Chapter 7

CIARA

In the morning I try to put the previous night's events behind me.

Red is still on my bed when I get up, and she growls softly when the bed moves. Apparently, my wolf is not a morning wolf. That makes me smile, and already the day seems better, as if Robert's call last night was just another nightmare.

After a bad nightmare, I always wake up hungry, and so I cook breakfast, and when the bacon starts sizzling in the frying pan, a curious Red pads into the kitchen to see what I'm cooking.

"So now, you're getting up," I tease, but place some cooked bacon on a plate on the floor for her nonetheless.

She looks more than a little disappointed when a sausage doesn't join it, whining and looking up at me sadly until I relent, and give her one of my own, and then I sit to eat my breakfast. I keep the white pudding for myself, and round off the meal with orange juice, tart and citrusy.

As I eat, I think. It's easier to do so in the light of day, when the sunshine streams through the window. I have work today, but there's more pressing matters that I need to attend to. I shoot off an email to my boss, saying that I've had a family emergency, and that I have to take the day off. She replies almost instantly, saying that as it's nearly the weekend anyway, I should have today and tomorrow off.

I've accrued enough savings, with my life outside the cottage being as limited as I can make it, that I can afford to take the two days.

Sometimes I wonder what job I'd have if I hadn't met Robert. I studied business at university, and had always planned on working in the city. But my job as a virtual PA allows me flexibility, some privacy, and safety.

Perfect for a girl on the run.

Checking the time, I gulp down the last of the orange juice and grab my phone. I need to call Eimear. She's the only person, other than the postman, who's visited my cottage since I first moved in four years ago. Admittedly, it was to fit all the locks and bolts that currently adorn my front door, but since then there's been a shift from strangers to friendly acquaintances. We'll stop and have a chat if we see each other in town. That kind of thing.

And though I didn't exactly say why I needed quite so many locks and bolts on my front door, I got the impression that I didn't have to.

The phone rings, and she picks up almost immediately.

"Hello? Ciara?"

"Hi Eimear." I'm not used to speaking to anyone other than Grannie on the phone, and it's weird, throws me off to hear my voice so thin and strained. "I'm a little concerned about the security on my garage and need it upgraded as soon as possible. Would you be able to come over today? I'd pay you a rush fee."

There's a chuckle down the other end of the line. "How busy do you think a locksmith in Dingle is, Ciara? I can fit you in today, no problem. Pop round about ten?"

"Yes please." The relief in my voice is palpable, and there's a pause on the other end of the phone.

"Is everything okay?"

I consider the question. It's been so long since I've had a proper confidante that I don't really know how to answer her. But as I begin to speak, my response surprises even me. "Not really, but I'd rather not talk about it over the phone."

"Give me half an hour and I'll be there." Her tone brooks no argument and wow, I didn't expect that response.

I sit down on my kitchen chair heavily, and Red raises her head and pads over. "Thanks." Blinking back tears, I don't trust myself to say much more without crying, and I'm not sure that I know Eimear well enough to cry down the phone to her.

She hangs up and I can't do this now, can't sit in the pain of the last five years of solitude. It might break me, and I need to be strong right now. So, I do busy work. I clean and wash up and usher Red out of the kitchen so that I can scrub furiously.

But when I get in the shower, I can't escape how it all feels.

The sound of the water drowns out the tears that pour down my face, and I raise my face up to the showerhead and allow myself to be completely submerged.

I am not who I was five years ago. I am not the scared, timid woman who staggered away from an abusive husband.

Leaning my head against the shower tiles, I let loose a jagged breath. I've got this. I am taking steps to make myself safe, and I might actually have someone to talk about it all with.

Someone other than Red.

She didn't follow me into the bathroom, even vacating my bedroom as I got undressed, which made me laugh. I guess my furlessness freaks her out, because I'm fairly certain that she just sees me as a weird wolf who walks on two paws instead of four.

That makes me choke back a laugh, and I feel more centered, more regulated.

That's my cue to wash myself quickly and get out of the shower, but the water is relentless, beating against my body. Every part of me thrums, suddenly awakened, alive. This is the closest I get to sensuality, my body responding to the constant—overwhelming—sensations of the shower. Maybe that's weird, but my hand slips between my legs and I allow myself a moment of pleasure.

It's taken me so long to reclaim this for myself. To learn that pleasure can be for me, and me alone. That standing in the shower with my hand between my legs can bring relief, even for just a fleeting instant.

I still can't masturbate in bed though.

There's something about bedrooms that freaks me out a bit. When I first ran away I didn't sleep in a bed. I slept on the couch, made a nest on the floor, but when my back started aching, I gave in to the inevitable. There's a reason why my bedroom door is always closed though. I watch a lot of TikToks about designing a personalized interior for your home, and so many of them focus on bedrooms, and so I get it. I get that for most people a bedroom represents privacy and personal space and safety.

It doesn't for me.

So, I rub my clit in the shower, and wonder whether one day I'll be able to have sex again.