TRISTAN
I stared across the large, oak dining table at Cecile, her eyes shimmering with curiosity, a twinkle of concern creeping into their edges. She sipped her coffee carefully, her gaze never leaving mine. There was an underlying tension, her every move watched closely by my predatory gaze.
"Cecile," I murmured, my tone measured, "I hope the coffee is to your liking."
She paused, her slender fingers tightening around the ceramic mug. "It's excellent, Tristan, thank you." The tension eased slightly, her posture relaxing. There was silence, the air thick with words unspoken.
"Tristan," she began, her voice cautious, "there's something I wanted to ask you."
I glanced at her, my eyebrow arching, inviting her to continue. The suspicion was evident in her gaze, the wheels in her head turning.
"They say you have a strong distaste for women, almost like a hatred, why is that?" she blurted out. There was no malice in her words, only a quest for understanding, a desire to decipher the enigma that I was.
It was a simple question, one I'd been asked countless times before, though usually in hushed whispers behind my back. But coming from her, it felt different. It held an earnest desire to understand, to bridge the distance that had become my second nature.
I choked on my coffee, the liquid burning my throat. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, a feeble attempt to buy some time, to compose myself before I answered her.
Her question brought back a torrent of memories, a storm of emotions I had kept hidden deep within me. Memories that were a stark reminder of a past filled with pain, rejection, and blood–so much blood.
Each bitter memory was like a shard of glass, cutting into the fabric of my very being, exposing a wound that had never quite healed.
I recalled the biting cold of rejection from my pack, the painful isolation, and the constant fear that gnawed at me from within. Their accusing eyes, filled with hatred and fear, were forever etched in my mind.
The very women who should have nurtured me, cared for me, turned into the monsters that lurked in my nightmares.
The trigger was always the same - the mere scent of a female in close proximity. It awakened the beast within, sent my senses into overdrive, and my bloodlust, usually dormant, threatened to consume me.
The women in my pack, my mother, my sister... they all looked at me with fear in their eyes, their faces twisted in terror. The terrified faces of women as they clung to their young, away from the monstrous child who couldn't control his bloodlust.
I remembered their screams, the scent of their fear hanging heavy in the air.
The sharp sting of silver bullets, the cold bite of chains. The countless attempts on my life by those I was supposed to call my pack. Each attempt on my life was a brutal reminder of my curse. With every passing day, my control waned, and my beast grew stronger. It was a struggle, a relentless battle that left me physically and emotionally scarred.
And then there was the night I ran. The night I vowed to never let another woman fall victim to my uncontrollable urges. To be strong enough to protect myself and ensure that no female would ever come within my dangerous range.
Years of solitude, of self-induced exile, of rigorous training, all to tame the beast within. I had built up walls, created an impassable fortress around me. All to keep them safe. To keep them away.
And yet, there she was, Cecile. The first woman who had dared to approach me and live to tell the tale. The first woman who had not stirred up bloodlust, but a long-dormant emotion that I never thought I would experience again. She had stirred up... concern. Curiosity and possibly a feeling I dared not name.
"Tristan?" Her soft voice broke through my reverie, pulling me back to reality.
How could I tell her? How could I reveal the monstrosity that lurked within me? Would she shun me, call me a freak, recoil in fear and disgust? I couldn't bear the thought. And yet, here she was, patiently waiting for an answer.
I sighed, running a hand through my disheveled hair. "I... I have my reasons, Cecile." I began, my voice low, filled with a heavy sadness. "I keep my distance from women to... protect them."
She looked at me, her expression unreadable. The weight of my words hung in the air, an insurmountable wall between us. She was silent, her eyes searching mine for a truth I wasn't ready to share.
"From what?" Her voice was soft, a gentle plea that gnawed at my resolve.