Chapter 36
Chapter thirty-six
Luna
The afternoon sun shines, and the unseasonably warm fall day is perfect for giving Mr. Snuffles his much-needed bath outside rather than wrestling with him in the cramped indoor washing station.
I adjust the hose nozzle and test the water temperature against my wrist. “Tate, can you check the water heater? This feels barely lukewarm.”
“You got it.” He jogs toward the barn with that eager energy that reminds me why I love having college interns.
At twenty-one now—his birthday was just last week—Tate has all the enthusiasm in the world for veterinary work, even if he’s still figuring out that animals don’t always cooperate with textbook procedures.
Mr. Snuffles seems to sense what’s coming. The potbellied pig eyes the outdoor washing station with deep suspicion, his tail twitching as I coax him forward with gentle words and a handful of apple slices.
“Come on, buddy. You’ll feel so much better once we get you cleaned up.”
The moment the first spray of water hits him, Mr. Snuffles decides this is the perfect time to demonstrate his escape artist skills. He bolts sideways, slamming into my legs, sending me stumbling backward into the muddy area around the washing station.
“Whoa there!” I steady myself, laughing as Tate returns.
“Water heater’s fine. The temperature should pick up in a minute.” He grabs the other side of Mr. Snuffles’ harness just as the pig makes another break for freedom. “Jeez, he’s stronger than he looks.”
I redirect the hose, finally getting a steady stream on his back. He settles down, though his suspicious grunting continues.
“How’s school going? I feel like I haven’t asked in weeks.”
Tate’s face lights up. The guy loves talking about his studies.
“Really good, actually. I’m taking animal behavior this semester, and right now we’re covering the neural basis of behavior, which is amazing.
Though I have to admit, working here has taught me more about animal psychology than any of my classes. ”
“That’s the thing they don’t tell you in vet school. Half of being a good vet is understanding that animals have personalities just as complex as people do.”
Mr. Snuffles chooses that exact moment to prove my point by shaking and showering us both with soapy water.
“Perfect timing.” I wipe suds from my eyes as Tate snorts.
“At least he’s getting clean.” Tate tries to hold the pig steady while I work shampoo into his bristly coat. “Even if he’s getting us dirty in the process.”
Tate’s interaction with Mr. Snuffles is gentle and confident. The pig is relaxed now, enjoying the warm water and the attention.
“You’re good with them, you know. The animals here trust you.”
Tate scratches behind the pig’s ears. “What’s his story? He seems pretty healthy for a rescue case.”
“He’s not an abuse case.” I scrub a stubborn patch of mud on his back. “His family loved him, but they had no idea how big potbellied pigs get. He’s over two hundred pounds now, and they live in a small suburban house with a tiny backyard. They couldn’t handle his size or his feisty personality.”
Tate nods. “That happens a lot with exotic pets. People think they want something unique until reality hits.”
“Yeah. So now we need to find him the right home. Somewhere with enough space for a pig his size and people who can appreciate his attitude.” I smile as Mr. Snuffles snorts at me, as if he knows we’re talking about him.
“He needs a place where he can be himself without being too much for his family.”
“Wait.” Tate looks surprised, pausing in his rinsing. “You’re not keeping him? I mean, you keep so many of the animals that come in. I figured Mr. Snuffles would be a permanent resident.”
The question hits hard. I focus on working the soap through Mr. Snuffles’ coarse hair, buying myself a moment before answering.
“That’s exactly why I can’t keep him. If I kept every animal that I could find a good home for, I wouldn’t have room for the ones that are too broken to ever be adopted out. The ones that need this place to be their forever home.”
My throat tightens, and Tate’s expression softens.
“It’s one of the hardest parts of this job. Loving them enough to let them go when they’re ready for a real family. Or back into the wild where they belong. But that’s what this is supposed to be about, right? Helping as many as we can, then setting them free to live their best lives.”
The emotion catches me off guard, and I have to stop talking. Mr. Snuffles seems to sense my mood and leans against my legs, offering comfort in his own piggy way.
“Plus, Maren will absolutely wring my neck if I keep another adoptable animal.”
Tate steps closer and wraps his wet, soapy arms around me in a spontaneous hug. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
I melt into him, hugging him back, grateful for the support. He’s the best hugger. Tate steps back, and we both start laughing as we realize how completely soaked we are. He grabs the hose again.
“So, Maren mentioned she saw you and your girlfriend in Estes Park a few weeks ago. How’s that going?”
Tate’s expression falters, and he focuses on rinsing Mr. Snuffles’ left side. “We, uh, we actually broke up.”
“I’m sorry, Tate.”
“It’s okay. She was way out of my league, anyway.” He shrugs, trying to play it off, but I can hear the hurt underneath.
That’s what Maren said. I keep that observation to myself. She has many wonderful qualities, but tact isn’t always one of them.
“Hey.” I catch his eye. “Don’t sell yourself short. And don’t let what Maren said about you being a nerd get to you. You’re handsome, smart, kind, and passionate about what you do. Any girl would be lucky to have someone like that.”
He smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks, Luna. And I know Maren’s just teasing. That wasn’t why Courtney was out of my league. She liked my geeky side. But that means a lot coming from you.”
If only I could take my own advice. Here I am encouraging him about finding love while I’m having anonymous sex with my masked stalker every night.
For the last month, I’ve settled into an unexpected routine that would horrify anyone who knew the truth.
I spend my days with the usual: caring for the animals, taking in a few regular rescues like Mr. Snuffles, and a couple of new abuse cases.
All of them are horrible, but one particular one—a llama who was skin and bones when Roger brought him in—gutted me.
Karen arrested his owner, but she later had to release him because she couldn’t make the charges stick.
Two days later, his body was found at the Longs Peak Trailhead, wrapped in plastic with a purple Rocky Mountain Columbine bloom pinned to his chest.
Karen came to see me again, asking questions I couldn’t and didn’t want to answer.
When my wolf, as I’ve started calling him, because “watcher” just didn’t feel right anymore, came to me that night, he didn’t deny killing the man when I asked.
Instead, he distracted me, his hands and mouth driving me to four explosive orgasms before leaving me trembling and naked in my bed.
His last words before he left were a promise to make every one of my animals’ abusers pay for their crimes. And for making me cry.
He comes to me almost every night, the exceptions so rare I can count them on one hand.
We’ve learned how to work around Maren on the nights she stays over.
I sneak back downstairs after she’s asleep, and we close the pocket door at the entrance to the kitchen.
More often than not, he has to gag me, muffling my sounds with his hand or my underwear pressed between my teeth.
My body shivers with the memories—his hands worshipping every curve, lifting and positioning me as if I’m weightless, pressing me against walls, over counters, across every surface in my house until they all bear the invisible imprint of our encounters.
He always demands more from me, pushing my body past limits I didn’t know I had.
Even when I don’t think my body can give it, it always does.
He still takes me from behind, his preferred way to claim me, his body clothed while I’m naked and bound beneath him.
He hovers above me but never lets his full weight press down.
His name remains a mystery locked behind his lips, and he never removes the mask.
And still, after almost two months, he’s never kissed me.
Every part of me knows his touch except my mouth, which he guards against like it might break whatever spell keeps me his and elevate this to more than just anonymous fucking.
That’s the most heartbreaking thing of all.
But with him, I’ve discovered a version of myself that I never knew existed—desired beyond reason and wanted with an intensity that borders on worship. Every previous sexual experience pales in comparison to the raw hunger he awakens in me.
It shocks me that I have no hesitation about giving my body to him—a stranger—night after night, bare and unguarded, with nothing between us. But how can someone who knows my body better than I do still be a stranger?
The familiar ache between my thighs pulses like a second heartbeat. My hand drifts there each morning now, pressing against the tender reminder of his possession, welcoming the sweet soreness that proves the previous night wasn’t a dream. Is it weird that I’m getting used to it?
I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me from the mirror anymore. I’m a constant disheveled mess. Exhaustion weighs on my shoulders from hours spent beneath him, but I wouldn’t trade a single moment.
Except I’d give anything to have his mouth on mine, his full weight pressing me into the mattress, his face revealed in the morning light, and his real name whispered against my ear.
I guess there’s a lot I would change if I could, even as I tell myself I’m content with what he gives me.