Call of the Wild

Epilogue

Life can change in the blink of an eye. One moment, you're simply driving for groceries, and the next, your car slams into a dog who is actually a wolf who is actually a man, and then you end up taking him — a wolf shifter — across the country to keep him safe from the rabid wolves biting at his heels.

It's a lot to fathom. A lot to come to terms with. One hell of a weekend.

Even now, a few weeks after that ordeal out in the woods where I thought I'd lost Aren, I sometimes catch myself and simply think: how the hell has my life reached this point?

But I'm glad of it. I'm glad I hit him with my car (well, I'm glad I hit him not very hard with my car) and I'm glad he trusted me enough to let me help. More than anything, I'm glad he chose to come home with me.

The thought of him wandering off into a world he knows nothing about has given me nightmares, and I often wake and think he's snuck out to find his own freedom. Not that I would blame him if he ever does— this house isn't a prison. Not like the last one. He's free to come and go as he pleases.

I'd be a pretty lousy rescuer if I trapped him just like his excuse of a pack did.

But, for now at least, he seems content enough to stay. To settle. To just live without fear.

Not that fear doesn't still linger.

I've just come back from a trip to the store— a run for essential painting supplies. I wasn't gone very long, but as I wander into the lounge, I find Aren fast asleep on the sofa, with paint smeared across his cheek and his hair all tousled. He's submerged beneath a den of blankets, with only his head exposed to the light.

And, for just a moment, I stand there in the open doorway and admire him. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps, like nothing can ever disturb him. Of course, the illusion cracks when he wakes with that familiar gleam of panic flickering in his eyes.

He wears his fear like a second skin; a plate of steel armour.

Yes, he sleeps in peace, but any slight noise will rouse him like a bird startled to flight. I think a part of him still believes he's stuck in his old life, facing all those horrors once more.

He has his own room, right opposite mine, but I'll wake in the middle of the night to snuffling as he trots in as a wolf, dragging a blanket behind him and curling up in the corner of the room, or I'll wake to the echo of howling out in the woods. In the morning, he'll wander in all muddied and yawning with twigs in his hair and a very obvious lack of clothes that has me raising my gaze to the ceiling and swallowing against a lump in my throat.

In any case, he's a little restless.

This time, it's the scuff of my shoe on the floor that drags him from his peace. He bolts upright, his eyes snapping to me — wide with panic — before quickly surveying the room. Checking for threats or places of refuge (I notice he sends a furtive glance to the old piano I've since unveiled). He doesn't find whatever threat he's searching for, whatever shadow lurks in his thoughts, and he slowly settles.

"Sorry," I say meekly, lifting up the bag as though it's a peace offering. "I got the rollers."

For better or for worse, in the weeks that Aren has lived here, he's gotten stuck in with all the renovations. As a distraction, perhaps, or a gesture of thanks for all I've done to help him. I don't understand it — I only did what any genuine person would do — but he seems determined to earn his keep.

As if I'll kick him out for simply being.

After all he's had to face, all the mess and horrors that still keep him up at night, or torment his sleep until he wakes screaming, I want nothing more than for him to rest.