Chapter 5: Marking Territory
The morning light through the kitchen window was too bright, too clean. It illuminated the dust motes dancing over the linoleum and made the whole scene feel like a bizarre dream. Barnaby stood awkwardly in the doorway, a threadbare bathrobe tied tight over his bruised skin, watching a mythic creature violate the sanctity of his refrigerator.
Ram was a storm of movement. She crouched, her incredible backside straining the seams of his borrowed sweatpants—they were comically short on her—as she rummaged. Bottles clinked. Her thick tail, a weapon of joyful destruction, thumped a steady, dull rhythm against the cabinet door. Whump. Whump. Whump.
“Aha!” she boomed, standing up so fast her head nearly cleared the top of the fridge. In one hand she held a carton of eggs; in the other, a single, forgotten bottle of imported lager he’d bought for a recipe months ago. She grinned, her canines sharp and white. “Breakfast of champions, twig-boy.”
Before he could form a protest about the hour, or the appropriateness of beer, she hooked a claw under the cap and popped it off with a crisp hiss. She tipped her head back, her throat working in long, powerful gulps. Barnaby watched, mesmerized and horrified, as the amber liquid vanished. She finished with a gasp, crushed the bottle in her fist with a casual crunch, and tossed it into the sink where it shattered.
“Right,” she said, smacking her lips. “Eggs.”
She moved through his kitchen like she owned it, which, after the night, felt terrifyingly plausible. She found a bowl, cracked eggs one-handed with a brutal efficiency that sent shell fragments flying, and whisked them into a froth with a fork. The stove burner flared to life with a click-whoosh. She grabbed his favorite pan—the one he seasoned carefully—and slapped a lump of butter into it.
Barnaby found his voice, small and cracked. “You cook?”
“I survive,” she corrected, not looking at him. The butter sizzled. She poured the eggs in. “Construction camp for three years. You learn.” The scent of cooking eggs and her musky, sleep-warm fur created a disorienting perfume. She scooped the fluffy scramble onto two plates, dumped them on the small table, and sat. The chair creaked in existential protest under her weight.
He sat across from her, the wood cold through his robe. He picked at his food. It was good, actually. Fluffy, perfectly salted.
She shoveled hers in with swift, efficient bites, her eyes scanning his kitchen, his life. They landed on a framed photo of him and his parents at his library science graduation. She snorted through a full mouth. “Cute.”
He flinched. They ate in a silence broken only by her chewing and the distant sound of a lawnmower. A normal Saturday sound. It felt like it came from another planet.
She finished first, pushing the plate away with a clatter. She leaned back, the borrowed t-shirt straining across her chest, and let out a long, satisfied sigh. Her green eyes settled on him, pinning him to his chair as effectively as her body had pinned him to the bed.
“You’re too quiet,” she stated.
“I’m… processing.”
“Process faster.” She grinned, a lazy, predatory thing. “Still hungry.”
He looked at the empty plates. “I could make toast?”
A deep chuckle rumbled in her chest. “Not for food, twig-boy.” Her gaze was heavy, knowing. She pushed back from the table and stood. The chair legs screeched on the floor. She walked around to his side, her presence overwhelming the tiny space. The scent of her, eggs and beer and pure, unadulterated her, flooded his senses.
Before he could move, her hands were on his shoulders. They were impossibly strong, calloused. She pushed him down, not violently, but with an undeniable finality. He slid off the chair onto his knees on the cool linoleum.
“Here’s your real breakfast,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a gravelly purr.
She turned her back to him, her hands going to the waistband of the sweatpants. She tugged them down, just enough, bending forward slightly over his kitchen table. The massive, fur-covered curves of her backside were unveiled, inches from his face. The intimate, musky scent from the night intensified, earthy and potent.
He froze, his mind a white blank of panic and awe.
“C’mon,” she prompted, wiggling slightly. The sight was profoundly lewd, a devastating display of casual power. “You did plenty last night. Get to know all of your mutt.”
Trembling, his heart hammering against his ribs, he leaned forward. He pressed his face into the warm fur. She let out a low, approving hum. His timid, exploring licks became something more purposeful under her growled encouragements. “Yeah. That’s it. Use that tongue. Clean your bitch up.”
He was lost in the act, the submission, the sheer olfactory overload of it. His hands came up to steady himself, gripping the formidable swell of her hips.
Then it happened.
A deep, internal rumble vibrated through her, a precursor he felt against his cheeks. She didn’t tense, didn’t apologize. She relaxed.
A loud, prolonged, trumpeting fart erupted directly onto his face. It was warm, humid, and carried the pungent, unmistakable aroma of digested beer and eggs. He jerked back, gagging, eyes watering.
Ram straightened up, pulling the sweatpants back over herself. She turned, looking down at him where he knelt, coughing and spluttering. Her expression wasn’t one of mockery, but of pure, unvarnished satisfaction. A fact of life. She reached down and ruffled his hair with a rough paw.
“There,” she said, as if she’d just imparted great wisdom. “No more mysteries. All of me’s yours now.” She stepped over him, her tail brushing his shoulder. “I’m gonna use your shower. Try not to wear a hole in the floor with all that thinkin’.”
She padded out, leaving him on his knees in the middle of his kitchen, the scent of her violation clinging to him, branded into his nostrils. The clock ticked. The lawnmower droned on. His world had been cracked open, and something wild, crude, and irrevocable had made itself at home in the wreckage. He stayed there, breathing shallowly, knowing the water was running in his bathroom, knowing she was there, knowing she expected to stay.
The thought was less frightening than it should have been. That was the most frightening thing of all.