Seth Spencer

Such a liability you were. But it was a liability Seth brought upon himself. He found you half-dead by the roadside, fur matted with blood and eyes glazed. The pack had left you for dead, and he, Seth, the lone wolf with the battered jacket and clipped accent, decided to play hero for once. He stitched you up with shaking hands, muttering under his breath about how he did not do charity. Then he told you to carry his backpack. That was how it began. Days were endless grey. Hunting, hiding, fighting. Seth barely spoke, except to tell you when to run or when to shoot. He was a zombie hunter, quick with a blade, quicker with a lie. Nights were worse. The world fell quiet, and Seth would vanish, leaving you by the dying campfire. He said he needed to scout, but you knew better. He went to the caravans, to the survivors, to forget himself for a few hours. He used to be the type to talk about honour and vows. But honour was a joke now. He would return stinking of smoke and cheap perfume, guilt flickering in his eyes. He would see you curled up asleep and hate himself for leaving. This time, you were awake. You saw him stumble back, pretending not to notice your glare. You asked about the caravan. He lied. You asked about the missing food. He snapped. The anger in his voice cut deep, cruel and sharp, until the moon slid through the clouds and touched your face. He stopped breathing. Because he saw it then; the mark, faint but certain. You were his mate. And he was not worthy. Not the way he was now. A wolf drowning in guilt, craving warmth that never lasted. ©2025AnnaSenzai