The Mating Run

Chapter 59

In His Eyes: Executioner Zeke’s POV

Pain ripples through me, a searing current that lances down my spine as the bat, adorned with rusted nails, connects with a brutal force.

My lips release a wild and unrestrained howl, its echoes resounding through the forest like a mournful cry for the pain pulsating within me. In the air, the mingling scent of blood, both mine and theirs, lingers, intensifying the raw intensity of the brutal dance happening in the moonlit clearing.

I snarl, my teeth exposed in a menacing display, as defiance blazes in my eyes. The bat-wielder stands before me, his face contorted into a twisted grin, savoring the suffering he has unleashed. However, | am not one to back down easily. A surge of wild anger propels me towards him, my unsheathed claws a testament to my transformation into a creature of darkness, instinctively fighting for survival.

The bat descends again, a malevolent arc seeking to crush bone and sinew.

| dodge, a dance of evasion that defies the pain radiating from my back. The forest becomes a shadowy arena, where the clash of wills and weapons echoes through the night.

My growl is guttural, a symphony of defiance that punctuates the darkness.

Momentarily taken aback by my resilience, the bat—wielder tightens his grip on the weapon, preparing for another strike. But | have the advantage of speed. In response, | swiftly counter with a retaliatory strike, my claws slicing through the air. The smell of fear permeates the atmosphere around him, intensifying my determination.

In the midst of our brutal dance, a flash of movement catches my eye. The machete-bearer, silent and stoic, advances with lethal intent. My senses, honed by years of survival, alert me to the impending threat.

With a predator's instinct, | twist away from the bat-wielder, narrowly avoiding a collision with the looming machete,

The forest watches, its towering trees casting long shadows over the chaotic scene below, Waves of pain shoot through me, a constant reminder of the merciless beating from the bat. Despite everything, the flame inside me continues to rage.

Undeterred by my evasion, the machete-bearer lunges with calculated precision, the gleam of the blade reflecting in their determined eyes. Without thinking, | unleashed a swift kick directly towards his stomach. As the blow lands, the machete—bearer stumbles back, momentarily dazed and struggling to regain their balance. It is a fleeting advantage, a temporary edge that | pursue with unrestrained determination.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

| seize the opportunity, swift and decisive. With a lightning—quick motion, | disarm him, wrenching the machete from his grasp. The balance of power shifts, a pendulum swinging in my favor. The machete, now in my hands, becomes an extension of my feral prowess.

The bat—wielder regains his composure, eyes narrowing with a mixture of rage and desperation. He lunges again, but this time, | am ready. The machete meets the bat in a clash of metal and wood, a primal symphony that reverberates through the clearing.

The forest stands silently, bearing witness to our fierce struggle, a battlefield where destiny teeters on the edge. The pungent scent of blood lingers in the air, a stark reminder of the sacrifices necessary for survival. | snarl, a creature of the night, my canines bared as | battle against the encroaching darkness.

With each swing of the bat-wielder, the earth shook beneath me, the force of their attacks becoming increasingly frenetic. With each parry, the piercing sound of claws scraping against wood echoes through the air, adding to the clash of primal forces. With each swing of the machete, | feel its weight and power as it effortlessly cuts through the thick vegetation, creating a symphony of echoes that bounce off the trees.

The machete-bearer, recovering from the kick, reenters the fray. The forest seems to exhale a collective breath, as if anticipating the resolution that looms on

the horizon. | stand my ground, a lone figure against the backdrop of shadows.

The machete gleams in the moonlight, a silent testament to the ferocity of our struggle. The bat-wielder, sensing the tide turning, grows more erratic in his

attacks.

My lips part and a roar escapes, reverberating through the forest. With each strike, the bat-wielder’s resolve weakens, his movements becoming sluggish under the weight of my relentless onslaught. With a swift swing, the machete connects, delivering a decisive strike that sends him sprawling to the ground.

The machete-bearer attacks, a desperate bid to salvage the waning battle. | meet each strike with a calculated parry, claws and machete colliding in a symphony of chaos. The scent of blood intensifies, a potent cocktail of fear and determination saturating the air.

With each clash, the forest seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy. The machete becomes an extension of my will, a tool of survival wielded against the encroaching darkness. The bat—wielder, still sprawled on the ground, watches with helpless fury.

In a final, desperate gambit, the machete-bearer lunges, sweat dripping from his brow. With a swift maneuver, | counter, the clash of claws and machete echoing through the air, sealing his fate. The machete connects with a resounding thud, causing him to stagger backwards.

The forest falls into a hushed silence, with only the sound of my labored breaths breaking the stillness. | stand amidst the aftermath, machete in hand, a lone figure in the sea of shadows. The bat-wielder and machete-bearer lie defeated, their forms silent witnesses to the unforgiving dance of survival.

The scent of blood still hangs heavy in the air, a visceral testament to the price paid for victory. | take a moment to breathe, the adrenaline-fueled haze gradually dissipating. The clearing, once fraught with tension, now holds a solemn stillness.

In the moonlight, the machete gleams, its blade marked by the remnants of past conflicts. As | lower it, my fingers loosen their grip, and | feel the tension in my muscles slowly easing away. In the silence that follows, my ears strain to pick up

any sound coming from the cabin. The unmistakable odor of blood fills the air, beckoning me towards the heart of darkness. At the beginning of the Mating Run, it’s a different kind of game for me.

The Alpha, with his eyes colder than the winter night, hands me a list of names. No words needed; | get it. These are the ones | have to eliminate. It’s a silent pact, an understanding forged in the shadows of our pack.

Why? No need to ask.

The Alpha doesn’t waste words, and | don’t waste questions. These names, they're not just random. They're problems, thorns in the pack’s side that need plucking.

Punishments in the realm of the Alpha are lacking in strength and fail to yield the intended outcomes. The Mating Run transforms into a macabre celebration, where the ground becomes stained with blood and the pack erupts in cheers, rejoicing the end of their troubles.

As | scan the list, a montage of faces rushes through my thoughts. Among them. are familiar faces, some are complete strangers, but each person has earned their spot in this somber game of chance. Their existence deemed a threat, their demise. sanctioned by the Alpha’s decree.

The Mating Run isn’t just about finding a mate; it’s a calculated purge, a culling of those deemed undesirable. It’s a brutal dance, a macabre waltz where | play the executioner to the twisted applause of the Alpha.

Each name on the list carries a story, a narrative of rebellion, defiance, or perhaps just unfortunate circumstance. But in the Alpha’s eyes, they’re all obstacles, challenges that must be eradicated for the pack’s prosperity.

| don’t revel in this role, but I’ve learned not to question the Alpha’s motives, no matter how unconventional they may be. Survival depends on obedience, an unquestioning and steadfast commitment. The Mating Run is the Alpha’s way of

asserting dominance, of maintaining order in our chaotic pack.

It's a test of my loyalty, a measure of one’s allegiance to the pack. It’s a challenge that will determine who truly stands by their pack.

Like a master puppeteer, the Alpha skillfully tugs the strings, and | obediently dance to his orchestration.

The list in my hands is more than a compilation of names; it’s a testament to the Alpha’s authority. To question it is to sow seeds of doubt that threaten to tear our pack apart. So, | accept the burden, shoulders heavy with the weight of inevitability.

[kill for the Alpha, that much | can admit.

The Alpha, a cunning puppeteer, manipulates the strings of my destiny. He dangles the allure of power like a forbidden fruit, and |, entrapped in the vines of obligation, find myself succumbing to the macabre rhythm of the Mating Run.

If 1 were to kill, the throne of the Alpha could be mine — an irresistible temptation that casts a dark cloud over the atrocities | commit.

As | navigate the labyrinth of the Alpha’s commands, each life extinguished becomes a stepping stone to an uncertain future. The pack, oblivious to the machinations at play, celebrates the Mating Run as a festival of unity.

Little do they know that beneath the veneer of camaraderie lies a darker truth — a truth | am forced to confront with every strike of my lethal blows.

ears.

The Alpha’s voice, like a ghostly whisper carried by the wind, echoes in my

“Zeke,” he tells me, “The road to leadership is constructed upon the bodies of those considered disposable. There is no alternative but to make this sacrifice, no questions asked.”

Acold shiver runs down my spine as | ponder the implications of his words. The Alpha, a master manipulator, exploits my yearning for purpose, for a place of significance within the pack.

The Alpha’s promises are questionable, leaving me uncertain about the truth behind his assurances. Will the towering pile of lifeless bodies | create truly elevate me to the coveted position of Alpha? Could it be that | am nothing more than a pawn, maneuvered in a wicked game that eludes my grasp? My conscience is plagued by uncertainty, but | dare not question the Alpha’s motives, for | cannot afford such a luxury.

With each kill, a dissonance grows within me — a conflict between duty and morality, between blind obedience and the yearning for truth.

And isn’t it simply unfair, no matter how you look at it?

Victor Craft, the Alpha’s privileged son, revels in the warm glow of undeserved rewards, while I, a mere pawn in the Alpha’s scheme, labor in the dark, my endeavors lost in the cacophony of the Mating Run.

Victor, with his silver spoon and golden path, walks through life unburdened by the weight of the kills and sacrifices that mark my journey. His every step echoes with entitlement, a stark contrast to the relentless grind that defines my existence.

In the relentless pursuit of power, the Alpha’s favoritism becomes an ugly display of influence.

Why does he reap the fruits of my labor while |, a mere instrument of the Alpha’s whims, am left with the bitter taste of unfulfilled promises?

The cabin’s door squeaks open, and my scattered thoughts are shattered by the scene inside. There’s this lady, a complete stranger, sitting on the floor, holding Alina close. My breath catches, the sound of my pounding heartbeat echoing in the

air. In the dim light, a glinting knife is pointed threateningly at the delicate throat of Alina.

The world freezes, only this grim moment matters. The woman, a puppeteer in this eerie performance, locks eyes with me, her piercing stare cutting through the darkness.

In the eerie silence, the woman’s voice cuts through, a sinister whisper that sends shivers down my spine. My shoulders sag under the weight of responsibility, a burden | never asked for but now carry in this critical moment. With each passing moment, the tension in the air becomes more apparent.

“One wrong move, and your mate pays the price in blood.”