Lielit
I lay on the couch with a blanket pulled over me since it was almost nap time. I flicked through the various programmes until I found an animal documentary with a soothing voice.
David Attenborough.
I sighed. His voice was always calming. Some of the other presenters’ voices were jarring.
I huddled deeper into the blankets, dragging the remote control in with me.
The wolf whined near the door. It was closed.
“Do you want to go out?”
He whined again and inched closer to me, remaining flat on his belly.
Aww. Give him a little head rub. He looks so pathetic, Bouda said, laughing hysterically.
“Fine. You can come here,” I said sternly, “but do not touch me. Or lick me.”
He leapt up so fast his claws scraped the wood several times before he bounded toward me. Just as quickly, he halted and lay beside the couch. I couldn’t deny his fur looked thick and fluffy. It was tempting to stroke the big grey head, but it wasn’t worth the risk of giving the other idiot ideas.
I rewound the documentary to the beginning and settled down again.
The wolf was still there when I woke up.
He followed me everywhere—even to the bathroom door.
The more he stayed, the more I relaxed.
He still got kicked out of my bedroom at the end of the day.
I had boundaries—and very little trust in either of them.
?
?
?
The wolf raced out the door as soon as I opened it. I still didn’t know his name, since the idiot had never deemed it necessary to tell me. I chuckled as he tore from one end of the garden to the other like a playful puppy, clearly trying to goad me into playing.
You like him, Bouda murmured.
Mmm. He’s cute when he’s a normal-sized wolf. Have you ever known anything like him?
Only whispers. They were never confirmed.
I stepped outside, lifting my face to the warmth of the sunshine. The breeze was perfect against the afternoon heat.
What kind of whispers? I asked, rooting around the foliage until I found a thick branch.
Some magical animals were sired by gods or monsters. Sometimes both. Legends and folklore were never written down—we carried the stories through our people.
So I guess sometimes they might be twisted or exaggerated, I said, tossing the stick into the air and watching the wolf catch it with ease.
He trotted back like a show horse, all proud of himself. He dropped the wet stick at my feet, then edged back again.
Waiting. Watching.
Is this what you do? I teased Bouda.
Certainly not. We play in water and wrestle.
So dignified. So these magical creatures have different features?
Some were giants in their time. Or so the tales said.
I threw the stick again, wondering if that was the case with the wolf—considering he’d expanded until his head had nearly hit the ceiling.
The problem was, I didn’t know what that meant for my child. Physically, I guessed it was fine… but did I need to worry about psycho genes?
He couldn’t have been a megalomaniac when he was born.
I watched the wolf as he dropped the stick at my feet. His tongue lolled out as he panted with excitement, eyes bright, before he edged backwards again—ready, waiting.
I gave him a stern look.
“You’d better not be an idiot like him, Wolf,” I said, pointing a finger at him.
He straightened and shook his head once, deliberate and decisive.
I blinked, momentarily speechless.
I suppose Bouda is intelligent—but she’s female. I never expected much from the wolf. His past actions had always been so… feral.
I crouched down in front of him, moving slowly as I rubbed my fingers along his jaw, careful, testing, until I reached the hollow beneath his ear.
He was warm—solid heat beneath thick fur—and exactly as dense as I’d imagined.
His head tilted into my hand.
His eyes slid shut.
A low, continuous whimper slipped free of his chest—and then cut off abruptly, like he’d caught himself.
I massaged gently beneath his ear.
His eyes snapped open.
Burnished bronze. Not bright—deep, like metal worn smooth by centuries of use. They caught the light and held it, glowing faintly, unnervingly—and that was when I saw it.
The wet shimmer along his lower lids.
Not weakness.
Recognition.
He is old… ancient, Bouda whispered.
He edged closer. I let my hand travel along his side, fingers sinking into the heavy fur. His snout brushed my belly—gentle, deliberate—before he lowered his head, forepaws folding into the grass.
Submission.
Not to me.
To what I carried.
I sat back on the grass and stroked him, slow and steady, until the truth settled in my chest.
He had already chosen.
?
?
?
The man never emerged, and we spent four days with the wolf. Every morning and night, he lay outside our door. Not once did he leave our side. We went on daily walks, and eventually, Bouda wanted to meet him.
The shifts were seamless now, and the moment Bouda appeared, the wolf was ecstatic. He raced around us before bolting off, stopping to look back—then racing toward us again, only to repeat the action.
He wants to run with you, I said to Bouda.
She laughed, and this time the sound carried on the wind. We raced after him. Bouda swatted his flank before changing course and running away.
He followed.
We played.
And with every interaction, I catalogued his joy.
As we trotted home, he stayed close enough to brush against our fur, and Bouda allowed him to do so.
He wasn’t the monster I’d thought he was—but he would be a protective father.
No harm would ever come to our child with the wolf by our side.
The same couldn’t be said for the man.