A/N:
I think this is edited? Kind of? Maybe? Idk, tell me if you see any mistakes that I missed.

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I stir awake from torturous dreams, my skull racked with a nauseating headache.

It's been nine days. Nine miserable, tormented, starving days. I stayed in the same place behind the boxes, laying there as I helplessly let myself rot from the inside out.

Everyone always told me that you needed your Lifeblood to live. Whether that's a myth or not, I don't know, but one thing is for certain; I feel like I'm dying.

My insides feel like they're rotting. My strength is ebbing away. The vitality that he brought me is gone, the vigor killed out. I can't even feel empty now. Emptiness would be painless, and for that I would kill.

In the distance a town nestled into a rocky mountainside comes into view. All the buildings are polished and uniformed: tan with light grey brick edges and brown tiled roofs.

Italy. Beautiful Italy.

To see this place again brings joy to my broken soul. To return to the land that's acted as a safe place throughout my years of surviving.

It's then that those words told to me all those years ago run through my head.

"Survivors aren't weakened. They're experienced. Fortified."

Seven years ago, and it's still fresh in my mind. It's a part of me now, and also a painful memory of yet another person ripped away from me. He's gone now, but his words still play in my head.

Not only does this country remind me of our time together, but it reminds me of Tessiro. He was a warrior god's incarnate, the Alpha of the Sovereign pack. No one could ever match his genius in battle strategy, or even come close to comprehending his intuition for warfare.

If only he had seen it coming that day.

But he didn't. Nobody could. It was impossible to see... it was red.

The boat jerks as a wave hits the side, bringing me out of my thoughts and back to reality.

It soon becomes clear that the humans have no intentions of docking here, the vessel continuing to float by. I heave myself up, my body feeling like worthless deadweight. Stepping up onto the rail and adapting my balance with the rocking of sea beneath, I stand.

And with the rock cliff in sight, I dive.

.

.

.

The night is cold, merciless against my wet skin and sopping clothes. Water drips in abundance from the soaked dress as I pull myself out of the ocean and onto land. Climbing the steep little hill, the city that has always been my refuge is found on top. My feet begin wandering down a narrow street at the edge of town, dark spots appearing behind me on the pavement to mark my trail.

Down the darkened street, a quiet house is deemed my victim. My shopping trip is kept quick and efficient, extra care being taken to avoid having to dispose of a witness while sneaking in and out of the window. When my feet drop back onto the stone pavement, I'm dressed decently and in clothes that don't rob me of both my dignity and ability to breathe.

This city, despite the exotic beauty and refuge it offers, only causes me pain. It's sacred, holding a sentimentality so strong that it hurts to remember. As I walk the dark streets my mind is plagued with memories of the past. Of Cole. Of Tessiro. A nostalgia so bitter sweet.

And then, as if my misery weren't great enough already, the howl builds in my throat again. My canines grind together as it's pushed down in dejected agony, reminding me of why I'm here in the first place... reminding me of Asher.

Hell would be paradise compared to this. I can't take it anymore. It has to end...

Then something catches my eye, an electronic sign overhanging the sidewalk. In neon blue lettering and a curving script it reads: "Giuseppe's - Annega I Tuoi Dolori."

Stopping and tightly closing my eyes, my mind goes to the only solution. Liquor.

Without hesitation, I continue straight through the doors of the establishment and make a beeline through the crowded tables. The thick smell of alcohol burns my nostrils, accompanied by the gagging stench of various cologne-bathed humans.

Settling quickly on a stool at the bar, I knock a single knuckle on the deep red wood, gaining the bartender's attention. The man raises an eyebrow, ready to serve.

"Whisky."

Attentively, his chestnut head ducks beneath the counter, soon coming back up with my golden brown painkiller in hand.

He places a shot glass in front of me, which is soon pushed away by my hand.

I shake my head and point a finger at the container holding the beast's relief.

"Bottiglia."

He simply shrugs and puts it down for me. As he goes off to serve another customer, I do exactly as the sign says.

Annega i tuoi dolori. I drown my pains. I drink until my belly is on fire. I drink until it burns enough to numb the agony of the distance between Asher and I.

And even then it's not enough. Even then, my skin is cold with the absence of his touch and my soul empty without his presence.

But then a question enters my mind that makes me still.

Does he feel it too?

The fruity drink slid to me from across the bar is ignored, too deep in my thoughts to be bothered.

By leaving him to protect him, did I only cause him more pain than what would've came?

A shadow settles over me, gaining no reaction in return.

No... No, he can't feel it. It hurts now, but time will heal for him. He's alive and that's all that matters... Isn't it?

A hand lands on my shoulder, causing every muscle in my body to tense and my attention to be pulled back to reality.

I shove the hand off of me as if it's acidic to the touch, turning to see a bulky man sitting next to me.

"I asked your name, gorgeous. Of course I could just call you Gorgeous because that suits you just as well." His voice is deep and monotone, as if he's done this so many times before that it no longer has an emotional effect on him.

His dark blond hair is combed over on his head, polished stubble covering a sharp jawline in a color to match. Hopeful blue eyes stare back at me, awaiting my answer.

Turning away from him with a cold expression, I send another swig of whiskey down my throat before replying.

"Vaffanculo."

To my utter dismay, the false portrayal of a language barrier doesn't turn him off.

"Oh you speak Italian?" He leans in, as if suddenly interested in a conversation, "You don't look like you're from here."

In one abrupt movement, the bottle of whiskey in my hand is slammed down, and my body turns to face him directly.

"I said fuck off. Now unless you want to watch me paint a pretty little picture of this bar, I'd do it. I'm in quite a red mood today." As my anger rises, my fingers curl into fists to hide the claws growing at the ends.

The stranger's seductive demeanor suddenly falters, and in the place of his flirty attitude is the bitterness of a wounded ego.

"No wonder you're sitting here drinking alone," he shoots up from his stool, jabbing a finger in my face, "You're a selfish bitch. I feel sorry for the last guy who had to deal with you."

My body goes rigid.

The sting of what feels like knives driving into my palms is barely noticed. Nor is the sound of the fruity cocktail's glass shattering against the wall once it leaves my hand. What is heard however, is the satisfying crack of the bastard's forehead as it hits the countertop, my hand being the driving force behind it.

Before I can do any further damage, two arms wrap around my midsection and violently pull me against a hard torso. My feet drag the ground as my body is carried away from the bleeding man.

I don't fight my restrainer, too focused on the sight of crimson liquid leaking onto the countertop to make a sanguine pool around a blond head. The last thing that engraves itself into my mind before the scene is lost in the surging crowd is the white reflection of the lights in the red puddle. Such a pretty color to come from such an ugly truth.

The man was right. 'A selfish bitch... sorry for the last guy who had to deal with you.'

He spoke of Asher as if he knew him. He doesn't know him. He doesn't get to pin my Lifeblood's memory against me. He doesn't get to make our relationship look ugly.

And for that he deserved to die.

It's then when my eyes try to focus back in that I realize everything is blurry. My vision is nothing but a smudge of colors; black from the night, hints of silver from the moonlight, and yellow, possibly from the fading street lamps. My hearing is muffled, otherwise rendered worthless. The energy to even try to speak is nonexistent, leaving my sense of smell the only thing left to function. It's weak, yet my only chance at any perception at all.

The last thing that goes through my barely functioning mind is the distinct scent of the forest. And then it all fades away, the foreign arms carrying me the only thing holding me up.

.

.

.

Held in strong arms, against a solid chest; it's like I'm floating on a cloud. An aura surrounds me, filling my oddly empty insides with a sense of safety. Although the emptiness is suspicious. Unease eats at me, but it's like I'm too drugged to care.

A familiar masculine scent envelops me, but the identity that matches it can't be placed. As if my memory were wiped from me.

My mind, refusing the phantom tranquility, can only think of one thing: Asher. But through all of the fuzz, I can't remember his scent. I can't remember how his touch felt against my skin, or the sound of his voice in my ear.

Then everything-- the senselessness, the fear, the mental stress built up-- collapses on itself, and panic takes control.

Why can't I remember him? Why is he fading away? Am I losing him? No, no, I can't lose him, I can't!

"Amber," a voice calls out to me, pausing my hysteria, "Amber, wake up."

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A/N:
I kinda like this chapter for some reason, idk why. The beginning is kinda meh but I was excited to write the ending of it.

Tell me what you think. Who do you think dragged Amber away from bar and to the forest?