Page 8 of Big Bad Wolf

Just when I get to my knees, the creature leaps for me. I don’t even realize that that’s what happened until it lands at my side and, in a fit of pure stupidity, I snap my head toward it, taking in the… the…

Wolf.

Yeah. That’s a fucking wolf.

It’s too much. I was just wandering around the woods, trying to find somewhere to rest, secretly convinced that Sandy was full of shit when she said the woods were full of monsters, but now I’m eye to eye with one and I… oh, no. Black spots dance at the edge of my vision, my head goes woozy, and I fold in on myself before toppling over to the side that doesn’t currently house a massive fucking wolf.

As unconsciousness drags me under, I remember the sensation of a hot breath washing over my face. The wolf lowers its head, dragging its damp snout along my throat, my jaw, my cheek as it inhales my scent.

No.

Stop.

Don’t…

But I’m too far gone to do anything to stop the beast, the panic, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of everything crashing over me all at once as my eyelids flutter and everything goes dark.

CHAPTER 3

MINE

As I slowly come back online again, I have the sinking suspicion that something’s wrong. That I’m not supposed to be awake. That I’m supposed to be…

Wolf chow?

Shit!

Okay, Charlotte. Time out. I’m alive. Let’s get that out of the way. Apart from the ache in my poor feet, I feel all right. Actually, I feel pretty damn good. I’m warm, but not the sort of warm you get from being outside beneath a ninety degree sunshine. It’s more like the cozy sensation when you’re under your covers, curled up in comfort, clinging to the last moments of a deep sleep.

My eyes are closed. I keep them like that just in case I’m not alone. For the same reason, I slow my breathing, pretending that I haven’t returned to the land of the living. I don’t know where I am. If the wolf decided that I wasn’t worth taking a bite out of, I’d expect to be cold from the ground, achy from being passed out in the dirt, sticks and rocks poking me in the back and my ass. Instead, I’m snuggling against a pile of blankets that have a uniquely musky, masculine scent that should probably scare the shit of me, but doesn’t (which is scary in and of itself).

What does that mean? Either I really am dead, I’m imagining myself awake and I’m only dreaming, or I’m in deep, deep shit because I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

That last one alone is enough to make my breath catch as I shift a little, trying to move, just to make sure that I can. It’s weird. My limbs feel slow. Sluggish. It’s taking me a second to wade through the panicked memories slipping toward the forefront of my mind.

There was a wolf. I was walking through the forest of Blackmoor, got chased by a monster-sized wolf while wearing a red cloak with a hood, and if it’s only just hitting me now that this is some twisted version of Little Red Riding Hood, only neither of us could be considered little, and when I said I believed in fairytales, this is not what I meant… yeah. I’m in trouble.

Slowly, because I can’t stay in the dark forever, I quirk an eye open. A second later, I let them both fly.

What the…

I’m staring up at a wooden ceiling in what has to belong to some sort of honest-to-God cabin. It has rough beams cutting across it, shadows shifting along the grain thanks to the firelight flickering somewhere nearby. The walls I can see are made of a darker shade of wood, and when I shift my head to the left, I can take in more of the single room.

There’s a fireplace off to the side, flames licking lazily at the firewood, casting a warm, steady glow across the space. Wooden furniture sits in neat, practical arrangements. In one corner, I see a bare table, a single wooden chair, and a handful of shelves lined with things that look like they’ve been there a long, long time. A wide yet squat dresser with a single drawer is set against the wall. There’s even a bed in the corner, blankets pulled tight and untouched, like no one’s used it in years.

It’s so normal it feels wrong.

The memory of claws and fangs and hungry black eyes doesn’t belong in this cabin...

The bed is empty (obviously). And now that I can pinpoint the faint crackling sound I can hear as a fire going, I have to admit that the soft snuffles I’ve been trying to ignore have to belong to someone—or something—that’s still fast asleep. It’s not me, and it’s not the empty bed.

I gulp and, before I think better of it, I turn to my right.

Curled beside me on a pile of old blankets like it owns the place, half on and half off what looks like a makeshift nest dragged across the floor, is the very same wolf that chased me through the woods.

Holy shit! From snout to tail, it’s bigger than I am!

Out in the woods, the wolf just seemed dark. Thanks to the firelight, I can see that it has rich brown fur with patches of white down by its long legs; it’s more like it’s a red wolf than a gray wolf. Its paws are as big as dinner plates, claws curved and freaky sharp even as it’s sleeping next to me, and it’s so close to me, if I reached out my fingers, I could brush them against its fur.