"Clara, what's wrong?" Thomas came crashing through the door in nothing but his boxers, hair dishevelled, eyes wide. "What happened? What happened?"
Clara buried her face in her hands and wished very sincerely for the floor to swallow her whole. "Nothing — it's nothing. I had a nightmare. A snake bit me."
"God, you nearly gave me a heart attack." Thomas exhaled, pressing a hand to his chest — then frowned. "Why is the dog on your bed?"
"It jumped up when I screamed. I grabbed it without thinking."
"Sweetheart." Thomas yawned and leaned toward her with a pitiful expression. "Your boyfriend is right next door. Why are you cuddling a dog?"
Clara quickly put a hand to his chest and stopped his advance. "I'm so sorry for waking you up at this hour. Go back to bed."
"What if I sleep in here tonight? Guaranteed no more snake dreams." His gaze had drifted, and Clara tugged her collar together and pulled the duvet up in front of her. Thomas stared in barely concealed suffering. Three years, he reminded himself. Three years and not once had he managed to — honestly, when he thought about it, he felt like the most patient and least successful man alive.
"I've got Naber. Go sleep."
Not that the reminder did much. Thomas was of a persistent nature, and deprivation had only sharpened his focus. These past few days had seen a concentrated campaign of sweet words, carefully selected gifts, and every indirect suggestion he could think of — all of which Clara had met with a composure that bordered on serene.
"Go back to your room," Clara said firmly, intercepting the hand that had begun to creep under the duvet. "Keep this up and I'll actually get angry."
"Clara—" He switched to a softer approach. "Think of it as moving the schedule forward slightly. You're going to be mine eventually anyway. Let's just — we'll get married the second you graduate, I promise. Just—"
"Go take care of it yourself," Clara told him, her face red.
"You're my girlfriend," Thomas protested, the offending hand making another optimistic attempt. "Just once. Once, that's all—"
"Grr—" Naber's tail shot straight up. It planted itself between them, bared its teeth at Thomas, and growled with startling conviction.
Clara dissolved into laughter. "See, even the dog thinks you're out of line. You've been officially called out as a scoundrel."
"I'm only a scoundrel for you," Thomas said, with great dignity. He retreated from the room, pausing on his way out to give Naber's head a pointed pat. "Traitor," he muttered under his breath. "Absolutely no loyalty whatsoever."
"Grr—" Naber tracked him with luminous green eyes, teeth still bared, until the door clicked shut.
Left without allies and without options, Thomas shuffled off to the bathroom to deal with the situation on his own terms.
The moment he was gone, Naber's hackles smoothed down. It turned to Clara, butted its head against her affectionately, and flopped onto its back in a shameless bid for belly rubs and praise. Clara climbed out of bed, turned the lock, and lifted Naber onto the dressing table. She gave each of its ears a light flick in reproach and kept her voice low.
"You absolute menace. Do you have any idea what you nearly did to me? If I'd died of shock, who would feed you?"
"Whimper…" Naber crouched on the dressing table with an expression of profound injury, extending one small paw toward her in a tentative peace offering. Truly not on purpose. Just hungry.
Clara unbelted her sleep shirt and looked down.
Well. That confirmed it.
Several small, shallow tooth marks curved across her skin, the surrounding area flushed pink and tender, still slick with drying saliva.
Wolves. Absolutely ruthless.
She jabbed a finger at Naber's forehead with theatrical severity. "Lucky for you that you're not human. If you were, I'd have you charged."
Apparently it had genuinely mistaken her for its mother.
"Whimper…" The green eyes glowed. Naber tilted its head up and lapped at her finger.
Clara settled into the chair, pulled out a packet of wet wipes, and cleaned herself up without particular ceremony — Naber was a wolf, not a person, and she had long since stopped being self-conscious around it. "If you bite me again," she informed it conversationally, "I'm pulling your teeth out." She made a mental note to take it in for vaccinations tomorrow. It was forever pressed against her — if it was carrying anything, mites or bacteria or worse, that was going to be a problem.
She glanced up.
Naber was staring. Fixedly. With its tongue hanging out and its stubby little tail wagging at a speed that seemed mechanically improbable.
Clara's mouth fell open.
A wolf. Wagging its tail.
That was — that couldn't be right. It had been alive for mere weeks. Nobody had taught it to do that. How in the world did it know how to wag its tail?