Page 49 of Shy Girl

I sit.

“Stay.”

I stay.

It feels different this time, the command settling into my body like instinct, like it’s no longer a choice. My legs fold automatically, my body curling into the position before I can think. He smiles, and the sight of it makes my stomach churn.

The changes come faster after that. My teeth ache constantly, the dull throb of something shifting beneath the surface. One day, I wake up to find my canines longer, sharper, pressing against the inside of my lips. They catch on the gag when he straps it in, drawing blood, the taste metallic and warm.

My voice changes too. I try to speak, it comes out wrong—hoarse, guttural, a low growl that doesn’t belong to me. It sounds like a real bark. Nathan freezes when he hears it, his hand tightening on the leash, his eyes narrowing.

“Do it again,” he says, his tone unreadable.

I do, and it comes out deeper, raw. He stares at me for a long moment, then mutters something under his breath, dragging me to the Pink Room.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.

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My legs ache constantly now, the muscles tightening, the joints stiffening into unnatural angles. My arms feel longer, my shoulders shifting forward, pulling me into a permanent crouch.

The first time Nathan sees me like this, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches, his face unreadable, his hand twitching at his side like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t know how.

At night, I can’t stop scratching. My nails—or claws, now—rake across my skin, tearing at the fur, at the itch that spreads beneath it. My back arches involuntarily, my body contorting in ways that feel alien.

I wake up one morning to find my ears different. They’re longer, the tips pointed, the cartilage hardened into something stiff and unfamiliar. I touch them hesitantly, my claws brushing against the edges, and I want to scream, but the sound that comes out is a low, guttural whine.

Nathan hears it from the hallway. He opens the door slowly, his gaze locking onto me, and for the first time, I see fear in his eyes.

“What the fuck,” he whispers, stepping closer, his movements cautious.

I try to speak, to explain, to beg, but the words don’t come. Only a deep, rasping growl, low and menacing, filling the space between us.

“Stay,” he says, his voice trembling slightly.

I stay. Not because I want to, but because I have to.

The leash is gone now. He doesn’t need it anymore. I follow him without thinking, my body moving on instinct, my limbs folding into the rhythm of something primal. He doesn’t touch me unless he has to, and when he does, his hands are hesitant, his grip loose.

One night, I catch my reflection in the mirror. The face staring back isn’t mine. It’s something between human and animal, the fur thick and dark, my eyes gleaming with a sharpness that makes me

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recoil. My mouth hangs open slightly, my canines glinting in the dim light, and I realize I’m panting, short, shallow breaths fogging the glass.

I don’t know what I am anymore. A girl pretending to be a dog, or a dog that once thought it was a girl. Nathan doesn’t know either. He watches me now with a mixture of fascination and revulsion, his movements cautious, his commands fewer.

At night, I curl up on the floor, the fur on my arms brushing against the rug, my claws scratching at the wood. I feel the weight of the camera’s gaze, the red light blinking steadily, and I wonder if they can see it too—the thing I’ve become.

I wonder if they’re waiting for the moment when there’s nothing human left at all.

YEAR SEVEN

TWENTY-SEVEN

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