Animal (18+)

Ezekiel was a lycanthrope of many charms.

His home was always in order and had a certain aesthetic to it– nothing out of place and everything present out of necessity. It was a functional space, a sparse yet clearly opulent one by the nature of their design and material.

And it was clean.

Not a brush of blood nor scent of death drifting in the air as Mykah slowly hobbled down the steps. She winced everytime her ankle came in contact with the ground or when she leaned a little too heavily on it.

By the time she reached the bottom steps her upper lip glowed with sweat. She licked at it nervously while peering around the wall at the open kitchen.

It was easier to see the colossal man standing before a stove stirring a pot of something thick, something rich. Her nose wrinkled as she caught a decadent whiff of the stew bubbling deliciously.

He can cook too.

The countertops were spotless save for a wooden chopping board which had remains of vegetables and a sharp knife set beside them. His posture was relaxed and she watched as he reached for the board of vegetables, the line of muscle in his forearm flexing from the effort, and slid the rest in with the knife.

"Why don't you sit."

He had not turned yet he acknowledged her presence as if she stood right beside him. The thought irked her, made her heart pound hard and flat in her chest because she was not used to people sensing the presence of others with their backs turned to them.

He's not people though, is he?

The idle voice rose up like a thin smoke in her mind's corner, distinct and disappearing with a flap of her hand as she waved it away.

"Nice place you have here." She murmured moving across the floor at a steady, cautious pace.

The table was round and small, intimate.

With only two chairs and it had already been set, a simple porcelain plate, a bowl, the usual cutlery and a cup on each end. Grasping the head of her chair, her eyes flicked to his back once more then dragged it back. The wooden material felt smooth under her palm with simple designs far too intricate to just be found from any.

She sat with her back straight and consciously touched her wet hair still sticking to the nape of her neck before placing both arms on the table and clasping them awkwardly.

After a beat, she dropped her hands onto her thighs beneath the table and fidgeted with the strings of her oversized trousers.

Her arms unconsciously rose to the table again, fingers gliding along the rim of the plate then back down to her lap.

My god woman, get a grip of yourself, he's not about to consume you.

Yet.

"What are you making?" Her cheeks felt rigid with the smile she tried conjuring to still the trembling corners of her mouth.

"Beef stew."

That's when he turned– those bottomless eyes grazing hers like a brush of a cold feather tip gliding across her belly. Her muscles tightened.

He picked her plate and served her a generous portion. She watched him cut a thick slice of buttered bread as well for the side and placed it before her, neatly plated.

"Do you drink wine?"

"No," already reaching for a spoon, she stirred the stew watching the bright carrots bob and sink in the thick matter. Perfect. "... I've never been one to enjoy alcohol."

The silence that followed was abrupt. Thin and drawn.

A subtle shift in the atmosphere and she glanced up at him out of habit, perhaps drawn even, only to see Ezekiel watching her with that same impervious gaze.

Thoughtful.

And then it hit her like a cold bucket of water on a noon summer's day.

It had been a long night. I went out for dinner with a colleague… we got drunk… and I think I put the wrong coordinates in my GPS

The curtains of her lies were slowly being drawn away.

and he smiled– because he knew.

Or she thought he smiled. All Mykah could see was the slight curve of his hard mouth just as he turned away smoothly to pour himself a glass and serve another large bowl of his own food.

She blushed just as red as the side of the volunteer fire truck, and shoved a spoonful of the hout soup into her mouth, tenderising the flesh. The heat scorched her tongue and the roof of her mouth, but Mykah could barely think of it, not when her mind had begun to voice its own thoughts about what just happened.

He's onto you.

No, he's not. I don't think he noticed it. He couldn't have. It was a slip of the tongue–

She tore at a piece of bread and chewed it while staring hard at her plate. He's not on to me, he can't be

Did you see that scythe smile? Sharp enough to cut off your lying tongue.

Just then a hand appeared at her periphery and she flinched only to realize that Ezekiel was placing a glass of ice cold water by her plate. She blinked up at him owlishly, mouth full.

"Mng-huh?"

Ezekiel sat back down smoothly, "The stew is still hot."

He spoke, lifting his own spoonful and blowing at it gently while his eyes were still locked onto hers. I know your mouth is burning. He seemed to say.

Mykah took that as a cue to slow down, not just her chewing but thoughts, and tether herself back to reality. She ate slowly this time, blowing onto the soup and peering at him from beneath her lashes all the while.

He ate at a mechanical pace, slow and steady. Seemingly savouring every bite and barely meeting her own gaze which helped in some off way. Towards the end of the meal only then did he pause to reach for the stem of his glass and lift the wine to his mouth.

Mykah had been watching him then, a piece of bread held between her hand and teeth. Her eyes fell on his mouth just at the rim of the glass and met his lips. His tongue darted out then, licking at a bead of red, before he sipped it.

Her eyes flicked up to him then away because he was staring at her.

"... when do you think I can head to the pound for my car?"

The question was testing. Something to draw her back to the urgency of her situation. Her spoon clattered into the empty bowl and she leaned back as he took another thoughtful sip of the wine.

"When would you like to?"

Mykah blinked. She cleared her throat and smoothed a palm over the table.If she told him tomorrow it would seem like she wanted to run away, and for good reason, the man was not a man but a lycanthrope. But if she left it up to him to bring up the topic or choose a date…

"How about once my ankle heals?" That seemed like fair ground to tread on. Driving with a broken ankle was one of the many experiments she desired not to try.

Ezekiel looked at her. The dim light of the kitchen shadowed parts of his features and she swore she saw a glint of gold in those deathless blacks when he lowered the glass to the table.

She expected an approval, an answer.

But when he spoke, it was something else.

"Do you fear me, Mykah?"

The question had conjured itself out of nowhere, and her mouth which was parted with a ready answer for her own statement, suddenly shut.

"What?"

"Do you fear me?"

His fingers gently turned the stem of the glass on the table. Round and around and around…

She smiled a little too wide, a little too hard, as a bone dry laugh tickled its way up her throat. "What? Why do you say that?" Another chuckle. A timid flapping of her good hand as she shooed away that comment. "Of course not… no, not really. Not at all. I'm grateful actually."

His head tilted to the side, a slight cock that reminded her of a bird. "Grateful?" Those dark eyes drew her deeper.

"Yes yes of course… who wouldn't be…" with a strained gesture at her crutches, arm cast then ankle beneath the table, Mykah continued. "I doubt a lycan– man.. A man would consider nursing me back to health considering how much patience and effort it takes. So yeah… I'm not afraid of you, I'm grateful."

That smile again. Her cheeks felt tight.

"Thank you. I can never say it enough times but I am truly grateful and I hope to maybe one day send you a postcard or gift." Once I'm in the safety of my home, away from this godforsaken land.

He must have perceived her thoughts, my god the ghost of a smirk that cut his lips felt maddening. It made her blood pump. It made her want to take another shower because she was sure dark circles of sweat had dampened her armpits.

"Do not be afraid."

"I'm not."

"Good." With that, he rose fluidly and gathered their empty utensils pivoting for the sink.

Mykah sat, dumbfounded by the situation and blinking at his back trying to understand the abrupt end to their conversation. He washed in silence, and she considered helping but realized it was futile given her current state. So she remained where she was, wanting to retreat to the confines of her bedroom, but also rooted in her chair.

"You have a nice home here."

His head tilted and she realized that she had repeated the same thing. "Thank you."

"Is it far from Daed town?"

"A few miles." Flicking drops of water from his hands, Ezekiel reached for a towel and turned, leaning back on the counter while drying them off, his attention on her.

Mykah nodded. Met his eyes briefly then turned her face away suddenly intrigued by the wooden figurines on a floating shelf. A rhinoceros, elephant, tiger, monkey… "Neat, did you make those?"

His gaze held her face for an obscene amount of time before slowly, lazily even, moving towards the figurines. A distant look crossed his visage. "I did."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Mykah began to speak, then caught herself and nodded soberly. "Interesting, I didn't realize lycanthropes were capable of such feats."

Though his face was angled towards the shelf, his eyes slid to hers with a hint of dry humor. "Is that so?"

"Well… I mean…" In her moment of admiration she had completely forgotten who he was and her view of him, his kind. It was only natural to assume that the lycanthropes were a breed different from humans in not just genetics and disposition, but mannerisms and capabilities.

A kind well known for their animalistic and brutal inclinations, whittling away at wood was on the bottom of her 'what-lycans-can-do' list.

She scratched at her scalp, "I didn't mean it that way. It's just–" a simple wave at his body as if to summarize her thoughts.

Ezekiel's face remained unreadable.

"... carving figurines is the last thing a human would expect from… your kind."

"What would you expect?"

Her head ducked as she surveyed her ankle, then, after a long thought, peeked at him from beneath her lashes which seemed like a testing thing to do. But staring at him head on was much too hard. As if staring straight into the mouth of a python.

"Death," she muttered, "... guts… gore… violence… woe… blood… mauling… claws and teeth."

The list was long but not vague.

It was one accrued by multiple researchers in her facility, books upon books of scientists habitually studying the lycanthropes since their appearance.

Her attention drifted towards the house, "... not clean that's for sure."

If he found her funny or amusing, she could not tell for he had turned his back to her once more and began to dry the dishes while putting them back in their respective places.

"Anyway," she began to rise unsteadily, "I'm heading to bed…" Hobbling a few steps towards the staircase, Mykah paused and glanced at him from over her shoulder.

He was setting a bowl in the cupboard.

Her lips parted. Hesitated. Then shut. She began to climb the steps when his voice carried, sure as the ground beneath her footing.

"Goodnight Mykah."

" 'night Ezekiel."

By the time she had made the treacherous journey up the stairs and to her room, she was breathless, tired, and Ezekiel had finished his wind down routine. Except he did not follow her upstairs.

She heard him from her bedroom, his footsteps moving about beneath. Sure and loud enough just for her to listen.

The front door opened with a creak and she hobbled towards the window where she stood just behind the curtain, peeking from behind it like a shy courtesan, as his figure appeared beneath.

He had worn a jacket for the night outside because it was cold. A puff of white air steamed before his face.

A rifle was slung over his back and in one hand looked like a large trap.

A bear trap.

He walked in the opposite direction of the road, straight for the woods.

Mykah leaned forward, squinting hard against the window to see just how far he would go. She had not realized that her face was pressed against the glass, not until her warm breath fogged over the pane concealing his figure.

"Damnit." Scowling she rubbed at the fog with her fist, and squinted again expecting nothing.

She froze at the sight of him.

Standing at the treeline.

Watching her.