“Fuck you, Cory,” I snarl as I punch a pillow.
Fuck him for stealing my sense of safety. For ruining something as simple as lying in my bed.
If I’m going to be awake, then I refuse to dwell on why that is. Better to focus on something fun.
Despite the distance between my house and Hester’s, I decide to play it safe and grab my wireless headphones. If I want to drown out my fears, the music needs to beloud.
Since buying my home, I’ve invested in a couch and a coffee table, which I now shove up against the walls, giving myself plenty of floor space. Swiping through my phone, I navigate to my favorite playlist. The first one I put together when I got the device to replace the one I had to leave behind.
The playlist’s title: Fuck You.
The first song that blasts from my headphones is “Sorry Not Sorry” by Demi Lovato.
As the beat thunders along with my pulse, I give in to the urge to dance. In the now-open space, I flail around my house, waving my arms, swaying my hips, throwing up random high kicks. My eyes close as I revel in the freedom of movement. The joy of being on my own.
This act is powerful. This act is vulnerable.
I sing along to the lyrics, my off-key notes inaudible to me. All I hear is the suppressed fury unleashed.
Next song that comes up is “Little Girl Gone” by Chinchilla, and I yell in feminine rage, throwing out punches at all the ghosts in my past.
For a good hour, I gyrate and leap and give myself permission to make any movement with my body that brings me relief. Moves that make me feel alive and happy.
Because it’smybody.
I’ll never let anyone else have control over it again.
Sometime around three in the morning, I pass out on my couch from exhaustion.
The next thing I’m conscious of is the chime of my doorbell.
Someone is outside my house.The thought sends me tumbling off the couch and scrambling for my security panel.
My body shakes with tremors of my past life, where I knew my ex would be home at sunrise, expecting food and sex. A morning like this, he returned to our house to find me gone. A morning like this, he started hunting me.
He isn’t here. He doesn’t know where I am.
I don’t belong to him. I never did.
With fumbling fingers, I switch on the front-porch camera.
A sob of relief gushes out of me when I spot a familiar werewolf on the tiny screen. Quickly, I type in my code to disarm the security system, then pull open my front door.
“Thad! What are you doing here?” I smile wide at him, hoping the expression will shove away the lingering stabs of anxiety.
He returns my smile but with a tilt of his head, and I realize my mistake.
“Sorry,”I sign. “Hello! What are you doing here?”
The wolf holds up a brown paper bag.
“Brought breakfast.” His voice has a touch of a growl to it, but also, he speaks softly. “You hungry?”
The offer surprises me, and when I place my hand to my stomach, I realize I am, in fact, ravenous. I just never expected someone to bringmefood.
“Come in,”I sign, then lead the way toward my kitchen. For a few steps, I walk backward so I can ask, “Do you want coffee?”
He nods eagerly. I put a pot on to brew, then go to explore the contents of the bag Thad dropped on the table.
