Chapter 4 - The Curtain

ROGUE

She closed the curtains.

He stared at the cabin, at the windows that had always been open to him, now blocked by fabric. Dark shapes against the golden light inside, hiding her from view.

Why?

The question circled in his mind, chasing its own tail. She'd never done this before. Every night since he'd found her, she'd moved through her dwelling like a creature unafraid of being seen. She'd danced in front of those windows. She'd stood at the glass and stared out at the darkness — at him, though she didn't know it.

Now she was hiding.

But that came later. First, she left.

He'd watched her emerge from the cabin in the early evening, dressed differently than usual — a thin covering that clung to her body, fabric that swished around her legs when she walked. Her pink hair was down, brushing her shoulders. She looked... beautiful. The word surfaced from somewhere he didn't recognize, but it fit.

She walked with purpose, her bag clutched tight against her side, and he followed.

He stayed far enough back that she wouldn't see him, moving through the trees parallel to the road. She walked fast — faster than her usual pace — and kept looking over her shoulder, scanning the shadows.

Looking for me.

The thought sent a strange thrill through him. She knew he was out here. She couldn't see him, couldn't find him, but she knew.

She reached a place where the road widened. A structure stood there — a kind of shelter, open on the sides, with a bench beneath it. She sat down, pulled out the small glowing rectangle she often looked at, and waited.

He settled into the brush across the road and waited too.

The beast came for her.

That's what it looked like, at first — a massive creature, larger than anything he'd ever seen, roaring down the road with glowing eyes and a body that gleamed in the fading light. He surged to his feet, every muscle tensed to attack, to protect her from this monster—

But she didn't run.

She stood up. Walked toward it. And when the beast stopped, its side opened like a mouth, and she stepped inside.

He stared, frozen, as the creature swallowed her whole and roared away into the darkness.

No. No, no, no—

He ran.

He ran after the beast, paws pounding the road, lungs burning, but it was too fast. The glowing red eyes on its back shrank and shrank until they disappeared entirely, and he was left standing in the middle of the empty road, chest heaving, alone.

She was gone.

Where did it take her? Will she come back? What if she doesn't come back?

The panic was unlike anything he'd ever felt. He paced the road, whining low in his throat, fighting the urge to howl. He'd seen these beasts before — vehicles, some part of his mind supplied, machines that carried humans — but he'd never cared where they went or who they took.

He cared now.

He went back to her dwelling.

If she wasn't coming back — no, he couldn't think that way. She would come back. She had to. But while he waited, while the night stretched long and uncertain, he could... look. Learn. Understand her territory better.

The cabin was dark without her. Empty. The scent of her lingered everywhere, but it was fading, mixing with the cold night air. He circled the structure, sniffing at the walls, the windows, the places where her scent was strongest.

The door.

He approached it carefully, remembering the sounds he'd heard before — the clicks of the locks, the barrier between inside and outside. He pressed his nose to the wood, inhaling deeply.

Her. Her. Her.

He pressed harder. His shoulder against the door, testing. It didn't give. He tried again, putting more weight into it, and felt the frame creak but hold.

Locked. She'd locked him out.

He moved to the windows. The big ones, the ones he'd watched her through so many times. He pressed his paws to the glass, tried to push, to find a gap. Nothing. They were sealed tight, and the curtains — she'd closed them before she left, he realized now. Closed them so even if he got in, he couldn't see.

She doesn't want me here.

The realization hurt more than he expected. He slumped down beneath the window, pressing his body against the cabin wall, trying to absorb whatever warmth remained.

She'd left. She'd locked him out. And he didn't know if she was coming back.

He returned to the bus stop in the dead of night.

If she was coming back, she'd come back here. The beast had taken her from this place; maybe it would return her. He didn't understand how it worked, but he understood waiting. He was good at waiting.

He found a spot in the trees where he could see the shelter, the road, the path back to her cabin. And he waited.

The hours crawled. Other beasts passed — smaller ones, faster ones, none that stopped. The cold seeped into his bones but he ignored it. He'd endured worse. This was more important.

Then — sometime in the darkest part of the night, when even the insects had gone quiet — he heard it.

The roar of an approaching vehicle. The hiss of the beast stopping. The doors opening.

Her.

She stepped out, and the relief that flooded through him was so intense he nearly collapsed. She was here. She was back. She was his, and she'd come back to him.

He followed her home, staying hidden, watching her walk faster than usual, watching her scan the trees with fear in her eyes.

He didn't care that she was afraid. He didn't care about anything except that she was here, walking toward the cabin, returning to the place where he could watch over her.

She was back.

That was all that mattered.

But then she closed the curtains.

He paced at the edge of the tree line, agitation rippling through his muscles. Something had changed. Something was wrong. He could feel it in the way she moved when she came home tonight — faster than usual, her head turning, scanning the shadows. Her scent had been sharp with something he was learning to recognize.

Fear.

She was afraid. And she was hiding from whatever frightened her.

Me. She's hiding from me.

The thought landed like a stone in his chest. He'd done this. The deer, the gifts, his presence circling her territory — she didn't understand. She thought he was a threat.

He wasn't a threat. He would never hurt her. She was his.

But she didn't know that. And he had no way to tell her.

The night stretched long and cold.

He stayed in his usual spot, watching the cabin, watching the curtained windows for any sign of movement. Occasionally a shadow passed behind the fabric — her shape, distorted but recognizable. She was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, like a trapped animal.

Like me.

The thought rose unbidden, and he shook his head to clear it. He wasn't trapped. He was free — freer than most wolves, with no pack to answer to, no territory to defend, no alpha to submit to. He went where he wanted, did what he wanted, answered to no one.

But freedom felt different now. Freedom felt like a cage with invisible bars, keeping him circling this cabin, this female, this need he couldn't explain or escape.

The lights inside went out.

He waited. Counted the minutes by the rhythm of his own heartbeat. She would be in her sleeping place now, curled under the coverings, her pink hair spread across the pillow. He'd watched her sleep before, through the big window by her bed. The soft rise and fall of her breathing. The way she sometimes murmured in her dreams.

He couldn't watch tonight. The curtain was in the way.

The loss ached more than it should.

He moved without deciding to.

One moment he was at the tree line; the next he was crossing the cleared space, paws silent on the cold ground. The moon was hidden behind clouds, the darkness thick enough to swallow him. He was a shadow among shadows, invisible, undetectable.

He climbed the steps to the wooden platform — her porch, he'd learned the word from somewhere deep in his memory, a place where humans stood between inside and outside. The boards creaked under his weight, and he froze.

Listened.

No sound from inside. No light. She was still asleep, or lying awake in the dark, or—

He didn't know. He couldn't see. The not-knowing was unbearable.

He pressed his nose to the door, inhaling deeply. Her scent was everywhere here, layered and complex. The sweetness he'd first caught on the wind. The sharper notes of fear and exhaustion. Something floral — a soap, maybe, or the stuff she put in her hair. And underneath it all, the warm musk of her, the thing that called to him across miles, that had rewritten his entire existence in a single breath.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He wanted to break down the door. Wanted to push inside, find her, curl around her body and never let go. The urge was overwhelming, a pressure building in his chest that demanded release.

But he didn't.

He stayed on the porch, breathing her in, and tried to understand why everything he did only made things worse.

A sound.

From inside — the creak of boards, the shift of weight. She was awake. She was moving.

He went still. Completely, utterly still, the way only a predator could be. His ears swiveled toward the door, tracking the sounds. Footsteps, soft and hesitant. Coming closer.

She was coming to the door.

His heart hammered. Yes. Come out. See me. Let me show you I'm not—

The footsteps stopped.

He could hear her breathing now, fast and shallow, just on the other side of the wood. She was right there. Inches away. If he pressed his ear to the door, he could probably hear her heartbeat.

She didn't open the door.

She stood there, frozen, for what felt like hours. Then the footsteps retreated, faster now, and he heard another sound — something heavy being lifted, a metallic click.

A weapon. She had a weapon.

No. No, I'm not here to hurt you. I would never—

But she couldn't hear his thoughts. She could only hear the monster on her porch, the thing that had been leaving dead animals on her doorstep, the predator that stalked her territory in the night.

He backed away slowly. Down the steps, across the cleared space, into the safety of the trees. He shouldn't have come so close. He was making everything worse.

But he couldn't make himself leave entirely. He circled back to his usual spot and lay down, eyes fixed on the cabin.

She didn't come out.

He waited for dawn.

The dreams came again.

Fire. Always fire. The world painted in orange and red, the crackle of flames, the screams of voices he almost recognized. He was small — so small, paws that hadn't grown into themselves yet, a body that couldn't run fast enough, couldn't fight, couldn't do anything but be carried.

Run, someone said. A voice he knew, a voice that meant safety. Don't look back. Just run.

He ran. Through smoke and chaos and the copper smell of blood. Something was behind him — something terrible, something that wanted him dead — and he ran until his lungs burned and his legs gave out and the darkness swallowed everything.

He woke with a yelp, paws scrabbling against the earth.

The cabin was still there. The curtains were still closed. The sun was just starting to lighten the sky, turning the darkness gray.

A dream. Just a dream.

But it didn't feel like a dream. It felt like a memory. Something from before, from the time he couldn't remember, the years that were nothing but blank space and the vague sense that he'd lost something important.

He shook himself, trying to clear the images from his mind. It didn't matter. The past was gone. What mattered was here, now, her.

He turned his attention back to the cabin and waited for her to wake.

She didn't leave the cabin that day.

He watched through the morning, through the afternoon, into the evening. No sign of her. The door stayed closed. The curtains stayed drawn. She was hiding inside, and he was stuck outside, and the distance between them felt like miles instead of yards.

What do I do?

The question had no answer. Everything he'd tried had failed. The gifts made her afraid. His presence made her afraid. He couldn't speak to her, couldn't explain, couldn't make her understand that he wasn't the monster she thought he was.

Except he was, wasn't he? A monster. A beast. A thing that hunted and killed and left corpses on her doorstep like love letters she couldn't read.

The frustration built until he thought he might howl from it. He paced the tree line, agitated, restless, unable to settle. The bond pulled at him, demanding he go to her, and he resisted because going to her only made things worse, and the resistance hurt almost as much as the wanting.

She's not afraid of you, something whispered in the back of his mind. She's afraid of what she doesn't understand.

He stopped pacing.

That was it. That was the problem. She didn't know him. Didn't know what he was, why he was here, what he wanted. She just saw dead things and shadows and a presence that circled her home in the dark.

He needed to show her.

Not gifts. Not offerings. Himself.

But how? He was a wolf. A massive, terrifying wolf with claws and fangs and a body built for killing. If she saw him — really saw him — she'd run. Or shoot. Or both.

Unless...

The thought was half-formed, more instinct than plan. He didn't know how to be anything other than what he was. But the something-beneath, the awareness that he was more than wolf, stirred at the idea.

There had to be a way. A way to show her he wasn't just a monster. A way to make her see.

He settled back into the brush, watching, thinking, waiting for an opportunity he couldn't yet name.

She would understand eventually.

He would make sure of it.

Night fell.

The cabin stayed dark. No lights, no movement, no sign of her at all. Was she sleeping? Hiding? Had something happened while he wasn't watching?

Fear spiked through him, sharp and unfamiliar. He'd never been afraid for someone else before. Never had someone else to be afraid for.

He crept closer, keeping to the shadows, moving from tree to tree until he was at the edge of the cleared space. Listened. Sniffed the air.

Her scent was still there, still strong. She was inside. Alive. Safe.

But scared. The fear-smell hung heavy, even at this distance.

He hated it. Hated that he was the cause of it, that his attempts to care for her had only driven her deeper into terror. He wanted to fix it — wanted to burst through that door and curl around her and growl at anything that threatened her, even if the thing that threatened her was himself.

Instead, he lay down in the shadow of the nearest tree and watched over her through the night.

He couldn't fix this. Not yet. Not until he figured out how.

But he could guard her. Could make sure nothing else came close. Could be the monster that protected her from other monsters, even if she never knew.

It wasn't enough.

But for now, it was all he had.