"Belle."
I spring open my eyes. In a haze, I make out Penelope's pink frock at my side. She's standing beside my bed, habitually weaving her side pony tail.
"What?" I drowsily ask the ghost of the maid's daughter.
"There's a wolf in your room," she says, pointing towards the door.
I follow her finger, and there's indeed a wolf. A big ass black wolf, with big black orbs, dense fur, and chunky claws, staring right back at me from near the door. Its ears are upright, legs slightly spread out, and fur is raised. It's on alert. It's so big the doorway is blocked.
Losing all my sleep in an instant, I lift my back up over my elbows. "What the fuck? Who are you?"
Its fur and ears droop back. Its legs come together, before it backtracks through the doorway, and leaves.
I shove the bedsheet off of me, hightail out of bed, dash through Penelope's spirit, and follow the lupine form.
I follow it downstairs, climbing down two steps at a time to not lose sight of it.
When I see its tail disappear into Chris' room, my body relaxes a little.
I feel dizzy from the rapid transition of being in a REM cycle to chasing after a wolf. I lean on the back of the couch, and wait.
When Chris comes out in his human form: Setting aside the sight of his shirtless body in grey trousers, I ask, "Why were you strolling around as a wolf inside the house?!"
No one should come between a teenage girl and her afternoon nap! Not even a next-in-line-Alpha werewolf! And transforming inside the house is a "big no-no," as my mom put it every time I muddied her imported-from-turkey carpets with four paws.
"I wasn't. I just came from a run," he casually says. His low, creamy voice snaps me out of my anger, and I become acutely aware of his semi nakedness that's highlighted by the glistening sweat drops on his skin. The six-pack and the biceps I had the side-view of on the beach are now up and front before my eyes. And close, too. If I take three steps towards him and reach out, I can touch his hardcore chest.
Struggling to keep my eyes on his, I ask, "What were you doing in my room?"
"You were crying for help," he says, walking away. "I could hear you from outside. So I went up to your room, without changing back, to see if you were okay."
I follow him to the kitchen, my eyes glued to his dry, cracked feet. He should moisturize them. Penelope at my side says, "You were talking in your sleep."
I turn back to Chris, to tell him it was nothing, but get distracted as he takes out a condensed glass bottle from the fridge and starts pouring cold water down his throat thirstily. A few drops escape and drip down his chest.
I swallow. Watching him, I'm thirsty, too.
He straightens the bottle, with only a mouthful of the liquid left flapping around at the bottom. He looks at me, and tilts the bottle my way, offering me the drink.
"There's nothing left!" I tell him.
He takes the bottle's rim back to his mouth, swallows the left over, licks his wet lips at me, and says, "Now there's nothing left."
Fingers curl on either side of my body.
Deciding to go back to the time when we ignored each other's existence, I turn to leave.
He asks, "Was it a bad dream?"
I stop, suddenly feeling guilty for getting mad at him when he was only worried about me, and even rushed up to help. I say the truth, "I don't remember. But it probably was."
