Page 36 of In Her Own Rite

I walk into the hallway and see them: my dad in his wolf form, feral with rage; my mom lying on the ground, crying. Scratch marks in the wall, in the carpet.

“Stop it,” I say, trying to make my voice big, and their heads both snap to look at me. He snarls, all cruel eyes and sharp teeth.

“Emerson, baby, go upstairs,” she says.

“But Mama—”

My dad barks at me, a warning, and at the harshness of the sound, a wave of fear cracks through my body. I panic, and can’t help it—I snap forward, folding into my wolf form, small and soft. Still a pup, even smaller than my child self.

He turns his attention back to my mom, bearing his claws, towering over her.

“Janus, please, not in front of Emerson,” she begs, but he just snarls, bearing his claws, and slashes at her. His claws hit her arm and I see red: on the floor, on her dress. She screams, and he turns his back to her and thrashes against the wall again.

I yip, trying to get their attention, trying to make it stop, but they don’t hear me. I try to shift back, but I’m too young to control it, and whenever my feelings get the best of me it’s my wolf in control. I hear my mom’s crying, my own whimpering, the snarls of my dad’s rage. I’m afraid, trapped in my body, unable to help. Unable to make it stop.

I sit up in bed,breathing heavy, panting from the nightmare. I look around. I’m in the blue room on the north island.He’s not here. I’m an adult, I’m safe, I try to remind myself, but my voice breaks out of me, small and sad, and I can feel the grief and adrenaline rolling through my body. My wolf is closer to the surface than usual, scared and wanting comfort. I shove her away.

Behind me, I hear the door to my room open. I look over: Kieran in black sweatpants, no shirt, his face groggy from sleep. Within a second he’s on the bed behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist and the other over my shoulders, pulling me towards his chest.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m here,” he says, his voice low. “I’m here, okay? You’re safe.”

I should tell him to leave, but I don’t want to. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself close.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, the warmth of his breath in my hair, on my skin. “Come, you can sleep.”

He pulls me down to the bed, and I feel my breathing slow, returning to normal. My face is wet with tears, and he kisses my cheeks and my forehead. Something in me warms, soft and hopeful. We lie there for a few minutes, quiet, breathing in the scent of each other.

“Do you want me to shift?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. I want you the way you are.”

The space between us grows tender. He pulls me towards him, my face in his neck, his hand on my lower back, our legs tangled together. It’s different since last night, even if we said it wouldn’t be. His body is just a little more familiar now; parts that used to be off-limits just a little more safe.

“Do you know I love you?” I whisper, before I can stop myself. I almost don’t know what I mean by it—which kind of love. I feel his body grow still, like he isn’t sure either. But he nods.

“I love you more than anyone else,” I say, and I mean it.

Something in the air grows sad, and I don’t know why. It’s his sadness and mine, mixing together; wistful, melancholy. I want to figure it out, want to say whatever I need to make it better. But I’m tired, and some things are better left until morning. Instead I close my eyes and draw myself as close to him as I can, letting myself fall back asleep with his arms to keep me safe.

When I wakeup in the morning, he’s gone, and I smell breakfast. I go downstairs in my pajamas and hear him in the kitchen, talking on the phone.

“It doesn’t look like when you do it.”

I smile, hiding behind the arch of the doorway. Someone on the other end of the line—Gabe, it must be—says something.

“I don’t know. Like, browner. Or like, more… dry, or something? I’ll send a photo.”

I exhale sharply, trying to suppress a laugh. I hear him grow still.

“You can come out, you know,” he says. “I can smell you anyway.”

“Rude.” I blush and walk into the kitchen.

“It’s a nice smell,” he says, and I hear sounds of protest from over the phone.

“A room? We have a whole house to ourselves,” Kieran says. “But okay, I’m gonna go. Thanks for the help.”

He hangs up and gestures proudly to the stove to show me what he’s made. Scrambled eggs and something that looks like it used to be bacon, twenty minutes ago.

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