My morning patrols take longer than I would have liked. One of my dominant wolves had requested to take some time off. His cub fell ill, and he wanted to be there to care for her. I know the cub is alright, she most likely just has a cold or stomach virus, but that doesn't matter. Not really. I know if I were to demand my wolf stay on patrol, he would never be able to focus. How could he? When he has a sick cub to worry about. It would be a disservice to the pack, and a danger to him, to allow him to work so distracted. Not to mention, though I have no cubs of my own, I can sympathize with his anxieties.
While it's true almost all species have protective instincts for their young, in the Wolven it's almost fanatical. Something in our DNA demands that we give our everything to our cubs. For the first year after a cub is born, both it, and its parents, are given the pack's full support. The parents are allowed to take time off from their duties. The new family is delivered groceries, medicine, and anything they might need during this time. It allows them to bond, to get used to the idea of leaving the cub at home with one parent, or at our daycare. For us, our cubs are more than just our children. They are our life. They are the future of the pack, and we want them to be strong, well loved, so that they know what being a part of the pack means. To abandon a cub while it's ill would be unheard of. To hurt a cub intentionally is the worst crime one can commit, one of very few unforgivable actions. So, I understand, and always agree when my protector wolves need time to care for their cubs, or their pregnant mates. It's an occupational hazard, I suppose.
All that aside, with a wolf off duty, I am the one to pick up their slack. By the time I finish both mine and his morning duties, the sun is far higher in the sky. It's been hours since I've been to my den, since I've checked on the girl, and I am over eager to ensure she's alright.
I almost forget to shift, to grab my clothing, before I bound up my front steps. It's still rather early, she must be still asleep. Yet, when I open the door to my cabin something is... off.
The living room looks pristine, not a coaster or magazine out of place. All of my books are back on the shelf across the room. I don't recognize the place.
As I take a step in I realize that the house doesn't smell like dust, or even smoke, it smells like window cleaner, bacon, and honeysuckle. I slowly turn to see the girl, awake, sun shining in and creating a dazzling halo in her, now, clean hair. I feel my blood warm as I listen to her hum slightly.
As I inspect the room, I see she's already set the table. Two placemats sat under clean plates, silverware, and glasses holding water. That's for us. My heart lurches at the thought she was expecting me. That she did all of this for me. It makes me want to lift her up, to spin her around, to do many things one should not do with a stranger.
I approach her like a hunter approaches a doe. On the balls of my feet, worried I might startle her. Once I get close enough, I realize she's discarded the tattered pajamas I found her in, and is wearing my clothing. Her curves accentuated nicely under a flannel, and for a moment I wonder if there's a better sight than this. Until she bends over to grab a dropped spoon, and I see the curve of her body in a pair of my sweatpants. Something about the sight of her bent over, clad only in my clothes, makes my wolf tear against my stomach. Heat begins to rise from deep within me, and I can feel a growling hum begin in my chest.
She sings while she works, a jaunty, but unfamiliar tune that I could listen to all day. My feet move without consultation, and before I know it I'm leaning in the kitchen doorway. I cross my arms over my chest to stop myself from reaching out to grab her, as I watch her move.
Despite the fact she still clearly holds her body stiffly, and that I can still smell the immense pain she's in, she dances to the she sings. It's also clear that, even without the injuries, she's not much of a dancer. And I can't help myself, I chuckle softly at the jerky, uncoordinated movement. She's adorable.
At the sound of my laughter, the beautiful girl stops on her heel, and I freeze with her. Too afraid to even breathe, as she turns to face me.
YOU ARE READING
She Cried Wolf
WerewolfEilidh (aye-lee) has had enough of the Snow White routine. Almost twenty, trapped in her childhood home by her abusive step-father, with little to no prospects of escape, she begins to resign herself to a short, sad life. When her step-father takes...
