Life•blood

Noun

The indispensable factor or influence that gives something its strength and vitality.

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The man's receding footsteps echo down the corridor, pounding softly against the stone floor. The drawn-out squeal of a door neglected of oil screeches again, making its movement known.

For a second time, the light divided into faint lines across my skin appears, shining through the maze of metal and stone that makes up the dungeon. The loud slam of a latch rings out, signaling that whatever door that had been opened is now closed, cutting off my direct route of escape.

A new scent fills my nose, quickly analyzed in the air by my inhuman sense of smell. It's masculine, werewolf, and of a higher level of dominance, although not enough to withhold the title of Alpha -- a definite Beta.

Yet another scent compiles atop that one, overpowering it-- this one incapable of comparison to any essence within existence or even imagination.

The blood flowing within my veins pulses wildly in desire and ardor, quickening its course. It's as if every trace of the drugs injected into my body vanishes into oblivion, my strength revitalizing with rapidity. A sharp intake of air forces itself into my lungs, rejuvenating my whole being as if to safeguard my life.

My vision begins to change, redness washing over it; like trickles of blood smeared on a camera lens.

My insides feel as if their tightening all at once, condensing, solidifying, the beast awakening like a tidal wave in an endless ocean.

Through crimson sight I watch as a door in the bars of my cell swings inwardly open. A tall, dirty blond strides in, his eyes paying no concern to me, but rather what's coming behind him-- and what my full interest is trained on more intently than a starving lion on a fresh piece of meat.

Through the door of the cell walks the quintessence of everything good, the complement of my existence.

He has a tall stature of magnificence, with medium ash brown hair, combed over on the top and shaven shorter on the sides. His eyes are like two suns in a starless sky, the golden yellow irises that are all but glowing in the dark.

In seconds the sublime figure is in front of me, ripping the chains from my form and disregarding the scorching silver and searing wolfsbane as if they're nothing more than cotton balls being thrown at him.

My body falls like a bag of soaked sand from where I was previously bound, my middle landing on his shoulder. Hands immediately secure my weight, placed on the back of my thighs and the small of my bare back. A mix of contrasting elements burgeons from his skin touching mine to create a purely pleasurable sensation; like frosted electricity set aflame.

Gingerly, my feet are lifted to the ground, allowing for me to stand upright. I ignore the chill that travels up my shins from the cold stone of the floor.

His hands find what seems like their home on each of my unclothed sides, mine latching onto his upper arms, gently squeezing them for evidence of his reality.

Specific words surface to my mind, each of them describing him perfectly. Solid. Strong. And what has been denied from me for 8 long and blood-painted years, refuge.

My insides claw at themselves like a newly empowered fledgling wanting to test its limits, reminding me of my change, my strengthening, my reinvigoration.

The sensation evokes new instincts within me, ones that are alien and strange. Instincts of protection and gentleness, warmth and...love.

"You'll never die, little wolf. Not once you meet him. He'll keep you safe, and just being being near him will make you invincible, his mere presence giving you strength beyond any other."

My small nose wrinkles as my eyebrows squint together.

"Who are you talking about, Daddy? I don't want to meet anyone." My innocent eyes peer up at my father in confusion.

His form, giant compared to my 6-year-old height, bends itself to equal my level. His hands rest themselves on my minuscule yet sturdy shoulders, his emerald eyes, mirrors of my own, staring into me with intensity.

"Your Lifeblood, little wolf. One day he'll find you and you'll never be in harm's way again, nor will he. The beast will become unkillable with the first whiff of his scent." His voice is calm, yet there's a seriousness to it that turns the soothing sensation into one of fear.

"Ew, she's gonna become a softie. Needing protection by some boy." My older brother sneers, walking through the frame of the door.

My father stands up at the arrival of his son who comes to stand by him, the 9-year-old barely coming above our father's waist.

"The same goes for you, Lyndon. Both of you will understand some day that you will lay everything on the line for a single person, as they will you."

The next words I speak are nothing more than blissful ignorance and blind, foolish falsities. "But father I don't understand. Why do we need to be protected? We have the pack all around us. Nothing could ever take them away."

This feeling inside, of invincibility, of endless strength. Its meaning is now clear.

Immortality.

The beast will become unkillable with the first whiff of his scent.

This is my Lifeblood. My everything. Part of my purpose for ever being conceived, for ever taking a first breath.

My eyes meet the golden yellow ones staring back at me, them containing more worship within their honey-colored depths than the ocean has water.

"What's your name?" His voice is low and smoky, for my ears alone to perceive. If faced with the dilemma of hearing another word from his mouth or going to Heaven to stay, the former would win without hesitation.

With realization of what he's asking slight panic begins to brew inside my stomach.

He wants my name? The name that many consider merely speaking a sin?

To tell him my name would be to throw away 8 years of savage survival. To have the whole nation cursing me into damnation once again.

The surname I bare is the one notoriously known of the Lycans-- the one that people have pegged monster, abomination, and holy menace to in relevance of it. But the forename labeled on me 16 years ago could belong to anyone or anything.

And so I give him his answer quietly, my own name sounding foreign and odd on my tongue-- the result of not being spoken or even thought of in nearly a decade.

"Amber."

"Amber." He repeats, fresh pride coating his tone.

Again he speaks it, this time dragging it out as if to get more information. "Amber..."

A growl of annoyance catches itself in my throat, the beast refusing to threaten that that's most precious to it.

He still wants my last name.

Lying is something that I was taught to use only when necessary. But lying to him is something that bitterly opposes all inclinations that drive me, all instincts that guide me. I would rather walk over scorching coals for a mile than speak a single untrue word to him.

So I tell him the blunt truth, "That's all you'll get."

A small blade of regret stabs into my stomach, physical pain shooting throughout. His hands' grips on my sides loosens a fraction in despondency, the small action breaking my heart like a pane of glass hitting the bottom of a canyon.

With a change of attitude more sudden than a flash flood, his hold on me tightens again, his eyes becoming hard with determination.

His palm coming to gently brace the side of my head, his thumb slides across the skin above my brow to leave a trail of missing sweat.

His voice is quiet as his face inches closer to mine, his words nothing less than an irrevocable promise.

"I'll make you trust me."

Every part of my being wants so fervently to dismiss this statement as frivolous shallowness, to pass it off as only lightweighted ramble whose words have no value. But the likelihood of that is the same as my kin walking-- impossible.

My hand raising, it mirrors his actions; my thumb caressing his forehead and my palm resting in front of his ear. My voice carries sad pleasance in its tone, the denotation of my words contradicting it.

The ghost of a visibly false smile floats across my face.

"You're callow to try."

His reaction is unchanging, absorbing my response with a face of stone. The golden, prepossessing eyes belonging to him begin to change, shifting to an exotic blue and not once leaving my pupils throughout the course of their transit.

From the door in the bars a male voice interrupts, calling out. The mesmerizing blue depths remain on me, infatuated, roaming over the every centimeter of my face.

"Hey Octavian! Your old man wants to talk to you when you're done here."

My eyes follow the voice across the cell, targeting its source-- the dirty blond male who my sense of smell had dubbed with the title Beta.

My eyebrow cocks itself upward. "Octavian?"

A subtle smirk plays across his lips as the fingers of one hand leaves my ribs to take control of my chin, the irresistible sensation traveling up my jawbones like growing vines.

My head is careened toward the stony ceiling by his command. His cheek touches mine with the elegance of a ghost's wisp moving against my skin until his lips reach my ear.

"Asher Octavian."

He speaks his name in near silence, yet I can hear the words as clearly as if they were being screamed.

A feather-like kiss is placed on my jawline, chilling my spine into immobility.

He pulls away despite the desperate yearning for him to stay.

"Now come," he embeds his fingers between mine, "You need to heal."

///

A/N:
You finally found out Amber's name!

And what do you think of Asher? Yay or nay?

Now for other matters, I have some graphics to address.

First, I'd like to thank smilechild2 for the amazing banner I requested to have made.

I'd also like to thank burningbrightishly for making two amazing quote arts. (My old username is used is them btw.)

Thank you all for reading! Please vote and comment if you liked it!