The Mating Run by Leeka

Trust

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my eyes on

I snap a scream clawing its way out of my throat.

The sudden jolt, the disoriented panic-reality blurs into focus as my surroundings crystallize. I’m back in

the hut, but something is different. My heart races, and my gaze darts around, seeking the source of

my alarm.

I hadn’t even realized that I had fallen asleep.

Ettie is there, her eyes locked on mine, and beside her stands a figure I hadn’t expected a man, Elijah.

His presence injects a surreal quality into the otherwise. familiar confines of our makeshift haven.

“He’s not a threat, Alina. I promise.”

Ettie’s voice cuts through the lingering echoes of my scream, a lifeline tossed to a drowning soul.

Elijah offers a gentle smile, his curly hair falling effortlessly around his face.

There’s an air of calmness about him, an aura that seems alien recently ace.

His glasses perch on the bridge of his nose, and freckles adorn his features, creating a stark contrast to

the ruthless image that the word “Hunter” has carved in my mind.

“Hey, Alina,” Elijah’s voice is a soothing balm, a melodic contrast to the dissonance of the outside

world. “Ettie’s been telling me about you.”

The wariness clings to me, an invisible shroud woven from the threads of distrust and survival instincts.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

My words are sharper than I intended towards Ettie, a defensive reflex born from the brutal lessons the

Mating Run has etched into my consciousness.

Ettie steps forward, her eyes pleading for understanding.

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“Alina, I told you, Elijah’s not like the other Hunters. We’ve been helping each other survive. He’s a

friend. There’s no need to be scared of him.”

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Friend a word that resonates with an echo of something almost forgotten. The concept feels foreign, a

relic from a time when alliances weren’t measured by the ticking seconds of a deadly countdown.

Elijah extends a hand, a gesture meant to bridge the gap between the known and the unknown.

“I know it’s hard to trust, but I’m here to survive just like you. We’ve been sharing information, helping

each other find supplies. We’re all just trying to get through this.”

His words hang in the air, a delicate equilibrium threatened by the shadows of doubt that cling to the

walls of our shelter. I glance between Ettie and Elijah, caught in the crossfire of conflicting emotions.

“Alina, please,” Ettie implores, her eyes mirroring a vulnerability that resonates with my own. “We need

allies in this, real allies. Elijah is one of the good ones.”

Reluctantly, I extend my hand towards Elijah’s, a gesture acknowledging a tenuous alliance forged in

the crucible of our shared predicament.

The scent of sizzling meat wafts through the air, a fragrant reminder of the world beyond the confines of

our makeshift hut. Elijah, now positioned near a small fire, expertly tends to cuts of steak with a finesse

that belies the harsh reality of the Mating Run. His movements are deliberate, each action a testament

to a survival skill set I hadn’t associated with Hunters.

Ettie, perched beside me, watches Elijah with a warmth in her eyes that speaks. of camaraderie and

shared survival. The anticipation heightens the atmosphere, the dance of flames casting shadows on

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the walls of our refuge.

“I’ve never seen a Hunter cook like this,” Ettie whispers, her voice a delicate murmur that barely

traverses the space between us. It echoes my own thoughts-

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the incongruity of witnessing a Hunter, traditionally a symbol of danger, crafting a meal that speaks of a

nuanced existence beyond the brutality of the Run.

Elijah, as if sensing our gaze, turns towards us, a small smile playing on his lips. “Survival tastes better

with a touch of flavor,” he remarks, the simplicity of the statement carrying a weight of truth that

resonates with the primal instincts driving

us all.

He plates the steaks, arranging them with an artistic flair that feels out of place. in the midst of our

survivalist surroundings. The meat, seared to perfection, releases tendrils of aroma that tease our

senses. A small pot simmers beside the steaks, emitting a sweet fragrance that hints at a berry sauce-

a touch of luxury in a world dominated by the raw necessity of sustenance.

us.”

Ettie’s eyes light up, and a soft chuckle escapes her lips. “Elijah, you’re spoiling

He shrugs, his gaze meeting mine briefly before returning to the culinary creation before him.

“Sometimes, a little spoiling helps us remember there’s more to

life than the Run.”

As he serves the steaks, placing them before us with a gesture that holds a strange kind of reverence, I

feel a twinge of something unfamiliar-an emotion that flirts with the boundaries of awe. The steak, a

departure from the monotony of berries and the tasteless ration bars, embodies a rare indulgence, a

culinary escape from the grim reality we face.

I pick up my fork, slicing into the steak with deliberate slowness, savoring the momentary diversion

from the relentless urgency of survival. The flavors explode on my tongue-a symphony of richness and

tenderness that transcends the pragmatic function of food.

“Good, isn’t it?” Elijah observes, his eyes glinting with satisfaction born not only from culinary success

but from the subtle alteration of the narrative unfolding within the walls of our refuge.

I nod, unable to articulate the complexity of emotions that accompany each bite. The steak, seemingly

Inconsequential in the grand scheme of the Mating Run,

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becomes a conduit for a shared experience, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit even in

the face of overwhelming odds.

Ettie, beside me, mirrors my silent acknowledgment.

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As we continue to eat, the atmosphere shifts. The flames flicker with an ethereal dance, casting

shadows that seem to dance in tandem with the nuances of

our shared meal.

As Elijah’s silhouette vanishes beyond the threshold of our haven, Ettie, with a grace that defies the

harshness of our reality, unfolds a blanket and arranges a cluster of pillows. A softness creeps into her

eyes, a transient vulnerability that speaks of shared fears and unspoken assurances.

“Here,” she says, her voice a gentle murmur that seeks to counterbalance the looming threat outside

our haven. “Take these. Get some rest.”

Gratitude swells within me as I accept the offering, fingers grazing the fabric of the blanket-a simple

gesture that resonates with a significance amplified by the stark simplicity of our surroundings.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the words laden with an acknowledgment of the fragile. sanctuary Ettie and

Elijah have created. In the solitude that defined my nights before, sleep had been an elusive

companion, a luxury sacrificed to the coaseless vigilance demanded by the Mating Run.

Ettle, ever perceptive, catches the tremor In my volce, a subtle manifestation of the vulnerability that

lingers beneath the surface. “Alina, we’re In this together now,” she reassures, her gaze unwavering.

“You don’t have to endure this alone anymore.”

The words, delivered with a sincerity that resonates beyond the immediate. context, etch a promise-a

commitment to shared survival amidst the tumultuous landscape of the Run. The blanket, as It

envelops me, becomes a metaphorical shield, a tangible emblem of the newfound solidarity that

transcends the inherent dichotomy of Hunter and Hider.

As I settle against the pillows, their embrace a stark departure from the unforgiving hardness of the

forest floor, Ettie lingers beside me. The silence.

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between us holds a gravity, punctuated only by the distant rustle of leaves-the ambient soundscape of

a world ensnared in the throes of the Mating Run.

“When I was alone,” I begin, my voice a tentative admission to the vulnerabilities harbored in solitude, “I

slept on the floor. There wasn’t much else.”

Ettie’s expression softens, an unspoken understanding passing between us. In the simplicity of that

shared acknowledgment, the chasm between our respective journeys seems to narrow-a convergence

of experiences that defies the isolation. of the past.

“That changes now,” Ettie declares, her tone firm, eyes reflecting an unwavering resolve. “Elijah and I

are here for you. You won’t face this alone

anymore.”

The weight of those words, infused with a commitment to mutual protection, resonates within the

confines of our refuge. In the vulnerable space between waking and slumber, the promise of shared

guardianship casts a tentative glow-a beacon of reassurance amidst the encroaching darkness of the

Run.

As I succumb to the embrace of the blanket and pillows, the echo of Ettie’s pledge lingers-a whispered

assurance.

I jerk awake, the tendrils of sleep torn away by the oppressive weight on my mouth. Panic, immediate

and unbridled, seizes me as I find myself face to face with Elijah, his eyes veiled in a disconcerting

haze. His labored breaths, heavy with an ominous intensity, fog the air between us.

In the ghostly glow of the room, I see a version of Elijah I never fathomed-an intruder within the

supposed safety of our refuge. His face, normally familiar, is now etched with a crimson flush, a

manifestation of something unsettling lurking beneath the surface. Droplets of sweat trickle down his

forehead, merging with the fear that now slickens my own skin.

Time hangs suspended in that breathless moment as Elijah, an apparition of malice, holds me captive

with a frenzied gaze. His hand, clammy and oppressive,

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mu ffles any sound that might escape my lips-a prelude to the terror that unfolds in agonizing silence.

And then, I feel the cold steel of a knife pressing against the tender skin of my throat.

“Shhhh.”

Elijah hisses, the command fraught with a malevolence that quivers in the air. The glinting blade, a grim

implement of coercion, reflects the malevolent dance of shadows in the room. His eyes, once familiar

pools, now mirror a turbulent storm of madness and obscured intent.

“Keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.”

Fear, a relentless torrent, surges through my veins, paralyzing my every instinct.

I dare not move, dare not speak, as the cold reality of the blade against my

neck-

His hot, rancid breath washes over me, and I recoil as Elijah’s words slither into the air-a venomous

blend of desire and malice.

“You’re so pretty.”

Elijah mutters, a twisted compliment that echoes with ominous intent. His eyes, clouded with a sinister

longing, bore into mine, stripping away any semblance of

safety.

“Who knew a mate like you would just come walking right inside my door?”

His words, a per verse invitation, drip with unsettling possessiveness. I feel the weight of his gaze, an

oppressive force that seeks to claim more than just my

presence.

“Can I taste you, darling?” he leers, the question more a proclamation of dominance than a genuine

inquiry. The knife, an extension of his ominous desire, presses harder against my neck, a cold reminder

of the precarious balance between

survival and submission.

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Tears well in my eyes as I shake my head, a feeble attempt to convey my refusal, my terror. Elijah’s

grin widens, a macabre expression that revels in my vulnerability.

“Make you mine…”

Elijah murmurs, the words a chilling promise that reverberates through the claustrophobic space.

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cry, silent s obs that echo the desperation of a prey ensnared in the merciless clutches of its predator.

I don’t know why he’s doing this to me. I don’t know why I trusted him. I don’t know why I even came

with Ettie. I should have known better when I saw her from up the tree. When I saw the blood that

covered her, when I saw that she looked like a full-fledged Hunter.

I should have known better-that everything is different now.

Ettie’s not going to coddle me. I’m not back home or in the safety of my comfort zone. I’m out here in

the forest. And as I glance around, my eyes spotting the cameras, I realize that everyone from the pack

will see me be forcefully claimed.

And I can’t do anything about it.

While these thoughts swirl inside my head, I feel Elijah pulled away from me.

Then I smell a scent of anger that unmistakably comes from Ettie.

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