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The next morning, the door swings open with a sharp crack, and Nathan steps in like he’s holding the room itself accountable. His face is slack, exhausted, with shadows sinking into the hollows of his eyes and the sharpness of his jaw. He looks like he hasn’t slept, the stubble on his face darker than I’ve ever seen it, and his movements are sharp, staccato, like he doesn’t trust himself to stay still.

I’m on all fours on the bed, the blood-stiff nightgown clinging to my skin, the fabric rustling faintly as I shift my weight. My stomach is full—heavy and satisfied. I’d finished the fetus hours ago, and the taste still lingers at the edges of my memory, warm and metallic, giving me energy, giving me strength.

He stops in the doorway, his gaze flicking over me, scanning the room as if he’s trying to take inventory. His face twists in something I can’t name—anger or exhaustion, maybe disgust. But there’s hesitation, too. A crack in the fa?ade that makes my chest tighten.

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“Stand up,”

he says, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the heavy air.

I tilt my head, confused. Stand up?

“Stand up,”

he repeats, louder now, the edge of his patience showing.

I stay frozen, my hands sinking into the mattress, my body stiff. The words don’t make sense. My body doesn’t know how to answer them. Then I notice what he’s holding—my clothes. The ones I came here in. A black T-shirt and yoga pants, balled up in his hands.

My chest tightens. Is this it? Is this the end? Did I finally push him too far?

The clothes land on the bed with a dull thud, the bundle unraveling slightly to reveal the worn fabric. “Dress,”

he says, his voice flat, almost bored. “Meet me out there in five minutes.”

Then he’s gone, the door shutting softly behind him, not with the force of his entrance but with the finality of an afterthought. I sit there, staring at the pile of clothes. The black fabric is dull with age, worn thin in places. It looks too normal, too clean, too real.

My thoughts spiral in endless loops. Is this a trick? A test? Or is he finally done with me?

I take a deep breath, the air heavy in my lungs, and shift my weight slowly, pulling my knees out from under me. My legs crack as I straighten them, my body swaying slightly as I stand upright for the first time in years. The floor feels unsteady beneath me, foreign, like I’ve landed on a planet where gravity works differently.

I peel the nightgown off, the bloodstained fabric stiff and clinging as I pull it over my head. The cold air bites at my skin, and I shiver, the movement awkward and unsteady. I reach for the T-shirt, pulling it over my head. The fabric smells faintly of something old and clean, a scent that doesn’t belong here. It hangs loose over my frame, slipping over my hipbones, which jut sharply

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beneath the waistband of the yoga pants as I pull them on. They sag, too big now for my tiny frame.

I take a step toward the door, my legs trembling, my knees threatening to buckle with the effort. My feet feel too light against the floor, like they’ve forgotten how to press firmly into it. Another step. And another. My balance wavers, each movement unfamiliar, unsteady, the floor tilting slightly with every shift of weight.

The doorknob is cold in my hand, and I press my palm against it, grounding myself before twisting it open. The hallway beyond is dim, the shadows stretching long and narrow. Each step echoes softly, the sound foreign to my ears after years of crawling.

When I get to the living room, he’s leaning against the counter, hands shoved deep in his pockets all casual, like he’s just another man in his kitchen. But it’s all wrong—his posture too still, his eyes too flat. There’s nothing to grab onto in his face, no way to read the silence he’s wrapped himself in. And that silence feels heavier than any of his tantrums, louder than his fists.

My eyes flick to the counter behind him, and that’s when I see it. My purse. My jacket. My shoes. They’re piled there like trash he’s been meaning to throw out, the leather worn, the fabric dulled. But they’re mine. My life from seven years ago sits right there, inert, untouched, like it’s been waiting for me to come back to it.

Something sharp and mean blooms in my chest. I swallow it down.

“Woof?”

The sound slips out before I can stop it, instinctive, ridiculous. It feels too small for this moment, a sound that belongs to someone else.

“You’re free to go,”

he says, the words so flat, so devoid of anything, they feel like they might fall and shatter between us. Free. To go.

I stand there, my knees locking, my heart slamming into my ribs, waiting for the hook, the twist, the knife to land. My head swims with the possibilities, the cruel scenarios he might be playing out.

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But he just stands there, watching me with that same blank stare, his face carved out of nothing.

I look back at the counter. The sight of my belongings hits like a fist, the memories rushing in too fast, too vivid. They look wrong now, foreign, like props from a movie I barely remember acting in. My throat tightens.

“Free?”

I whisper, the word catching in my mouth. It doesn’t feel real. It feels like a test, a cruel little game he’s thought up to see if I’ll fail one last time.

He doesn’t answer, just watches me with his unreadable face, his silence stretching out into something massive and unbearable.

I take a step toward the counter, my legs shaking, my whole body trembling under the weight of what this could mean. The floor feels unsteady beneath me, like it might open up if I get too close. Each step feels impossibly long, like I’m wading through a dream.

When I reach the counter, I pick up the jacket first. It feels stiff in my hands, the fabric rough and strange. I struggle to get my arms in the sleeves, my hands clumsy and shaking. The shoes are next, heavier than I remember, their weight foreign against my feet. I glance up at him, watching him watch me, his eyes tracking every move like he’s cataloging it.

Then he moves. Walks to the hallway closet, casual, like this is nothing, like this is just a normal day. My breath catches. I know what’s in there. The safe. I’ve seen him open it a dozen times, his back always blocking the keypad.

He punches in the code, and the faint beeping echoes through the room, each tone landing too loud. I stand there frozen, my hands gripping the edge of the counter, watching as he pulls out stack after stack of cash. Neat bundles, the edges crisp and sharp, like they’ve never been touched. He doesn’t even glance at me as he shoves them into a pillowcase, the fabric sagging with the weight.

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He walks back to the counter and drops the bag beside my purse with a thud. “There you go,”

he says, his voice so casual it makes my stomach turn. “Two hundred thousand dollars. For your time.”

The numbers hit me like a slap. I stare at the bag, my mind spinning, trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out what this is. A bribe? A payment? A joke?

“What?”

My voice is hoarse, cracked, the word barely there.

He shrugs. “I told you, you’d be compensated. I’m a man of my word.”

The room tilts. The cash. My purse. The open door. None of it feels real. I glance back at him, waiting for the punchline, the trap, the thing that will make this all fall apart.

But there’s nothing. Just his empty face, his hands shoved back into his pockets, his posture still too casual, too loose. “Take it,”

he says, his voice firmer now.

I stare at him, waiting for the catch. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything else, just watches me with that same blank expression.

I want to ask him why. I want to demand answers, to scream, to cry, but I stay silent. The rules still feel too heavy, too ingrained, holding me back even now.

He steps closer, the air between us charged and sour, his tone tightening like a noose. “Let me explain something to you,”

he says, his words clipped, cold, steady as a scalpel. He’s rehearsed this. It’s in the careful way he delivers each sentence, the calculation in his eyes, like he’s been waiting for this moment, sharpening it into a weapon. “If you go to the police, they won’t believe you. I’ll tell them you took the payment I gave you seven years ago. I’ll show them the messages. The ones where you agreed to do this. You came here willingly.”

The words land heavy, stacking up in my chest like stones. My breath catches, my face burning cold as the weight of it presses

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down on me. He’s not wrong. I can already see the flickering courtroom fluorescent lights, the slow shake of heads, the disbelieving looks. The lawyer’s sneer as he holds up the messages like damning evidence.

“It won’t look good for you, Gia,”

he says, and the sound of my name feels like a hook sinking into my skin. He’s using it now, softening his tone, trying to make it land just right. “You can take the money and live a great life, or you can spend years in court trying to convince people you were kidnapped and held against your will. Even then, you might lose. You’ll be worse off than you were when you got here.”

His voice is calm, rational, almost kind, like he’s offering me a way out, like he’s doing me a favor. But it’s the tone that scares me the most—the casual assurance that he’s won, that I’ve already folded. He steps back, his posture loose, his hand resting near the bag of money on the counter as if to say, Your choice.

I stand there, frozen, my body heavy and trembling, my mind spiraling in tight, endless loops. He’s right. Of course, he’s right. No one would believe me. I know how they treat women like me. They’ll see me for what he’s turned me into. I agreed to this.

I’m in, I wrote.

The messages—he has all of them. I know what they say. The careful narrative he’s constructed, the story he’s been curating for years, each piece designed to paint me as complicit.

Am I allowed to leave whenever I want?

Yes.

A woman who agreed to act like a dog for cash. They’ll eat it up. They’ll see his clean-cut face, his steady demeanor, the messages, and they’ll believe him. They always do.

But then, something cuts through the panic, a thought sharp and clear, slamming into me like a freight train.

No.

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There’s another option.

The idea is sudden, jarring, and it grips me hard, refusing to let go. My eyes dart to the bag of cash on the counter. Then to him, standing there, so confident, so assured in his control, his victory. The open door behind him, sunlight streaming in like it’s taunting me.

I look at him—at his blank expression, his steady stance—and for the first time, I feel something shift. My breath steadies, my muscles coil. The thought sharpens, solidifies, and I don’t let myself question it.

I could take the money. I could leave. Or I could make sure he never does this to anyone else again.

I nod slow, lowering my gaze as I whisper, “Woof.”

He smirks, satisfied, and turns away, giving me just enough time to look around the room, to calculate my next move. “I'm sorry I had to keep you for so long. But that was always the plan,”

Nathan says, his tone casual, almost conversational, as if he’s explaining a minor inconvenience. His hands are still in his pockets, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. “Not a lot of women would agree to this if they knew I like to keep my Girl Pets for years until I’m done playing with them, and that little stunt of yours yesterday did it for me. My clients are not happy with what you did last night. I’m done. You're free to go now,”

he says, gesturing vaguely toward the door, his voice light and dismissive. “Thank you for your time, Gia. Your car is out front. I made sure to keep up with the maintenance. Even gassed it up for you this morning. You’re good to go.”

He smiles.

My mind races, spiraling into an uncontrollable loop of thoughts, each one sharper, louder, more intrusive than the last. The room feels too bright, too loud, too close. My vision begins to blur, not with relief but with something darker, hotter.

Rage.

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The word cuts through my thoughts like a knife. The sound of his voice, the sight of his face, the casual ease with which he dismisses everything he’s done—it fuels the fire inside me until it consumes everything else. I was thirty years old when I first entered this house. Now I am thirty-seven. Valuable years of my life gone. Because of him.

For the last time, I get down on all fours, and lunge.

My body moves on instinct, driven by a force that feels primal. My hands reach for his throat, my fingers digging into his skin with a ferocity that surprises even me. His eyes widen, the calm, detached mask slipping as he stumbles backward, trying to pry my hands away, only to fall, his leg bending the wrong way with a sickening crack, the sound of his leg bone popping out of its socket. He screams—a high, raw sound that echoes through the room—but it only fuels me further. I drive him to the ground, my knees pinning his chest, and I slam his head against the floor with a sickening thud.

The first bite is clumsy, my teeth sinking into the soft flesh of his neck. Blood spurts out in hot, metallic bursts, coating my lips, my tongue, my chin. The taste is intoxicating, the warmth of it filling my mouth.

I bite again, harder this time, tearing away a chunk of skin and muscle. Nathan screams again, his voice hoarse, desperate, but I don’t stop. I rip into his throat with my teeth, eating his vocal chords, the blood pouring out in thick, viscous streams that pool around his head.

His hands claw at me weakly, his strength fading, his movements slowing. I grab his shirt and tear it open, exposing his chest. I tear a hole through his stomach with my claws and then my hands dig into it, my fingers slipping in the blood as I tear through the flesh, the muscle, through sinew.

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I pull his intestines out, the slick, coiled mass warm and heavy in my hands. The smell is overwhelming, a mix of copper and bile and something earthy. I raise them to my mouth and slurp them up like spaghetti, the texture rubbery, the taste metallic and salty.

His screams turn into gurgles, his body twitching beneath me as I work. I sink my teeth into his liver, tearing it free from its cavity, the organ heavy and wet in my hands. I bite into it, the taste rich and iron-filled, the blood dripping down my chin and onto my clothes.

I keep going, driven by an insatiable hunger, a need to consume, to destroy, to erase him completely. I rip through his chest cavity, my hands slick with blood as I pull out his heart. It is still faintly beating, the rhythm weak and erratic, and I sink my teeth into it, tearing it apart with a savage growl.

By the time I stop, the room is silent except for the sound of my ragged breathing. Nathan’s body is unrecognizable, a mangled, bloody mess of flesh and bone. I sit back on my heels, my hands coated in blood, my face slick with it, my stomach full and heavy.

The rage leaves slowly, like the last embers of a fire. What remains is something hollow, a calm so thin it feels like the edge of a blade. I look down at what’s left of Nathan, his body slack and unrecognizable, blood soaking into the floor in broad, blooming circles. The room smells of copper and ruin, the kind of smell that burrows into your skin and stays there. This will stay with me forever.

Suddenly, the door swings open, and her voice cuts through the silence.

“Hey, how’d it go? Did she take the money?”

Her words are casual, light, as though she’s arriving at the aftermath of a business meeting. She steps inside, and her heels click against the floor. I hear the sound before I see her, and then there she is, framed in the doorway like a ghost from my past.

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It’s her.

Cupcake.

I know her immediately. I’ve burned her face into my mind over the years, etched it into memory. She’s here, alive, wearing a tan trench coat that clings to her waist, blonde hair perfectly straightened, her heels unmistakably Louboutin. She looks every inch the woman I imagined her to be—elegant, untouchable.

And now, she’s staring at me. Her eyes widen as they take in the scene: Nathan’s body, lifeless and open like a dissected animal. My hands, my face, my clothes—all dripping in gore, evidence of what I’ve done.

Her scream cuts through the room, jagged and raw.

“No, no, no!”

she cries, stumbling backward, her hand flying to her mouth. The sound is high-pitched and guttural, like something breaking in her chest. Tears pour down her face, tracing paths through her carefully powdered cheeks.

She looks at Nathan, then at me, her expression flipping between disbelief and devastation.

“Why’d you do that?”

she wails, her voice cracking. “I loved him!”

The words hit me like a slap. Loved him? Loved him?

“He was letting you go!”

she screams, her body shaking with the force of her grief. “He was letting you go!”

I straighten slowly, my joints stiff, my muscles trembling from the exertion. Blood drips from my fingers onto the floor, each drop marking time, and still, her words echo in my head.

“He didn’t deserve to live,”

I say, my voice low and steady, though my own chest feels like it might cave in.

She takes a step forward, unsteady on her heels, and kneels beside Nathan’s body. She doesn’t touch him—her hands hover, trembling, wanting to touch but afraid to make contact with the

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carnage. “He changed my life,”

she says through her sobs, her voice splintered. “He gave me everything! Oh god...”

I stare at her, my mind reeling. “But... he held you captive,”

I say. My voice quivers despite my attempt at control. “He kidnapped you.”

She shakes her head, tears falling faster. “He let me go!”

she screams, her throat raw with grief.

I step closer, feeling the distance between us tighten like a noose. “How many years did he take from you?”

I ask, my voice rising. “How many?”

Her lips tremble, and her shoulders collapse inward. She whispers, “Ten. Ten years.”

Her knees buckle, and she sinks to the floor, her head hanging low. Her voice drops to a whisper. “But I loved him.”

The words linger in the air, and I feel the weight of them press against my ribs. Ten years. Ten years of this.

I stare at her as she cradles his arm, the only part of him not bloody, she grips it like it is still alive, her tears pooling on his body. “We were going to get married,”

she says softly, her voice distant. “After he let you go. He told me he was going to stop all this.”

I shake my head slowly, my throat tightening. “He didn’t mean it,”

I whisper. “It was just another way to control you. To keep you quiet. I’m sure he tried to bribe you to not go to the police.”

Her sobs hiccup into silence, but her body keeps shaking. She doesn’t respond. “Please, just go,”

she says finally, her voice breaking.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat almost unbearable. “Come with me,”

I whisper.

She lifts her head, her face streaked with tears and contempt. Her voice sharpens like a blade. “Why would I go with you? You killed the love of my life,”

she growls.

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I hold her gaze, my chest tight with something I can’t name. “I killed your captor,”

I say, my voice trembling. “I killed your predator. Your rapist.”

She shakes her head slowly, her hands gripping Nathan’s arm like it’s a lifeline. “No,”

she whispers again, quieter this time.

I stare at her for a long moment, the silence between us heavy with all the things we cannot say. She is too far gone. I stand, wiping my bloody hands on my ruined clothes. My purse, the bag of money—all of it waits on the counter. I gather them. I pull my car keys out of my purse, the metal cool against my palm.

Before I leave, I look back at the woman one last time. She’s still there, crouched beside his body, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. “Are you going to call the cops and tell them I killed him?”

I ask, my voice steady.

She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Just go,”

she says, her voice hollow. “I’ll call in ten minutes. Enough time for you to get away.”

I nod slowly. “You came in and found him like this,” I say.

She looks up at me, mascara smeared across her face. After a moment she repeats the phrase, her voice quivering. “I came in and found him like this.”

I linger for a moment longer, searching her face for something—hope, understanding, anything. But she’s lost in the wreckage. She won’t tell the cops about what I did, I know for certain, I know it deep within me. She sees me.

Maybe she isn’t too far gone. Maybe one day, she’ll come back to herself.

Hopefully.

I turn and walk out the door, the cold air hitting me like a slap. I climb into my car, the leather seats cold against my legs. My hands shake as I start the engine, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The car smells like blood and sweat and freedom, and for a moment, I don’t know where one ends and the others begin.

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My hands grip the wheel, but they’re not hands anymore—claws, thick and dark, the tips sharp enough to leave faint scratches in the leather as I back out of Nathan’s driveway.

The transformation has been slow and inevitable, like the way sunlight fades color from fabric.

A part of me knew this was coming, even as I fought to pretend I was still human.

But now, as the fur spreads across my chest, my face, my legs, I feel no fear.

I feel no grief for the girl I once was.

She’s already gone, her edges worn away by years of crawling, of barking, of bending to survive.

What’s left is something raw, something honest.

Something real.

I press the gas harder, the engine roaring beneath me, the wind rushing through the cracked window, carrying scents I never noticed before.

Grass, rain, roadkill—a symphony of life and death that feels so sharp, so bright, it’s almost unbearable.

My nose twitches, catching every nuance, every shift in the air.

The sky stretches wide and bruised above me, the storm clouds low and heavy, pregnant with the promise of rain.

It feels alive, pressing down on the earth, and I want to meet it, to throw myself into its embrace.

My claws tighten on the wheel, and I laugh, sharp and guttural, the sound strange in this half-formed throat.

I glance over at the money.

It’s sitting in the passenger seat, crisp bills stuffed into a bag, but it feels absurd now, a relic from a life I don’t recognize anymore.

The headlights catch the curve of the road too late, and I don’t try to stop. I let the car slide, the tires skidding, the world tilting as metal crunches and glass explodes around me. The sound is deafening, a symphony of destruction, but it feels distant, unimportant.

When the car finally stops, tilted and broken in the middle of a field, I crawl out, my body moving with a fluidity that feels new,

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instinctive. My legs are longer now, stronger. My paws press into the soft earth, the grass cool and damp against my pads.

The air is alive, crackling with energy, every scent sharper, every sound clearer.

The car doesn’t matter.

The money doesn’t matter.

I think about Turtle, the man at the park, the man who grinned with crooked teeth and made poetry out of nothing.

I think about the way he could balance a hacky sack on the curve of his foot like he was built for it, like he didn’t need a house or walls or anything but the feel of the earth under his toes.

How content he seemed, even with nothing.

Maybe especially with nothing. His freedom looked like madness at the time, but now I wonder if I envied him all along.

The wind shifts, and it’s like the whole world shifts with it. I feel it press against me, insistent, wrapping me up and pulling me forward. I don’t need the car, don’t need the leather seats or the steel or the hum of the engine. My feet are the engine now, my legs pulling me faster as I break into a sprint, my body slicing through the air like I belong to it. Everything I need, I’ve got on me. Everything I need is here.

I run faster.

I don’t think about Nathan, or the house, or the years I spent folded into that small, pink room. I don’t think about Cupcake’s grief, or the blood on my teeth, or the life I took to get here. I think only of the wind rushing past me, the ground firm beneath my paws, the sky vast and open above.

The fur ripples along my back, the muscles in my legs stretching, pulling me forward faster and faster until the field blurs around me, the horizon swallowing me whole. My heart pounds, steady and relentless, a rhythm that feels ancient, older than language, older than fear.

I am free. I am finally free.