Lycan Redemption

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Did they actually think they could catch him? At this point, he hoped they did. He was tired of running. He was an ancient who chose to live his own life. He never went against the lycan laws, but he refused to answer to anyone. He was his own man. Always had been. Always would be.

Sanctuary was a place run by his kind, mostly ancients and their mates, a place where rogues who were thought fit enough to reform were taken. Six months ago, he had been labeled a rogue and had been relentlessly chased ever since. The few times he’d tried to talk some sense into his pursuers, they hadn’t been particularly open to discussion. That put him in a difficult situation: continue to run from or fight his own kind. If he chose the latter, things wouldn’t turn out well for them.

He had no desire to kill any of his species. He’d done enough killing in his lifetime, but he’d had enough of this chase-the-rabbit bullshit. If they’d give him a damned second to explain, they’d see he was probably older then all of them put together and wasn’t the monster they thought him to be. He’d been around a long time. A. Damned. Long. Time.

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