Page 16 of A Malicious Menagerie (Fangs & Fables #1)

The Mistake

M y days off fly by in the blink of an eye.

Admittedly, they’re the first days off I’ve had in about three years, so they were always guaranteed to not feel like enough.

The first thing I do is catch up on sleep, staying in bed for almost sixteen hours that first day before going to visit Nan for a while.

I also shop for groceries, luxuriating in being able to buy things like fresh fruits and name-brand cereals instead of ramen noodles.

I even call a plumber to fix my hot water, and I have my first hot shower in over six months.

I groan so loud and long at that first touch of hot water that the neighbors probably think I’m getting busy under the spray. Seriously, though, having hot water after so many lukewarm showers is far better than sex. At least, better than my limited experience with it.

I spend the rest of that second day in a bathrobe, letting my hair air dry and catching up on TV shows that have been on my watch list for years without any time to get to them. Breaking Bad ? Totally worth the hype.

Still, there’s a little sliver of guilt eating at me even while I’m picking out whole grain bread at the store and shaving my legs without shivering.

My comfort is being funded by the captivity of every person and creature in the menagerie, including my wolf.

But how can I go back to scrimping and barely scraping by and still not being able to guarantee that Nan can stay in her nursing home?

And how can I go back to the mundane world of cleaning floors and waiting tables after everything I’ve seen and done?

And now, there’s a new factor to think about. If I don’t keep this job, I’ll lose my wolf, who has somehow become so vital to me within just a few days. How can I just accept that I’ll never see him again?

When I go back to work, my belly is full of butterflies and snakes. The feeling is only intensified when John greets me in the breakroom by scowling. “Did you steal my yogurt?” he asks with no preamble.

“Didn’t peg you as the yogurt type,” I snipe back. “And no, I didn’t steal your yogurt.”

“I had two yogurt cups in here,” he insists, pointing into the open fridge. “And now they’re gone. Who else would have stolen them?”

I shrug. “One of the guards?” There are a handful around at any given time. They mostly keep to themselves, my encounter with Colby notwithstanding. But they use the breakroom, too, so I run into them every so often when they’re eating dinner.

“Never had a yogurt thief until you started here,” he grumbles, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Oh, my God, John, I did not steal your yogurt.”

“You just seem the type,” he argues, digging his grave one shovelful at a time.

“The ‘type,’” I repeat testily. “And what type is that?”

“Shifty. Desperate.”

“Wow,” I reply, affronted. “Just goes to show you don’t know me at all.

I did not steal your damn yogurt, but if you want to keep thinking I did, go right ahead.

I don’t care what you think of me.” I toss my backpack into my locker and slam it shut with a resounding clang.

“I’ll get started on the woods and call you when I’m done.

” I grab one of the walkie-talkies off the counter and clip it to my belt before stomping out the door and into the warren of hallways beyond.

I quickly navigate my way to the woods and emerge into the shade of the trees. The rich, earthy scents and gentle rustle of leaves only slightly cool my indignation. The nerve of that guy, getting all upset over a couple of yogurts and blaming me !

I’m still growling and grumbling under my breath as I make my way to the wolf enclosure.

I rip open the meat freezer, grabbing a few cuts of beef before slamming the lid shut again.

Arms full, I nearly drop a rack of ribs, and I scowl and curse as I juggle my load back up into my arms. I swipe my access card and slip through the door before banging it shut behind me.

With absolutely zero grace, I waddle my way over to the cement slab and deposit my load.

With my task done and fury ebbing, some of my excitement at seeing my wolf floods back in. I raise my head to look toward the divider, an apology for my poor attitude and not immediately greeting him on my lips, but I freeze in place when all I see is uninterrupted trees.

I never closed the divider.

My heart begins to pound, bruising the inside of my rib cage, and all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Slowly, I turn my head toward the door to find the dire wolf standing between me and the exit.

It was easy, when he was caged and I was secure in my safety, to forget how big he is.

Like talking to an oversized Great Dane.

But now, only a few feet away and with no barrier between us, I’m struck again by his size.

He must be six or seven hundred pounds, most of that thick slabs of muscle across his shoulders and haunches.

His eyes, intent on me, are the color of burnished gold, his ear pricked, and I feel like a hare trapped in a predator’s gaze.

After a long, dense silence, I manage to squeak, “Hi.” Then, “I forgot the divider.”

I mean, obviously, but the nervous chatter won’t stop.

“I missed you the past couple of days. When I was picking up ground beef to make tacos the other night, I wondered if you would like them. Have you ever had them? Tacos? Probably not, I guess. I’d invite you over to try them, but jeez, can you imagine?

A wolf in my townhouse. What would the neighbors say?

Mavis already turns her nose up at Candace’s little chihuahuas.

Me bringing a wolf home might give her a coronary. ”

Before any more nonsense can erupt, the wolf takes a step toward me.

I backpedal with a squawk. His second step forward has me falling on my ass, and suddenly, there he is, looming over me, his black fur and starry eyes taking up my entire field of vision.

It’s like looking into a black hole, or the abyss Nietzsche was so fond of, and this abyss is most definitely looking back.

All words—the entire English language—fly right out of my brain.

I can only sit there, mute, with my heart trying to vacate my chest and run for safety.

As I contemplate all the things I never got to do—visit Japan, see Billy Joel in concert, fall in love—the wolf drops his massive head down.

I wait for a flash of silver fangs and pain, but it never comes.

Instead, he presses his big, wet nose against the top of my head and inhales, his heavy breaths stirring the hair in my ponytail and warming my scalp.

For an eternal moment, he fills his lungs with my scent.

Then he emits a low, resonant rumble that makes my heart skitter and juke like a mouse fleeing from a cat.

I flinch, and he freezes in place, his snout pressed against my hair.

Slowly, so slowly, he moves his nose away and drops his head so he can nudge my chin up with his muzzle.

His hot, damp breath gusts against my throat, and I shudder, sure that this is it, that he’s going for my jugular.

But he only leans back and peers down into my eyes with an inscrutable expression.

Then, without warning, he lies down in front of me.

I gasp as his muzzle worms its way into my lap until his huge cement block of a head is resting on my thighs.

He looks up at me with a contented sigh before his eyes slide shut, and slowly, so slowly, I begin to relax.

After a few minutes, I raise a tentative hand to stroke over his forehead.

He makes a pleased grunt as I begin to pet and rub circles over one fine-tipped ear.

“So soft,” I murmur, mesmerized by the texture.

While he has coarse guard hairs over his head and down his back, his ears are softer than anything I’ve ever felt, even chinchilla fur.

We stay like that for what feels like an eternity and yet not nearly long enough.

I tell him in a hushed voice about my weekend—about the petty drama of the ridiculous reality TV show I indulged in and my first hot shower in months.

I probably spend way too long harping on how the hot water felt, but he seems happy enough to rest in my lap and listen to the cadence of my voice, so I can’t bring myself to feel too self-conscious.

Eventually, reality begins to knock uninvited. I feel each second ticking by while jobs go unfinished and John probably confirms to himself that I am the lazy, conniving ne’er-do-well he thinks I am .

“I have to go,” I murmur gently to the wolf as I give his ear one last fond scratch.

He grumbles, the sound displeased now instead of content, and opens one eye to give me a disgruntled look. “I know, I know,” I tell him teasingly. “These bony thighs are just so comfortable.”

He rolls his eyes, and I freeze, again thrown off by how… human his expression is sometimes. There have been so many instances when I’ve known, without a sliver of doubt, that he understands me. But to think he knows enough about human social cues to do something like roll his eyes…

“Where did you come from?” I whisper, amazed.

He stares silently up at me for a long, pregnant moment before huffing a sigh and lifting his head from my lap.

My legs feel cold and oddly light without him, and it’s like standing on a pair of matchsticks as I push myself off the ground.

The wolf stands up as well and looks toward the dinner I left for him before making his customary chuffing sound.

“You’re welcome,” I tell him warmly. Boldly, I reach out to stroke his shoulder as I pass him, and he leans into my touch with a rumble I suspect would be a purr if he were a cat.

“I’ll be back to say goodbye before I leave. Be good.”

There. Another eye roll. But he grins, too, so he can’t pretend too much that he doesn’t like it when I tell him that.