Chapter 3 Mine
MINE
As I slowly come back online again, I have the sinking suspicion that something’s wrong. That I’m not supposed to be awake. That I’m supposed to be…
Wolf chow?
Shit!
Okay, Charlotte. Time out. I’m alive. Let’s get that out of the way.
Apart from the ache in my poor feet, I feel all right.
Actually, I feel pretty damn good. I’m warm, but not the sort of warm you get from being outside beneath a ninety degree sunshine.
It’s more like the cozy sensation when you’re under your blankets, curled up in comfort, clinging to the last moments of a deep sleep.
My eyes are closed. I keep them like that just in case I’m not alone.
For the same reason, I slow my breathing, pretending that I haven’t returned to the land of the living.
I don’t know where I am. If the wolf decided that I wasn’t worth taking a bite out of, I’d expect to be cold from the ground, achy from being passed out in the dirt, sticks and rocks poking me in the back and my ass.
Instead, I’m snuggling against a pile of blankets that have a uniquely musky, masculine scent that should probably scare the shit of me, but doesn’t (which is scary in and of itself).
What does that mean? Either I really am dead, I’m imagining myself awake and really still dreaming, or I’m in deep, deep shit because I’m not where I’m supposed to be.
That last one alone is enough to make my breath catch as I shift a little, trying to move, just to make sure that I can. It’s weird. My limbs feel slow. Sluggish. It’s taking me a second to wade through the panicked memories slipping toward the forefront of my mind.
There was a wolf. I was walking through the forest of Blackmoor, got chased by a monster-sized wolf while wearing a red cloak with a hood, and if it’s only just hitting me now that this is some twisted version of Little Red Riding Hood, only neither of us could be considered little, and when I said I believed in fairy tales, this is not what I meant… yeah. I’m in trouble.
Slowly, because I can’t stay in the dark forever, I quirk an eye open. A second later, I let them both fly.
What the…
I’m staring up at a wooden ceiling in what has to belong to some sort of honest-to-God cabin.
It has rough beams cutting across it, shadows shifting along the grain thanks to the firelight flickering somewhere nearby.
The walls I can see are made of a darker shade of wood, and when I shift my head to the left, I can take in more of the single room.
There’s a fireplace off to the side, flames licking lazily at the firewood, casting a warm, steady glow across the space.
Wooden furniture sits in neat, practical arrangements.
In one corner, I see a bare table, a single wooden chair, and a handful of shelves lined with things that look like they’ve been there a long, long time.
A wide yet squat dresser with a single drawer is set against the wall.
There’s even a bed in the corner, blankets pulled tight and untouched, like no one’s used it in years.
It’s so normal it feels wrong.
The memory of claws and fangs and hungry black eyes doesn’t belong in this cabin...
The bed is empty (obviously). And now that I can pinpoint the faint crackling sound I can hear as a fire going, I have to admit that the soft snuffles I’ve been trying to ignore have to belong to someone—or something—that’s still fast asleep. It’s not me, and it’s not the empty bed.
I gulp and, before I think better of it, I turn to my right.
Curled beside me on a pile of old blankets like it owns the place, half on and half off what looks like a makeshift nest dragged across the floor, is the very same wolf that chased me through the woods.
Holy shit! From snout to tail, it’s bigger than I am!
Out in the woods, the wolf just seemed dark.
Thanks to the firelight, I can see that it has rich brown fur with patches of white down by its long legs; it’s more like it’s a red wolf than a gray wolf.
Its paws are as big as dinner plates, claws curved and freaky sharp even as it’s sleeping next to me, and it’s so close to me, if I reached out my fingers, I could brush my fingers against its fur.
Could, but I’m way too much of a chickenshit to do anything like that.
My heart starts pounding like a drumbeat in my chest, and I’m suddenly very aware of how small this cabin is. How easily it could roll over and snap its jaws at me as soon as it wakes up.
Oh, God. Oh, no…
Don’t move, Charlotte.
Don’t make a sound.
Don’t—
Its ear twitches and I clench my jaw shut, holding my breath, doing everything I can to stay quiet.
It doesn’t wake up, not completely. The big wolf shifts its bulk, a low rumble rolling through its body as it stretches its back legs slightly before adjusting its weight in the nest we’re sharing on the floor.
The rumble vibrates through me, and I clamp my hand over my mouth, swallowing the panic rushing through me.
Okay.
Okay.
I’m still alive. The wolf somehow brought me here and I’m alive which makes me think that it wants me to stay that way.
Why? No idea. How did a pony-sized wolf without opposable thumbs carry me from the woods and into a cabin where it promptly curled up around me and went to sleep?
Yeah, I’m stumped on that one, too. But I’m alive, and I don’t think that’ll be the case that much longer if the wolf wakes up and decides it’s time for a snack.
There’s a door on the other side of the wolf.
If I can sneak out of the bed of blankets, tiptoe out the door, and book it into the woods, I might only have to survive two more days before I can walk out of Blackmoor and get my wish.
I don’t have any idea how long I was asleep—unconscious—for, but the single window next to the door is allowing daylight to stream in.
It’s been at least one full night, so that’s a plus, and now I know not to try and outrun a wolf.
Look at you, Char. You’re learning.
Now just to figure out how the hell I’m gonna sneak past a snoring wolf before it wakes up…
I try to push myself up as carefully as I can, my palms pressing through the blankets.
I finally find the wood beneath me as I test how much I can move without drawing the wolf’s attention.
I slide one leg toward the edge of the nest and, wouldn’t you know, I find that limit because, suddenly, the wolf’s breathing changes.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I go still, but it’s too late. The wolf opens its eyes, its lower muzzle dropping partly as it inhales a breath. I yip, and it rolls from its side to its back and to its other side so that its big eyes are staring right at me.
Last night, I swore they were black. Now?
The outer rims are dark, but most of the eye is a vibrant gold shade that sends shivers down my spine.
My breath catches again and, for a second, we both go motionless.
We stare at each other, me and the wolf, and it’s all I can do not to pass out again in the nest of the beast.
Its tongue lolls out of its mouth as the wolf nuzzles the closest part of me it can reach. I’m on my back so that means it nudges my shoulder.
My completely bare shoulder.
What the…
Okay. I’m not naked. That’s a relief considering I have a very, very bad feeling about what’s going on here.
The slinky, silky black nightie is twisted up around my hips, only just covering the goods, while one of the straps has fallen down to my bicep.
It wouldn’t take much for one of my tits to pop out—thank you, no bra—but I have to ask: what the hell happened to the red cloak?
My hair’s loose, too, instead of being tucked under the now missing hood.
Most of it’s knotted at the nape of my neck, though there are enough loose strands spilled over the blankets beneath me.
I guess, when I caught red out of the corner of my eye earlier, I mistook my hair for the cloak which is totally missing.
That’s not good. Sandy told me that I wasn’t allowed to take it off.
I wasn’t allowed…
Oh, shit. Did the wolf somehow use its teeth to remove the cloak for some reason and the forest let it because it belongs to the wild and I’m some interloper who doesn’t belong here?
It makes sense—as much as any of this can make sense—but that doesn’t change the fact that I feel super exposed without the cloak to cover me, especially when a two hundred-and-fifty pound wolf is lapping at my shoulder like it’s testing my flavor.
I swallow a whimper, wondering if I would offend the beast if I grabbed one of the blankets and covered my body up with that.
Before I get the chance to, though, it stretches again.
The motion is almost lazy, its strong back arching as it rises, shoulders rolling as it pushes up onto its paws.
It moves like it knows exactly how big it is, exactly how much space it takes up, and exactly what it can do with that.
And then it steps out of the nest before padding around the edge of it, heading right for me.
Again.
I sit up and scramble away from the wolf, my hands slipping against the blanket as I try to get away, but I hit the wall behind me almost immediately, my back pressing flat against it as I run out of space.
Shit. Once more, I’m cornered by the big, bad wolf and there’s nothing I can do about it.
The wolf moves until its forelegs bump up against the nest of blankets. It lowers its head, close enough to my seated positioning that I can feel its breath against my skin before it can even touch me. It’s so hot it sends another chill skittering down my spine.
“Hold on there, Fido,” I mutter, more for me than for it. “Take it easy…”
If it understands English, if it understands ‘human’, it gives no sign that it does.
It certainly doesn’t take it easy. Instead, it leans in until it has its nose pressed to my cheek.
The chill of it is as much of a shock as the fact that it doesn’t do anything except sniff my skin repeatedly, its inhales and exhales competing against the frantic thudding of my pulse.
“Oh, hell no,” I whisper, the words barely leaving my mouth before it moves again, dragging its snout along my jaw, down the line of my throat, inhaling deeply like it’s savoring my scent.
Eau de woods with a hint of sweat and some pants-wetting terror. Yum, yum, Fido. Don’t I smell tasty?
The wolf must think so because now its nosing at my cleavage and, from the way its tail is wagging in a way that is entirely too doglike, I quickly amend my thought from ‘it’ to ‘he’.
So he’s a big ass wolf. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s male.
Putting a woman in your bed, burying your nose in her tits as soon as you’re both awake?
I had a pervy foster brother when I was twelve who did that and more to me, and a laugh catches in my throat when I realize that I would much rather face off against Fido than ever let Joe Russo get his grubby paws on me again.
At least I don’t have to worry about the wolf shoving up my nightgown like Joe used to…
Once he decides that my cleavage passes his sniff test, the wolf moves his snout lower. His breath is even hotter against my skin. I feel it through the flimsy material of the nightie. His nose brushes over me with a focus that feels too intentional to ignore as he makes his way down to my hip.
“This is not happening,” I mutter.
He doesn’t respond to my voice. Doesn’t stop, either.
The wolf keeps going, even lower, and suddenly I start to have second guesses about whether or not I’d prefer a wolf or a sixteen-year-old prick who couldn’t keep his hands—or his dick—to himself when the wolf climbs into the nest with his two front paws and shoves his snout between my closed thighs.
I yelp, the sound louder than I intended as my body jerks on instinct, trying to get away from the cool, damp nose. “Hey! No—no, that is not—no!”
Again, he ignores me. His tongue flicks out, sandpaper-rough against my suddenly overheated skin, and the sensation is so unexpected, it short-circuits my brain for a second.
A moment later, it hits me that the wolf just licked my inner thigh, way too close to my groin than I’m comfortable with, especially with my panties having been left behind at the village hostel.
He does it again, inching a little higher.
“What the—!” This time I shove the wolf, my palm hitting solid muscle as I push at his head. “No! Bad wolf!”
The big beast goes still. He lifts his head, cocking it slightly as though something I said finally makes sense in his animalistic brain. He whimpers under his breath before backing up so that all four paws are on the solid floor.
And that’s when the air in the cabin shifts.
At first, I don’t quite understand what’s going on.
It’s like the space around us has gone tight, folding in on us as the wolf’s body moves in a way that it definitely shouldn’t.
The beautiful brownish red fur recedes some, but not all of it.
His limbs shift. Bones crack softly as they realign, the body in front of me reshaping itself into something else in the matter of seconds.
He was a wolf. Now? He’s something human, yet something not.
I stare up at him because what else am I supposed to do?
The wolf has turned into a man. Kind of. More of a wolf-man, I’d say, and if my fairy tale has suddenly become a horror film with the running and the chasing and the wolf turning out to be a… a… a werewolf, that makes more sense than anything else I’ve seen in Blackmoor so far.
Hell, they say seeing is believing, and I’m still staring.