Page 11 of Runt of the Pack
But who am I to pry and demand she bare herself fully to a stranger? The gods know I have my own share of shadows best left undisturbed.
Anya owes me no explanation for the choices that led her to isolation in this wilderness. Perhaps in time, trust will grow between us, and she will share her past unburdened. But only if and when she herself deems it right. I must be patient if I wish to truly earn passage beyond those wary defenses.
For now, I will let her keep her silence, and her secrets. Anya has already proven herself generous and compassionate simply by taking me in. I can ask no more of her than that—and hope my actions might eventually show I am worthy of the same grace in kind. If fate wills us to reveal our hearts, let it unfold at its own pace.
Anya continues to work in silence. I’m amazed at how much the wounds have improved overnight—the angry red gashes now knitted into scabbed-over lines. At this rate, I should be ready to resume my hunt for Grisha sooner than expected.
“Remarkable,” she murmurs, brows furrowing as she inspects the accelerated healing. “Looks like you’ll be good as new in no time.”
I just nod, unwilling to reveal my kind’s rapid regenerative powers. Anya repacks her medical supplies, then glances towards the frosted window.
“The storm seems to be letting up,” she says. “It was fierce all through the night—I’m sure you heard the wind howling.”
“Oh, yeah… definitely,” I reply awkwardly. “Kept me up a while... all that howling and stuff.”
I resist the urge to wince. Smooth. Real smooth, Vlad. Something about Anya reduces me to a blundering adolescent, completely tongue-tied. Where’s my usual charm and confidence?
If Anya notices my fumbling reply, she’s kind enough not to show it. “Well, I’ll be in my studio if you need anything. No TV or internet out here, I’m afraid. Just books and my art to pass the time.”
She gathers the soiled bandages and moves towards the door. “Don’t hesitate to call for me, alright?”
With an aborted half-wave, Anya exits hastily, leaving me alone to ponder my unusual flustered reactions to her presence. I’ve faced down vicious enemies and seductive temptresses without breaking a sweat. So what spell has this unassuming girl cast to unravel my composure so completely? I fear finding the answer may upend everything I thought I knew about myself.
10
ANYA
I kept the conversation pragmatic as I unwrapped Vlad’s healing gashes, clinically assessing his progress. He remained still and stoic throughout, responding minimally to my prompts. Only the occasional tightening of his jaw betrayed any discomfort as I touched the swollen flesh and realigned his splints. His skin was warm under my hands, threaded with scars that speak of a violent history. I focused only on treating the wounds before me, ignoring the flush creeping up my cheeks or my quickened pulse.
Mercifully, Vlad made no mention of the charged atmosphere brewing between us. Once I finished tending his injuries, he murmured a sincere word of thanks and then excused himself to rest, perhaps sensing my unsettled state. I eased out a breath as my quiet footsteps trailed down the hall and the strange tension in the air finally began dissipating.
I was anything but impressed by his quick recovery, despite my feigned surprise. I knew the real reason behind it—my wolf’s healing powers when she licked his wounds clean on that fateful night. But I couldn’t risk revealing my abilities to Vlad, or he would surely uncover my true identity. So I put on a show of astonishment, while secretly urging his body to continue mending swiftly, thanks to the lasting effects of my hidden efforts.
By all the gods and the Moon Goddess herself, what is happening to me? I have survived this long by maintaining utmost control—over my solitary domain, my closely guarded secrets, and my own emotions. Yet this stranger’s arrival has breached the formidable walls I built to hold the world at bay, stirring up chaotic feelings I do not understand. I need the clarity of my wolf, the purity of animal instinct unclouded by human complexities. I need to run, to be wild and unfettered under the moon’s eye once more.
But I can’t. The blizzard’s fury still rages beyond these choked eaves. For now, I remain caged, alone with my canvases and an enigmatic injured man who draws forth such troublesome reactions from the woman and the she-wolf within me. Until the storm passes, I can only brew herbs to calm my restless mind and paint the hours away, losing myself in the familiar haven of creation.
Picking up my abandoned brush, I add a dash of crimson to the nameless wolf’s fur, kindling a ruddy fire beneath her moonlit pelt. An improvement, but the life in her gaze remains trapped behind the veil of paint and varnish. She is only ever a shadow of the creature I become under the stars. A copy of a copy, each step removed from truth diminishing the spirit a little more.
No, this is not the answer I seek. With a muffled curse, I fling the defective canvas aside. It cracks against the far wall, streaking the faded planks with paint. Chest heaving, I drop my head into hands that reek of turpentine. I cannot capture the wild on canvas. I cannot outrun this nameless longing clawing inside. I cannot escape the maelstrom this stranger Vlad has awakened within me.
For good or ill, I must accept that my world will never be the same again. Once the storm breaks, our paths will diverge and he will vanish from my solitary life as suddenly as he entered it. All I can do is weather the strange days that remain between now and then, however taxing they prove.
The inner whirlwind cannot be calmed by calculated reason. But it can be endured—with patience over passion, pragmatism over intensity of feeling. I must cling to the lessons that have kept me safe all these seasons in the wilderness.
And perhaps, before this trial ends, the she-wolf and I will finally understand why our logic failed us that moonlit night... the night we heard the call of the pack once more in a broken howl and found ourselves helpless but to answer.
Sighing, I tidy up my art supplies and set a fresh canvas on the easel. I need a productive distraction from the chaotic thoughts about the alluring stranger now under my roof.
Loading my palette with paints, I begin roughing out the outlines of a snowy Saint Petersburg scene—specifically the beautiful Bridge of Kisses over the Moika River. I sketch in the graceful ironwork arches and gilded embellishments of the bridge’s railings, all dusted white with fresh snowfall.
In the background, I lightly pencil in the pastel outlines of the surrounding historic buildings along the embankment. The intricate facades reflect softly in the icy waters of the partially frozen river below the bridge.
Yulia will be thrilled when she sees this romantic river scene. Whimsical urban landscapes are always in high demand from her hotel clients. I have three weeks to capture all the delicate details of the bridge’s ornate metalwork and paint one more wintry Saint Petersburg cityscape.
But as I start to block in the architecture, adding soft blues to the canvas, my traitorous mind keeps wandering away from the familiar sights of my old hometown.
My wolf stirs restlessly, fixated on our new houseguest. She prods me to go to him, insisting some deeper bond exists between us. But I dismiss the reckless notions. Vladimir likely has a whole life waiting for him back home, wherever that may be. He’s not meant for me.
