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"Thanks for feeding me."

The sizzling of heated oil has always excited me for some reason. Maybe it is because, as someone who enjoys cooking, I was unable to eat any food I prepared. I do find myself wishing I could down a good brew and finish a steak without vomiting it up later. When I had first been turned, I learned the hard way that my barely-functioning stomach just could not cooperate with most solids, no matter how much my brain longed for them. I turned from the stovetop to hand Ivan a plate of bacon and an omelette. He wrestled his fingers from a playful Erin to take it from me. The current time was 4 am. I had sensed Ivan outside the house as I showered, and though I was thoroughly creeped out, I assumed he had an explanation. He has yet to offer it to me, however, leaving me slightly nervous and a little afraid of him. I cannot tell if he notices my unease as I perch lightly on the seat across from his in the small dining area, taking care not to look at him.

Silence ensues for a few moments as he spears a piece of egg on his fork and devours it. I am extremely eager to hear his thoughts on my cooking, as I have never had any of it. He stopped chewing for a moment, eyes wide and fork raised. My shoulders sagged as I believed him to be fighting the urge to gag. Then, all in the same second, his chair legs screech loudly and he raises the hand with the fork again.

In that instant my body becomes panicked. My mind realizes that he is probably rushing to take another bite, and that there is nothing to fear. But the memory of someone in a similar position above me with his hand held up causes me to flinch away from him, slightly more noticeably than I had intended. He stops for a moment, fork back in the egg, to stare at me questioningly.

Before he can say anything, I jump up and head to the cabinets to get him a glass. "Would you like something to drink?" I ask as I reach up to grab a cup. But just as I do, I involuntarily shudder at the short flashback and the unwelcome memories it has resurfaced. The glass falls out of my fingers and onto the countertop, where it shatters and cuts my hands like they are paper.

Another silence takes hold for three extended seconds, after which I shakily consolidate the scattered pieces into one pile on the granite. My congealed blood seeps out ever so slowly, small pools of black speckled over the surface. I heard Harim and Jacob at the head of the stairs, felt their worry and uncertainty. "I'm sorry," I managed after a moment, a little shaken. "I'll get another for you-"

I stopped my sentence short when Ivan yanked my hands away from the glass shards. "You don't feel it?" he asked, referring to the glass stuck in my skin. He glanced up at me with a look that seemed to call me stupid before he began gently pulling the fragments out of their pockets of blood in my hands.

I hissed when a particular piece tugged at the cut as he removed it, attempting to calm myself. "Because our bodies are mostly dead, the way pain is felt varies. With these cuts, the initial actual cutting does hurt because my skin is ripping. However I do not feel pain when bleeding. If you were to hit me-" I thought back to the incident at the table a few moments ago and faltered- "...both the punching itself would hurt and the bruising. Since my body heals so slowly, I would feel pain even in the formation of the bruising itself and as it heals."

He just continued picking out little pieces, his dark eyes completely focused on his task. Twice he cut himself while helping me, but they healed over within a minute of their existence. I was rather envious. He saw me staring and smiled as he worked. "For werewolves it's quite the opposite." His breathy whisper flew over my skin, causing slow tingles to travel over my palm. Even his breath is hot as fire, and I flinch away at the sudden heat. He glanced up at me again with a commanding look, pointedly pulling my hand back to him. "We don't usually feel the smaller cuts and abrasions and they heal in short periods of time. If someone ran me through with a sword, my body would focus first on fixing the ripped up organs, and then eventually work on the skin. Depending on what nutrition I've been eating and how strong I am, healing could take anywhere from a day to a week. I'm one of the strongest in my pack. Fourth in command. So I heal pretty fast." He straightened his back proudly. He spoke the words as though he were trying to impress me, but I froze. I had no idea he was so high-ranking. That only makes our situation even more suspicious. Why is he following me? Who is he answering to? Is something being planned?

I jumped when he bent his head down and, nose pressed against my left palm, licked over my injuries with careful gentleness. My hands are burning with the closeness of his body, the muscle that is his tongue exuding an almost unbearable fire. Though stiff, I allowed him to finish the other hand, squeezing my eyes shut in concentration so that I wouldn't rip it away from him. It was just so hot! When he pulled back, I heard him gasp. I peeked down at my hands and they were flushed a light red tone, almost as though they belonged to a human. But in comparison to the rest of my body, the colour looked dark as my own blood. "What the hell?" he muttered, examining my hands thoroughly. The cuts had been numbed and the cool air after his head moved away caused the colour to fade slowly.

"The heat from your body..." I relaxed when it vanished completely. "It burns sometimes. This happens with humans, but I suppose it is very strong with werewolves." The time on the stove read 4:14. I pulled apart from him and ran to my room in the basement to grab my coat, catching my reflection in the mirror. My usually pale skin still held a tinge of red, my grey eyes were lidded and sunken with small bags hanging under them. When Ivan's heavy footsteps came from the stairway, I headed quickly back out, glancing around at my messy room. He stopped at the doorway, and I attempted to push us into the hallway to shut my door. However he got a good three seconds of sight, eyes glimpsing my unmade bed, the stacks of paper and books, the dusty curtains, and various other eccentricities.

His face screwed up as he released a violent sneeze. "Woah," he whispered. "Your room smells like you and moldy books." He grabbed my hand and yanked me up the stairs, waving quickly to Jacob who watched us leave. The only response he could give me when I mouthed "Help" to him was a playful smirk. "You'll be late for work," he said while we crossed the street. "Though you wouldn't have to leave so early if you had a car." He seemed to remember he still held my hand and released it, looking down and then back at me again. "I can wear gloves from now on, if you'd like."

I shook my head, following him in the dim morning light around the corner. "I'm afraid a car would do me no good, as I cannot drive. And it does not hurt that much. Extended contact may cause a serious burn, but I will be fine-"

"You can't drive?"

He had stopped walking and I turned to face him, his brown eyes wide in surprise. The look in his eyes made me very ashamed, though I had not previously ever seen it as a problem. "I do not like to drive," I muttered, starting forward again and shoving my hands uncomfortably in my pockets. "And I cannot afford a car, and Jacob's was involved in an accident, which I was present for. I am not eager to learn."

He caught up to me and was silent until we reached the coffee shop. He walked in with me but grabbed my shoulder to turn me around. "I'm going to pick you up after your shift and I'm going to teach you to drive." And he walked out the door without looking back.

"I think he's pretty into you," Alexandre called from behind the register. I glanced at him as I travelled to the back room to grab my apron, rolling my eyes at his smirk. I'm not quite sure what this statement means exactly, but I understand the general feeling. "You reciprocating?"

I thought about it while tying my apron on. The more time I spent with him, the stronger this bubbling in the place my heart once resided became. It was quite slow, quite subtle, and more and more painful. What is it? Whatever it is, it hurts.

Alexandre's black-haired head popped into the doorway, green eyes full of mirth. "I take your silence to be an affirmation." He smacked my butt lightly as he headed past me for some supplies. I've noticed Alexandre is a very handsy individual, and that it is nothing more than his way of communicating. Nevertheless, it always both scared and flustered me incredibly. The same effect was placed upon me when he pecked my cheek on the way out of the room, laughing at my surprised expression. "You should go for it, man!"

I touched the burning spot on my right cheek, then chuckled to myself, following the teen out of the room. "Alexandre, you... you are a very strange young man. But..." I paused in thought, his eyes on my expectantly. "I believe I shall take your advice."