Lielit
When my palm stung from slapping the despicable man, that was when I stopped. Lashing out like that had felt good—but he remained unconscious. Fenrir’s vicious growls and the dull thuds that followed pulled me into the hallway.
I heard every scream of terror and every cry of pain, yet I couldn’t bring myself to feel upset at the loss of life.
Despite the warmth of the woollen sweater he’d given me, I shivered as everything finally caught up with me—the mental and physical fatigue of staying strong for so long, of not giving in to all those dark thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind.
Tears blurred my vision.
How could they?
How could they sell women and children like this?
Babies?
How were these people allowed to breathe the same air as us?
A long, broken whine cut through the noise, making me blink away the tears. Fur brushed my face before Fenrir’s tongue swept over my cheek and into my hair. I raised my hands to stroke him, and I felt him shrink until I could wrap my arms around his neck. I sank to my knees and sobbed.
It wasn’t pleasant or quiet. My body shuddered with each gut-wrenching sob, pain and anger tearing through me in equal measure.
This wasn’t fear anymore—it was the collapse that came after surviving for too long.
I felt him sniff along my arms and sides, checking me for injuries, for blood that wasn’t mine.
I pulled back and cradled his face, ignoring the blood coating his grey fur. His molten eyes searched mine, alert and feral and devastated all at once.
“They were going to sell us,” I croaked, the words tearing out of me despite the tears sliding down my cheeks. “Our babies.”
Pain speared through my chest again, sharp and breathless, and I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even scream.
What kind of world did we live in?
We are safe, Bouda whispered. Our babies are safe. You always knew he’d come for us.
My fingers gripped Fenrir’s fur.
“Thank you,” I whispered to him.
He whined and slumped his head on my shoulder.
He was my monster. One that I never realised that I needed.
?
?
?
The man was flung over Blaidd’s shoulder, but he turned and held out his hand. I stared at it for a beat before placing my own in his palm. He grunted softly and led me through the front of the building. I was grateful I didn’t see the other men.
When we reached the edge of the warehouse, Blaidd dumped the man onto the ground and opened a bag. He dressed quickly, pulling on a fresh pair of trainers.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d shift or not,” he murmured, eyeing me warily, as if I might break apart again. “But I brought you some clothes.”
I nodded and took the bag from him.
“I parked a few blocks away. I’ll bring the car around,” he said, patting my hand once—then again—awkwardly, before turning and sprinting off.
Are you seeing this? Bouda laughed.
We’ve got some new material to torture him with, I agreed, watching Blaidd disappear down the street.
The man groaned. I crouched as he tried to roll onto his side, which proved difficult with his hands bound behind his back. Blaidd had tied them so tightly they’d turned a mottled blue-purple.
I met his gaze.
There was no fear there—only insolence. Ego.
“Who’s coming for you?” I asked, straightening.
His eyes tracked me as he spat in my direction.
“I can take care of myself,” he snapped, straining against the restraints. “Untie me, you stupid bitch.”
A car approached, but I didn’t look up.
“I thought you said you could take care of yourself?” I murmured.
The car screeched to a stop beside us.
Blaidd was out in seconds. Without a word, he seized the man by the hair and dragged him toward the back of the vehicle. I didn’t wait to watch him shove him into the boot. I gathered the bags, placed them in the back seat, and climbed into the passenger side as the boot slammed shut.
We didn’t speak on the drive home.
But I felt it—the fury simmering beneath Blaidd’s skin, held tightly in check, a stark contrast to the careful, gentle way his hand closed around mine.
?
?
?
He left the man in the boot and tried to help me out of the car as if I were an invalid.
I was about to glare at him when I noticed the bleak look in his eyes.
Whatever compulsion drove him—or however he was processing what had happened—had drawn out a very different side of him. Curiosity made me let it happen.
When we stepped inside the house, he didn’t drop his keys into the wooden bowl by the door.
They remained clenched in his hand as he ushered me upstairs.
We reached the bedroom, and he began peeling away the layers of my clothes, one by one, dropping everything onto the floor without care.
He stripped out of his own clothes just as quickly before tugging me toward the bathroom.
I watched as he turned on the water, checked the temperature, and laid out the towels with quiet precision. Steam began to rise, fogging the mirror, and he slipped an arm around my shoulders, nudging me gently into the shower.
I turned into his chest and rested my head over his heart. My swollen belly pressed between us. Without a word, his arms closed around me. The hot stream of water washed over my back, carrying my silent tears down the drain.
We didn’t speak as he washed me.
We didn’t speak as he dried me.
But when he tried to leave the bed later, I caught his hand and held it.
For once, his body beside mine felt like protection rather than a trap set by a predator.
He stayed.
He held me until I fell asleep.