Page 3 of Baseball and Shifters

And that silence.

It’s still chewing at me a week and a half later.

I’m sitting on the floor of one of the fancy sitting rooms playing quietly with my stuffed tiger and I cannot stop thinking about my fox. My father being angry if he saw her may be a good enough excuse for me to not shift, but for her, not so much. She’s pouncing and yipping and begging to be let out. I’m so distracted by her antics in my mind that I don’t notice I’m backing up. When my back hits the side table, it’s too late. I hear the wobble before, the telltale crash of a probably expensive glass breaking.

Oh no, what did I do?

My father’s pounding footsteps echo down the hall as he heads my way. I’m already on my feet, cowering and backing away from the scene of my crime when he rounds the corner into the room.

“What the hell are you doing?” He screams at me before charging across the room and grabbing me up by my arm.

“Ow, Daddy, please stop,” I cry out as he drags me back to where the vase lies shattered on the ground.

“I have told you, call me Father only,” he growls, shaking me slightly. “Now tell me, what were you thinking? Why would you do this?”

I’m shaking slightly. My fox cowers in our mind, searching for an escape.

I know the moment she finds it, my eyes lock on the swinging door just outside the room.

That door leads to the staff quarters. Down that hall is a door leading us to the exit. To freedom.

Internally, I beg her to stay quiet and wait. I even promise her we will sneak out later if she can just stay hidden.

But it doesn’t work.

Before I know it, we’re in fox form, darting over the broken vase and through the door, racing for our freedom.

Unfortunately, as usual, luck is not on my side. I’m almost to the door that leads outside when my father’s massive tiger form leaps over me, turning on me with a heart-stopping roar. I freeze, cowering and making myself as small as possible while he shifts back to human form.

“Shift back. Now,” he says, with a cold edge when he’s back on two feet.

I’m still frozen, huddled in a ball, unable to respond. He picks me up by the back of my neck and when I’m eye level, he repeats himself.

“Shift. Back. Now.” Each word hits me like a whip, and without my consent, I’m shifting back.

When I’m standing before him again, he grabs me up by my arm once more and drags me through the house. We pass the entrance to the family wing where our rooms are and throughthe main part of the house, not stopping until we are standing outside the door to the oldest and least used wing. He pushes the door open, then roughly shoves me through, keeping me in front of him until we reach the door at the end of the hall.

“You will remain in this wing until further notice,” his tone leaves no room for arguments, not that I would either way.

He finally releases my arm and crosses to the bed where an outfit lays. It’s seemingly the only new thing in this room. There’s a long-sleeved brown top with brown leggings and a pair of socks. The most curious part, though, is the gloves. A pair of what almost appear to be evening gloves, like ladies wear to fancy balls.

“You will keep yourself completely covered at all times. You are no longer permitted to take your meals in the kitchen; they will be delivered to you. And let me make myself perfectly clear when I say no daughter of mine will be a whore with four fucking mates,” he sneers. “If you find so much as one of them, you had better reject them instantly because you won’t like what happens if you don’t.”

Tears fall down my face, but I continue to remain as quiet as possible, hoping this will end soon.

“Now, tell me, child, who helped you conceal that abomination of a fox?”

Fear grips my chest. I won’t tell him who. I can’t. What if Ms. Coleman gets in trouble?

“Ahh, I know, it was that old bitch in the kitchen. Wasn’t it? Well, no mind, she will be taken care of.”

With that, he leaves me in my new room and as soon as the door slams behind him I fall to my knees. I bury my head in my hands and sob. I cry for myself, but mostly I cry for Ms. Coleman. I don’t know what father will do to her, but I know it won’t be good.

Rachel

Something wakes me from a dead sleep and I bolt upright in bed, listening closely for anything that might explain why I’m awake. The house seems still and quiet as far as I can tell. Rubbing my eyes to try to clear the sleep from them, I look around my room and see the alarm clock beside my bed reads just after five in the morning. The sheer, floor-length white curtains in front of the French doors to my balcony fly through the air as a wet gust of wind whips through my room.

Hopping out of bed, I hurry to cross the plush white rug that covers the span of floor from my bed to the balcony. Reaching the doors, I push them shut with a little effort and latch the lock into place at the same moment a thunderous boom shakes the house.

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