Jensen
Thethingis,I’ma terrible sleeper, and I like stretching my legs at night. It clears my head, and not only that, a nice little midnight snack helps me fall asleep. My insomnia has been worse than ever lately, so it seems unwise to skip the snack.
I know I decided not to wander around the house at night anymore, and I do agree with the logic I used in reaching that decision, so I’m only going to go to the kitchen tonight. Just there and back. I won’t veer off course at all, so I doubt the lord will even hear me. And of course that’s exactly what I want. I want to get a good night’s sleep, and I want him to do the same. We’re friends now, and friends want good things for each other.
I mean, yes, technically, I am the kind of friend who has spent every waking moment thinking about the way he looked when he said he’d happily blow me. But what of it? It was a very interesting conversation. Who wouldn’t replay it in their mind a time or two?
I open my bedroom door as quietly as possible, peeking my head around the corner to make sure the coast is clear. To be extra cautious, I shuck off my slippers and tiptoe down the passage barefoot.
It’s a dark and blustery night, with sheets of rain drumming against fogged-up panes of glass. The sounds of the night have crept into the house, slithering under the doors, blowing cool breezes into unlit places.
My heart beats a little more urgently than usual as I make my way to the entrance hall. It’s a big space, innocuous in the day, but on a night like tonight, it morphs into a gauntlet to be crossed while trying not to cause a floorboard to creak.
I’m halfway there, halfway across the gauntlet, when I hear it: a rumble that shakes the foundation of the building. The lowest, slowest, most paralyzing sound a human being can possibly produce.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and my spine turns to solid ice. I don’t move a muscle as the sound of a catastrophic alpha growl rolls through me.
It rolls and rolls, reverberating until all the breath in the lord’s lungs has been expended.
Then he does it again.
The second time, I expect it. I breathe it in, and when I do, the sound echoes in my brain. In my bones. In my marrow. It alights everything it touches, shaking it firmly but gently until my entire body is vibrating.
He doesn’t tell me to run this time. I do it without his direction. Without his persuasion. Though I’m painfully aware that it will embarrass me later, this time, I do it because I want to. Because the lord was right. Last nightwasfun.
And because tag was my favorite game when I was a boy too.
The mood is different this time. It’s different being indoors, more contained and controlled. Still wild, but less so. The fearis different too. It’s there, both real and unreal, like it was last night, but tonight it’s laced with something undeniably playful.
I bolt down the hall toward the kitchen as fast as I can. Doorways flit by me as my feet hit the ground, shadows growing long and trying to ensnare me as I go. As I run, my ragged breaths are punctuated by high-pitched, hysterical laughter.
The lord’s footsteps are louder indoors, his feet beating solidly on timber, as the most devastating growl imaginable fades and changes, bubbling into a slow, throaty cackle.
I make it to the kitchen without being caught, and tear to the far side of the room to the counter where the cookies are kept. Once I get there, I’m not sure what to do next. The door from the scullery to the kitchen garden is locked. There’s no way out but the way I came in.
“Mm,” chuckles the lord, eyeing the cookie jars behind me. “It seems the little mouse has a homing instinct.”
I keep moving, parrying at the far end of the kitchen table, waiting to see which way he’ll approach so I have some hope of escape. He veers right. So do I. We race clockwise around the table twice before he becomes so helpless with laughter that he has to brace himself on one of the kitchen chairs.
“What’s wrong, old man?” I tease. “Too slow?”
His face creases with humor he tries to hide. “Old man? You little mite! How very dare you.”
I dash left, changing direction when he least expects it, and I sprint back around the table, heading for the door.
It seems I misjudged the lord though. Either that, or calling him old has left him with something to prove because this time, he doesn’t follow my path. He takes a kitchen chair by the top rail and sends it skidding out of his way as if it’s weightless. That one and another. And then another one. The sudden movement and subsequent crashes when the chairs land make me pause, freezing my limbs briefly as I assess the danger.
The lord uses my hesitation to his advantage, throwing himself clear across the table, kicking the chairs on this side of the table out of his way as he slides on tilted hip across the table top. He lands easily, the balls of his feet bearing the brunt of his weight. He lowers his chin and opens his arms and hands at his sides as he approaches me.
I don’t move because I can’t remember how to.
“Got you,” he says, wrapping a heavy arm around my waist and lifting me easily off my feet.
I struggle, not with escape in mind, but rather a dim, ill-formed hope of a more heavy-handed embrace. He subdues me with ease, without really trying. He catches the hand I press against his chest and sweeps it in a gentle arc behind my back, holding me still.
He’s growling again. At least I think he is. I can’t tell for sure because my eyes are closed. I think he must be, though, because my entire body is vibrating. He sets me down on my feet and cups my chin, raising it slightly. I keep my eyes shut so he can’t read the myriad of inappropriate cravings that lurk there.
He doesn’t talk or move for so long that the heat in my body becomes too much to bear.
