JEREMY
The sheer horror on her face nearly shakes me to the core, but I made a vow centuries ago, and now that I've finally found her, there's no way I'm letting her slip through my fingers.
"Yes, Princess, you heard him right. I am now your husband," I declare firmly.
Diana rushes to her father and kneels in front of him, desperation in her eyes. "Pa, please tell me this is a joke," she pleads, gently resting her hand on his.
"Bitch, get your filthy hands off me!" He shoves her roughly.
Without hesitation, I land a punch on his face and move to help Diana, but she declines my assistance, silently sobbing on the floor, muttering one word repeatedly: "Why?"
I lower myself to her level, trying to comfort her. "I can't speak for you, but I can't stand the thought of you living with your father any longer. When I asked him if I could take you off his hands, his reply was short and simple: 'Clear the debt, and she's a slave.'"
Standing back up, I continue, "I know it's wrong, but I'd do anything to get you out of this hellhole."
The house itself isn't shabby; in fact, it has a cozy and homely appearance, a reflection of Diana's feminine touch. It's a charming 4-bedroom bungalow painted in a soothing baby blue hue. The well-trimmed flowers adorning the corners testify to a woman's hard work.
The interior of the house exudes a charming blend of comfort and style, a testament to a woman's meticulous touch. As you step inside, you're greeted by a warm and inviting atmosphere. Soft, earthy tones dominate the decor, casting a soothing aura throughout the space.
The living area, the heart of the home, boasts plush, oversized sofas in shades of cream and beige, adorned with an array of colorful throw pillows that add a pop of vibrancy. A well-worn, but lovingly maintained, Persian rug graces the polished hardwood floor beneath the coffee table, adding an air of sophistication to the room.
Large, sun-kissed windows allow ample natural light to flood in, casting gentle, golden rays that dance across the room's surfaces. Flowy, sheer curtains frame the windows, swaying softly in the breeze and adding a touch of elegance.
The walls are adorned with an eclectic collection of framed family photos, artwork, and vintage mirrors, each piece telling a story of cherished moments and shared laughter.
A vintage, hand-carved grandfather clock in one corner softly chimes, marking the passage of time with a comforting melody.
The adjacent dining area features an elegant, oak dining table surrounded by comfortable cushioned chairs. A gleaming chandelier dangles above, casting a warm glow over the table.
So when I refer to it as a hellhole, it's because of her father. I can't allow my girl to be exposed to this kind of life.
"Go inside and gather whatever you need. Let's get out of here."
Her despicable father takes it upon himself to toss her belongings out of her room. "You don't belong in this house. Leave." He hurls one thing after another at her.
After a while, she rises, wipes her tears, and says, "Let's go."
I raise an eyebrow. "Don't you need anything?"
She barely acknowledges my question. "I'll be waiting by the car." She heads toward the house, casting a lingering look back, likely her way of saying goodbye. Moments later, she's outside, and I sneak a glance at her father, who gazes at her longingly, probably realizing the weight of her departure. He may be her father, but if he ever comes near her again, I might not restrain myself.
"Alright, sir, I guess this is goodbye forever. Use the money wisely, or the next thing you'll lose is your house. Then you'll be alone and homeless." I give a mock salute before leaving the house.
"You're a terrible person," Carlton, my wolf, chides me. What can I say? I can be petty when necessary.
The drive back home is eerily quiet. I give Diana the space she needs; her father's cruel rejection has left her in turmoil. My heart aches when I hear her sniffle, so I turn on the radio and pretend to enjoy the music, feigning indifference to her suffering.
Upon entering our territory, I notice her newfound interest in the scenery. I drive through it as slowly as I can without making it obvious,letting her savor the moment. Gazing at her, I momentarily forget her sadness and a deep sense of peace washes over me. My girl, the one I swore to protect and do anything for.
As we arrive at the pack house, a subtle gasp escapes her lips, and I can't blame her. The pack house is an awe-inspiring sight. It looms over everything in its vicinity, a colossal structure that reaches an astonishing height of nearly 32 feet. Its exterior gleams with a resplendent sheen, catching the sunlight in a breathtaking display of radiance. When the sun graces it with its presence, the entire edifice seems to come alive, glistening like a jewel.
But the true magic happens at night. Under the moon's gentle caress and the soft glow of electric lights, the pack house transforms into a scene straight out of a Disney fairytale. It's as if it stepped out of the pages of a storybook, casting enchanting reflections that dance across the landscape, turning the night into a realm of wonder and imagination.