He was bored - bored, alone, and trapped, with nowhere to go.
Leaning his head back against the side of his queen-sized bed, Leif took a deep breath, held it for a few, long seconds, then finally expelled it, crystal blue gaze immediately honing in on the source of his petulant state - in the form of a four by eight family picture featuring one deceased mother, one overbearing father, and one, little wolfie trapped under his fatherâs boot with an itch to rebel. He didnât know how long heâd been sitting on the floor of his moderately decorated bedroom - mostly blues and grays, with black thrown in there for shits and giggles; he just knew hours had passed since heâd last spoken to his fatherâs security guards. The paranoid, old fool had wanted to station them outside his apartment - a twenty-four-hour surveillance, or so heâd demanded - but Leif had refused, threatening to take the first bus out of Las Vegas if he forced the issue. It wasnât that he didnât love the man. He did. He just happened to love his freedom more.
   That wasnât quite right.
 He loved both equally, but he absolutely refused to budge on the latter.
That was not to say, however, that he didnât take his fatherâs warnings to heart; because he did. He had. An expected outcome, considering that he was more than familiar with Reginald Halpainâs work history - knew just enough to not only keep a low profile but to also spot threats before they had the chance to storm his life, completely overwhelming him. Personally, he couldnât understand why the old manâs previous employer wanted them dead. So what if heâd decided to settle down with a warg and leave that stress-inducing, batty life behind? Â
     You canât help who you fall in love with.
  Hey, there had to be some truth to that idiom. Why else would they write so many songs about it?
At the end of his rope - the poor thing was seconds away from snapping - Leif jumped to his feet in a singular, fluid motion, a gift from his motherâs side of the family, and plodded over to the large, sliding glass window, wanting to let some fresh night air in to see about airing out the irritation he currently struggled with.
     God, but he felt like a misbehaving child, seeking repentance for his shameful thoughts.
Flipping the latch open, he gently pushed the window open and would have gladly breathed in the fresh, crisp air if not for the shocking appearance of a black-gloved hand clinging to the windowsill - and attached to that hand was a black-garbed male who clearly harbored ill intentions judging from the dangerous piece of metal currently in his possession. Gaping down at the stranger, Leif briefly considered shutting the window but soon realized the impossibility of that action when he took note of the manâs close proximity to it and him - and so he settled on a muttered, âI ⊠uh ⊠think you have the wrong window.â
How highâs five stories, really? Can that kill me?
Doing what youâre never supposed to do while holding on for dear life â looking down â Thaed gulped, knuckles ghosting against brick.
The nearest car looked a little bigger than his foot, give or take. Totally survivable, right? âYou couldnât have just taken the stairs,â he grunted under his breath, ignoring the stupid, chirpy little voice that rang out a mocking âor you could have just fucking sniped him.â It would have been bloody cleaner, but those stupid fuckers hadnât the insight to equip him with some magical way to conceal a gun. Oh hell no. That would mean using deductive reasoning and logic. Besides, with the way everyone and their dog collars were hooked up with cameras something more close range was necessarily. You canât just waltz around all willy nilly joe casual with a bloody sniper rifle.
Even if itâs in a case.
Oh shit. This was it. Goodbye cruel world.
The squeak of glass and metal cut his panicked introspective into two eyes wide open. Was heâ he was! The fool was totally opening the window. Who does that? Seizing his chance, Thaed thrust an arm forward, hand weighed down by his glock, dangling all nonchalant over the windowsill. âThe wrong window?â He parroted, the cadence to his voice full of skepticism, the sort of sure, thatâs what they all say kinda dismissal. It should be noted he still leaned wildly backwards (in spite of his earlier fear of falling) and seemed to do a mental calculation. This was totally fucking it.
A split-second later and with the gun clenched in his teeth he was climbing insideâ that itself a task, graceful entrance totally a fail. It was a small window, or at least the portion that was open, and he wasnât. Small. Thaed made up for it by springing up to his feet with the prowess of a predator, the clock finding itâs way out of his mouth to point at the targets head â aww fuck, heâs just a kid. Not that it mattered. It's not Hannah.
âYouâre Leif Halpain arenât you?â He lined up his shot, the barrel end wobbly under all the tension in the air and holy shit were those the bluest fucking eyes. âThose contacts?â Thaed asked casually, knocking the safety off (what, you thought I put a loaded gun in my mouth without being safe?) He took a step forward, finger finding trigger, and damn those eyes. Large and pleading, they were electric, the space between them sparked and sizzled. He squeezed his finger, trigger half-depressed, though not enough for the release to catch and just stood there, like an idiot, the tip of the gun still wavering slightly. âI should apologize, Iâm usually a lot better than this.â
Clearing his throat, Thaed gave a half shrug, genuinely sorry. âItâll be quick, clean, youâll hardly feel a thing.â Thaed broke the eyelock that had gotten strangely too intense and stared at his glock like he wanted to beat the thing against the side of the nearby dresser. He did visual the act, like thatâd make the stupid thing work even if innately  he knew the problem wasnât with the gun. Think about Hannah. Think about Hannah. Still he couldnât fucking do it, attention redirected to the picture frame on the dresser. He went to it, glock still aimed at Leifâs head. Totally stalling. âAny last words?â
