the fastest to ever retain control of herself on the full moon. She shook herself, and sighed. "I walked away from training because I didn't want anything to do with my family's heritage… It's funny how things work out, isn't it."

"Maybe it's karmic payback," he remarked, with a surprisingly teasing smile. Mary laughed softly, without humour, because she'd always thought so, too.

"I don't think the Argents would find it quite as ironic," she said quietly. His dark eyebrows flickered. She sighed to herself. "In fact they'd be disgusted. And very quickly figuring out how best to kill me and make it look like an accident to the police." She eyed the male in front of her. He was definitely attractive—most werewolves were, she had found. But he was scarred and brutalised emotionally, she could practically taste it, and distrust emanated from him. But she also…remembered something.

She frowned, head canted to the side as she regarded him. The night of the last full-moon she had gone out just as Allison had been dropped off from a party, she had said Scott had ditched her but he'd orchestrated that someone give her a ride home.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You're the one who gave Allison a ride from the party," she said quietly, eyeing him differently now. She had been invited to Lydia Martin's party by a couple of hot seniors on the swim-team; above all she loved a guy with arm-muscles to spare. And, the full-moon, she had been ready to work out some frustration. The hot seniors had been accommodating. But she had seen Allison leave the party with a shadowy guy—him. He was a strong Beta, yes, he was alone, and for whatever reason he had made sure Allison had made it home when Scott had "gone lunar", as one of her old pack-mates used to say.

He sighed heavily, then fixed her in the eye. "I couldn't let him hurt her."

"He went after Allison?" That surprised her. A new werewolf was usually driven by bloodlust and rage during their first few full-moons, the urge to tear apart anything and anyone it came across—not everyday lust and the primal desire to be near one's mate…

"I think he fixated on her, wanting to be near her, even wanting to protect her," he said quietly, his hands in his pockets. There was something a little more open about his features now, as he talked about Scott.

"Protect her?" Mary gave a humorous quirk of her lips. "From what?"

"From me."

"You?"

"I gave Allison a ride home to make sure he didn't attack her, but when he found out I'd been near her…"

"He assumed you'd intended to hurt her," Mary nodded.

"I got Allison's blazer and hung it in the woods; he followed the scent. I made sure he calmed down," he said quietly. Then he gave her a humourless look. "Before your father arrived with his crossbows."

"Ah," Mary said softly, her eyebrows quirking. "Yeah. I have a trigger-happy family." He made a face, like he knew exactly how trigger-friendly the Argents were, and she quirked the corner of her lips in slight amusement. "So Scott knows about the Argents, then?"

"I made him aware of some of the dangers of being a werewolf," he said quietly, giving her a subtle glare.

"But you're not an Alpha, so you didn't Bite him," she said softly, then frowned thoughtfully. She glanced at him. "Why are you taking so much interest in Scott?"

"Besides not wanting him to reveal our secret, and not wanting innocent people to get hurt because he's resisting my help training him?" he said. Mary chuckled softly. So much distrust oozed from him, she didn't wonder that it manifested into something that made others hesitant to trust him. It was a vicious cycle.

"It's not just that, is it?" Mary said. "Yes, it's the mature werewolves' duty to train new ones, but something is going on, isn't it?"

"What do you know?" he asked fiercely, his eyes shining bright silver in the moonlight. Mary ran her tongue over her canine-tooth, watching him. Tension radiated from him.

"I know wherever my family has moved in the past has always been strategic for Hunting," Mary said honestly, watching his reaction. His eyes tightened, brows drawing close. "So do you want to tell me who bit Scott?" He gave her a very dangerous look, distrust radiating from him like a tidal-wave. Mary quirked an eyebrow. "D'you think, what, I'm going to go home and tell my parents who it is?" Beneath her light, teasing tone, a flare of real anger stirred in her stomach. She knew what her parents did on their Hunting trips, she knew what happened to collateral damage, she had seen a werewolf tortured for information on his pack—she had walked away from that. "Now that I am what I am, I've been putting all of my energy into hiding it from experts who can literally spot a werewolf at fifty paces. My pack were the best friends I have ever had, they were my family. I know how packs really live. But my parents' philosophies are still stuck in the 1700. Being a werewolf is a facet of who I am. For all I know, the one who bit Scott could be a kindergarten teacher who volunteers at soup-kitchens in her spare time."

"You really believe that?" he chuckled darkly.

Mary shrugged. "My Alpha was one of the best surgeons in the country."

"Well, this Alpha killed my sister," he said coldly. Mary frowned. He sighed. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

"No, I don't," she said honestly. He sighed wearily.

"Derek Hale," he said, catching her eye and keeping eye-contact. "I was born a werewolf. About ten years ago, the rest of my family died in a house-fire." Mary stared back at him, as obvious pain flickered across his harsh features. Her stomach cramped. Nearly ten years ago… "Yeah," he said, possibly seeing her thought-process flickering across her face. "Nearly ten years ago. Around about the time your aunt, Kate Argent, a Hunter, lived in Beacon Hills."

Mary exhaled a breath, weariness and sadness weighing on her shoulders, and she dropped her head, shaking it sadly. Derek frowned at her.

"You don't seem very surprised by my accusation."

Mary sighed and glanced up, shaking her head again. "Better than anyone, I know what the people in my family are capable of." She toed a clump of moss. "There's a reason I didn't want to have anything to do with it." She glanced up, eyes widening. Derek Hale. "The body…Laura Hale."

"Yeah," Derek said coolly, with a forced detachment that Mary recognised; she used it herself to conceal how deeply she felt her emotions. "My sister. There's an Alpha in town, I don't know who, but they killed her. Took her status as Alpha."

"And you're here to…kill them? Take that status back?"

"Yes." Mary let out a humourless laugh, nodding.

"And you need Scott?"

"The new Alpha bit him, not Laura," Derek said quietly.

"Ah," Mary nodded, with a little sigh. "So you need to use Scott's connection with this new Alpha to figure out who it is."

"And I need to train him," Derek said quietly. Mary glanced at Derek, eyes narrowing shrewdly.

"What did you promise him?" she asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Derek frowned. "You didn't tell him he could be cured if he kills the one who bit him?" She laughed, genuinely amused. "That was disproved years ago by Hunters who murdered the Alphas who bit them, trying to get out of the Hunter suicide-clause." She chuckled softly. In her pack, that legend was told to new werewolves who were desperate not to be one; the Alpha or the favoured Betas would promise to train them, so they could find and kill the Alpha who bit them…but by the time they finished their training, they had fallen in love with being a werewolf too much. They had fallen in love with the Pack too much.

Maybe the same would happen for Scott.

"Are you going to tell him?" Derek asked sternly. Mary glanced at him.

"He doesn't like the gift?"

"You said you didn't want it," Derek shot back. Mary shrugged slightly.

"I didn't have a choice," she said quietly. "I've made the best out of what hand I've been dealt…or I did…" She had been able to make the best out of being a werewolf because she had been surrounded by some of the very best people she had ever loved, in the place she loved best in the world. But that was gone, now.

"Scott didn't have a choice either."

"Why doesn't he want it?"

"He doesn't think he can…have the life he wants, as well as be a werewolf."

"He'll learn."

"Not if he continues to resist my help training him," Derek muttered.

"Maybe it's your attitude," Mary suggested. He shot her a dark glower, and she laughed softly. She sighed softly. "I won't take away the hope Scott has…but in time he'll probably come around."

"You think so?" There was a teasing smirk on Derek's lips, his eyes illuminated with amusement.

Mary sighed miserably, eyeing him. "Everyone does, eventually." She pursed her lips thoughtfully, eyeing Derek. She sighed heavily, and said, "I understand what you have to do, to avenge your sister. But if you came after me to ask for my help—"

"I wanted to know your parents aren't using you to infiltrate and destroy packs," Derek corrected, and Mary sighed sadly. Even he had thrown that at her, and they had only just met. She was cursed by the circumstances of her life and the circumstances of her birth: she was a werewolf whose parents were werewolf-hunters.

She lived in fear of them.

She would never help them. Because helping them implied she would ever reveal what she was to them.

And the people who knew that, who should have known her far better by now, had thought she might one day see the method behind her parents' madness and partner up with her psychotic aunt, routing werewolf-packs all across America. She had been pushed out of the Pack, not because she had done anything wrong, but because the safety of the pack was of the utmost importance. And if it meant the happiness of one young Beta had to be sacrificed so the rest could remain safe, whole, then so be it.

The final insult had been them saying she could take care of herself. She was a young, very strong and clever Beta. She'd had the training, she knew how her parents operated; they thought she could survive on her own.

Which, to her, had basically said, 'We've had a great year, but we want you to get the hell away from us and we don't particularly care what happens to you next.'

"When a Beta from a rival pack threatened the baby, I ripped the heart out of his chest with my hand," she said coolly, staring at Derek, her hackles rising. "I protect my pack. I did protect it. By whatever means necessary—I don't help warped zealots murder innocent people in the name of protecting mankind." In her opinion, Man deserved whatever the hell it got.

"They asked you to leave," Derek said quietly. Her old pack. Mary's shoulders slumped, feeling emotionally exhausted, eyes tired and heavy. Her tongue poked between her teeth to sweep across her lips.

"I thought they knew me better," she whispered, exhausted. 'Crushed' was a better word. 'Heart ripped open' was another phrase that fit.

He'd ruined her momentum. She jogged home, dawdled, really, coming up to the quiet street of oversized houses lacking personality in the early moments just before dawn. She stood on the street in the dark and stared at the house for a few minutes, heaviness weighing on her insides, more lethargic due to emotional baggage than physical overexertion. Home.

What a joke.

A.N.: Please review! I know I deserve corporal-punishment for not updating in six months, but I had shit to do!