Page 19 of Bread By the Grim
Phil’s worried voice starts asking questions before I even realize she’s answered the call. “Grim, are you all right? Are you hungry? Can bring you some food?”
“Noooo.”
“But you need to eat,” she argues.
“It’s not safe.”
“It’s less safe to become dehydrated,” she retorts.
I am not going to win this argument. I’vehonestly never been in my shifted form for more than a few days, and I’m always fine, but this is Phil’s first time dealing with it. This is completely my fault for not just sucking it up and talking to her about it before now.
“Broth,” I offer as a compromise.
“Broth,” she repeats. “I’ll be there after ten. I won’t stay long. I know you don’t want me there, but I need to see that you’re okay.”
It stings to have her think I don’t want her around. It couldn’t be further from the truth. Not only do I want her around, I need her like air. The short hours we’ve been separated have been bland without her nearby teasing me or offering to help with something or just even silently working side by side.
I wallow in my own angst like a teenaged boy upset about his crush until ten rolls around, and a soft knock comes at the door.
I open the door clumsily and step back, afraid she’ll flinch at the sight of me in daylight, but she merely steps into my small apartment and looks around.
“You have a nice place here, Grim. Where’s the kitchen?”
I point, afraid to speak, and skitter behind her, my tail dragging across the floor, my claws scraping against the tile. She sets up a bowl ofsoup, turns the chair sideways for me so I can sit down, and then takes the opposite chair. “I’m not going until I see you eat.”
The part of my brain that knows how to use silverware doesn’t seem to work in this form. I stare down at the silver-covered spoon for a long moment, sure I’m supposed to do something with it, before I give up and pick the bowl up like a cup and drink directly from it.
Phil doesn’t flinch or seem phased at all. She waits until I’m done and then asks if I’d like some more. When I shake my head, she takes my bowl to the sink and washes it out.
“Have you gotten any sleep?”
I shake my head.
“Then let’s put you to bed. Rest helps everything.”
She follows me to the bedroom. My hearing is so much better in my shifted form than it is in my normal state. I hear the small gasp she makes as I lead her to the closet.
“Grim, this is where you sleep? Every night?”
“Safer.”
She looks aghast. “But you have a whole bed big enough for two people. Even your tail could fit.”
I shake my head. “It’s not safe.”
“How’s it not safe to sleep on the bed?”
I point to the locks along the door frame. Thistime she doesn’t hide her horror. “Grim, you lock yourself in at night? Do you know how dangerous that is? What if there’s a fire?”
I can’t tell her all of it—she knows about the spell, but not that I’m not conscious for those hours. I just hang my head as she fluffs up the pillow and points to the mat like I’m a sick child. Awkwardly, I lay down. She covers me up and runs a hand over my forehead. “I worry about you up here all alone. Promise me you won’t lock the door.”
“Not safe.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Grim, you haven’t hurt me yet. We’ve had sex, dinner, an entire conversation, and I’m putting you to bed right now with you in your shift, and I’m still here, completely unscathed.”
I can’t explain to her, not like this at least, how it has a mind of its own. How sometimes I cannot control the rage, and if I can’t control the rage, I can’t control my other desires.
