art by crypsis
Max had killed before. He knew what it was to fight, to taste blood, to hear his heart pounding in his ears. There was something that changed in a man when he killed—he had known it the first time, and known it again when a sword had cut his side up deep enough to leave that jagged, wicked scar. Yet for his talent on the field, his abilities to act and fight, he had never wanted power. It was his place to follow and to aid others; he could never lead, for who would follow a monster?
Gradually, his posture relaxed. The fur along his neck lowered, his tail undid itself from between his legs, and he sank to his haunches. Yellow eyes traced the lines of her face, the parts where red bled through, and trailed up to her eyes. There was no challenge in them. He wanted someone to understand him, and right now, she was the only one who seemed capable of such a thing. After all, Ezekiel had chosen her. She had to be something special.
“I’m sorry,” he started, and the anger on his face drained into something less. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just…I’m angry, and I don’t know what to do.”
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