Page 63 of Scarred Savages
Unlike Axel’s den of chaos or Ethan’s shrine to order, Oli’s space is… normal. Almost boyish. The bed is actually made—a shock in itself—and there’s minimal clutter on the surfaces.
It’s small but cozy.
A few books stacked on the nightstand, a hoodie tossed over a chair, and what looks like a half-finished wood carving on the desk. Didn’t peg him as the artistic type.
There’s something strangely intimate about being in someone’s space when they’re not around. My fingers trail over the dresser, pausing on a small framed photo—Oli with his brother Damien and a girl who must be his sister.
Emely.
Axel’s first love.
They share the same dimpled smile, though Oli’s red hair stands out against his siblings’ darker shades.
Where Damien is the shadow, Oli is the sunshine.
Not weak, I’ve seen him hold his own in training, but gentler.
Kinder.
I move to the bookshelf, running my fingers along the spines—fantasy novels, comics, and battered notebooks. I pull one out, curiosity getting the better of me, then think better of it and slide it back.
Snooping in a wolf-shifter’s room?
Probably not my best idea.
I shake off the thought and return to work, humming a half-forgotten tune my mother used to sing. The melody feels foreign in my throat—I haven’t sung it since the fire. The memory pinches, so I push it aside and focus on the task at hand.
“Alright, let’s get this over with,” I mutter, yanking back the covers. My task is simple: change the sheets, collect the dirty laundry, and don’t snoop.
I flip the comforter back, and something moves.
A ripple under the sheet.
I freeze. Fingers clenched on the fabric.
What the—
Living here has taught me to expect the unexpected, but I’m burning this place to the ground if this is a snake.
The lump moves again, traveling upward toward the pillows.
Please don’t let it be a snake.
My heart hammers against my ribs, adrenaline surging.
Alpha wolves? I can handle.
Humans? Even the irritating, stupid douchebag variety. Manageable.
But unexplained moving lumps in beds? No. Absolutely not.
The lump moves again—more deliberately this time. I grab the closest weapon—a hardcover book about forest wildlife, ironically—and hold it above my head. If this thing lunges, it’s about to get a crash course in its own biology.
“I swear, if you’re what I think you—.” The sheet rustles and parts.
First come ears. Long, velvet-soft, twitching with life.
Definitely not a snake.
