“You’re losing it,” he told his reflection. “There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. Sloane has a pet wolf. That’s totally normal. People have pet wolves all the time. In their bedrooms. Where they let random hookups sleep.”
Except they hadn’t hooked up. Jamie’s cheeks flamed at the memory of Sloane asking him to come here, of Sloane carrying him to bed, of feeling safe enough to sleep deeply for the first time in weeks.
And now there was a wolf.
Jamie pressed his ear to the door, listening. No sounds of movement. No growling. No Sloane calling his name. Just silence.
He couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever. Eventually, he’d have to face whatever insanity waited outside. But first, he needed a plan. Or a weapon. Or both.
The bathroom offered limited options. Toilet brush. Plunger. Half-empty bottle of very expensive shampoo. Nothing that screamed “wolf deterrent.”
“You can do this,” Jamie whispered to himself. “Just walk out there like you encounter wolves every day. Confident. Calm. Not at all like prey.”
Three deep breaths. Then he unlocked the door, turning the knob slowly.
The wolf hadn’t moved. Still on the bed, still watching the door, still impossibly real.
“Hi again,” Jamie said, voice only shaking a little. “Miss me?”
The wolf’s tail thumped twice.
Jamie edged back toward the bed, maintaining eye contact. Were you supposed to maintain eye contact with wolves? Or was that aggressive? Why hadn’t he paid attention to nature documentaries?
“Sloane?” he called out, voice pitched louder. “Sloane, are you here? Your wolf needs walking. Or feeding. Or therapy. I’m not qualified to determine which.”
No response.
The wolf shifted, stretching out more fully on the bed. Taking up space like it belonged there. Like this was its room, its bed, its normal Sunday morning routine.
“You know what? Fine.” Exhaustion crashed over Jamie, adrenaline finally depleting. “You want the bed? Take the bed. I’ll just…sit here and have an existential crisis while we wait for your owner.”
Jamie sank into the chair by the window, pulling his knees to his chest. The wolf watched him settle then lowered its head back to its paws, eyes half-closing.
“This is my life now,” Jamie muttered. “Held hostage by a wolf that possibly ate my…whatever Sloane is. Date? Friend? Guy who kisses like sin and makes me feel things I’m not ready to examine?”
The wolf made that rumbling sound again.
“Don't judge me,” Jamie said, because apparently talking to potentially deadly animals was his new coping mechanism. “You’re not the one who woke up to find Cujo’s cousin having a sleepover.”
Noise made Jamie’s head snap toward the door. Please be Sloane. Please be anyone who can explain why there’s a wolf—
But the door remained closed.
When Jamie looked back, the wolf had moved closer. Much closer. Close enough that Jamie could see the individual colors in its fur—silver and charcoal and hints of brown. Close enough to count the whiskers. Close enough to realize those eyes weren’t typical wolf amber.
They were bluish-gray. Familiar. Impossible.
“No.” The word escaped as barely a whisper. “That’s not—you can’t be—”
The wolf’s expression somehow managed to convey patience, like it was waiting for Jamie to catch up to something obvious.
“This is insane. I’m insane. Skating scrambled my brain, and now I’m hallucinating.” Jamie pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. “When I open them, there will be no wolf. Just a very large dog. A completely normal, definitely-not-supernatural dog.”
He peeked through his fingers.
Still a wolf. Still watching him with those impossible eyes.
“Sloane?” The name came out strangled, desperate. “Please tell me you’re about to walk through that door and explain why your pet looks exactly like you would if you were—which you’re not, because that’s crazy—but if you were...”
