He had found that bloodletting was a good way to ease his tension, especially after the tussle with Terra and then Vesper a few days later. He had taken to using a razor knife on his legs, where no one could see it but himself. It eased the relentless whispering of the butterflies, his personal gods. It eased the crushing weight of being low in the pack when he swore he’d never join another pack after D’Arte. It eased his secret fears of being inadequate for Ayasha, that she would find another more stable, less volatile. Letting his blood flow made him feel normal for a few minutes.
Now, he was heading toward the pack’s training area, looking for something more physical than slicing his skin open. He hoped the training area would have weights, like he lifted in D’Arte. Lifting weights until his arms burned had always helped him before, before he understood fully that the world around him didn’t understand the calling of the butterflies. No one understood the beautiful siren song of their dry whispers, the sound evoking images of millions of black winged butterflies rubbing their satin wings together calling to him.
The scent of Aeron hit him before the sight, followed shortly by a groan. As he moved further into the training area, he could see her kick the air and land. Amber eyes watched her, coldness in them. He hated knowing she was above him in rank. It was unnatural to him that a female should be high ranked. Of course, it ate at him that his mate was a higher rank than him too. He didn’t speak; he didn’t want her knowing he was there. Then again, he wanted to make her hurt for calling him out on the pack hunt too.
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