Bound

At Least It Comes With Snacks

CLAIRE POV

The sound of little 'yips' pulled me to the edge of a sleep so perfect I really didn't want to surface. Wrapped in a cool black velvet pool, languishing under the surface, feeling a blissful nothingness.

But here at the edge I was, and awareness of the world began to filter down.

Sunlight streamed in from the window and warmed a patch of my memory foam mattress, goose down coverlet, king sized bed. It was an extravagant amount of bed for one woman...and one tiny little floofy wolf curled up inside the sunshine, on top of my feet.

Scratching at my wooden door joined the yips.

My sleep addled brain didn't flag how strange this was. It just felt the cool of my pillow, the warm of the sun and the pull of velvet nothingness. It would be so easy to let the dark waves wash over and take me back.

This was the first night in months that terror had not pulled at the pieces of the fabric that held my mind together. This was the first morning that I could see the edges of the day creeping in around the exhausted corners of my mind, and wanted to push them back.

There is a weight that pulls at every movement through the day when you fear rest. An edge that cuts at tranquility piece by piece, until you spend your time balanced on a precarious point. The monsters of darkness swirl at your feet and bite at your heels. Destabilising reality until you give into unconsciousness and fall into their arms. The moment you fall, there is peace. A surrender.

Then the fears come to life in night terrors and prove that you were right to be scared.

But I had just been suspended in a dark pool that caressed. The sense of nothingness had comforted. The blank expanse had healed.

So here I stayed, languishing in the absence of a racing heart, with sunlight beckoning, and a tiny furry footwarmer.

Wait a second.

Why did I have a tiny furry footwarmer? Were wolves don't come in that size, and the pack doesn't keep quadrupedal canine pets. The domesticated descendants of our proud cousins did not know what to do with pack hierarchy, or humans that became wolves.

Was I dreaming? Was I having a good dream?!

That theory was dashed when the side door to my cottage bedroom swung open. In a mess of nails, scratching wood, and high pitched yips three more pups jumped up on the bed to bathe me with cold probing noses and wet tongues.

Sleep didn't stand a chance against such enthusiasm, and the flash of pain from an accidental application of tiny razor sharp teeth, disproved my theory that this was a dream.

I tried to sigh in frustration as I healed the little incision with a flash of fire, but it turned into a gasp and a giggle as the loving assault continued.

Locks were not really a thing in the pack community. The houses all had them of course, but you only used them if you really didn't want to be disturbed. The shared mentality meant the pack was more than family, they were an extension of yourself, and it was nearly impossible to hide things. As for strangers? What kind of thief stood a chance against a pack of wolves?

My office was the only regularly locked door, and the side door cut into the wall of my bedroom didn't even have one.

Sounds of the pack filtered through the last of the dissipating sleepy fog. Mary was attempting to corral Jack for chores with a high pitched whine. I'm not surprised it was ignored. A congregation of pack members had amassed on the town green, probably for a coffee break.