The Chosen Pervert

Chapter 6: Patience and Devotion

A few weeks had passed since my fifth birthday.

A few agonizing weeks.

Progress with Rue was slow. Painfully slow. The kind of slow that made my adult consciousness scream in frustration while my five-year-old body could do nothing but wait and be patient.

This is torture, I thought as I walked across the garden toward her cage. I'm a forty-year-old man trapped in a child's body, trying to earn the trust of a traumatized fox-girl who thinks I'm either going to hurt her or abandon her.

But there had been progress.

Small victories.

I could walk up to her cage now without her lunging at the bars. That was huge. The first week, she'd thrown herself at the iron bars every time I got within five feet, snarling and snapping like a wild animal.

Now? She just watched me.

Her golden eyes tracked my every movement, but she didn't attack. Didn't snarl. Didn't bare her teeth.

Well. Most of the time.

She still growled occasionally—usually when I moved too quickly or got too close—but it was different now. Less feral. More... cautious.

She's learning I'm not a threat, I realized. Slowly. But she's learning.

I approached the cage with a plate of food in my hands—roasted chicken, bread, and some berries I'd picked from the garden. Rue was sitting in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them.

She looked so small.

So vulnerable.

"Morning, Rue," I said softly, crouching down a few feet from the bars.

Her ears twitched. One pointed forward, the other flattened back.

She's listening.

I set the plate down and slid it toward the cage, close enough that she could reach through the bars if she wanted.

"I brought you breakfast," I said. "Chicken. Your favorite."

She stared at the food. Then at me. Then back at the food.

But she didn't move.

Still won't take it from my hand, I thought, frustration bubbling up. We're so close. Why won't she just—

I stopped myself.

Patience, I reminded myself. She's been through hell. She doesn't trust anyone. You can't rush this.

I sighed and stood up, brushing the dirt off my pants. "It's okay. Take your time. I'll be back later."

As I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye.

Rue had shifted.

Just slightly.

Her body was still tense, still coiled, but she'd moved closer to the food.

Progress, I thought, a small smile tugging at my lips. Slow, agonizing progress. But progress.

It was later that afternoon when I noticed it.

I'd come back to check on Rue—something I did multiple times a day, much to the amusement of the household servants—and found her sitting near the bars, grooming herself.

Well. Trying to groom herself.

She was running her hands through her matted black hair, pulling out tangles and dirt. Her movements were careful, methodical, almost... human.

She's cleaning herself, I realized. She's starting to care about her appearance again. That's a good sign.

But then I saw it.

A small, black tail.

It was tucked against her body, barely visible beneath the torn rags she wore as clothing.

How did I not notice that before?

I moved closer, squinting.

And then I saw why.

The tail was broken.

Mangled.

Twisted at an unnatural angle, the fur matted with dried blood and dirt. It looked like it had been snapped in half and left to heal wrong—or maybe it had never healed at all.

Oh, f**k.

My stomach turned.

That looks painful. Really painful.

Rue shifted, and I saw her wince. The movement had jostled the tail, and even from a few feet away, I could see the way her body tensed in response.

She's in pain. Constant pain. And no one's done anything about it.

Anger flared in my chest.

Who the hell did this to her? Was it during the raid? During her captivity? Did someone break it on purpose?

I clenched my fists, forcing myself to breathe.

It doesn't matter, I told myself. What matters is fixing it.

I glanced around the garden.

No one was nearby. The servants were inside, preparing dinner. My mother was in her study. My father was gods-knew-where, probably charming some village woman.

Now's my chance.

I turned back to Rue, who was still grooming herself, oblivious to my discovery.

"Rue," I said softly.

Her ears twitched, but she didn't look at me.

"I'm going to help you," I said. "Just... don't freak out, okay?"

She tilted her head slightly, one ear up, one ear down.

She has no idea what I'm about to do.

I took a deep breath and focused.

Magic.

I'd been practicing for two years now, casting spells in secret, pushing the boundaries of what I could do. Healing magic was tricky—more complex than a simple light spell or levitation—but I'd studied it extensively in my mother's spell book.

Sanatio vulnerum, I thought, visualizing the spell in my mind. Heal the wound. Restore what was broken.

I didn't speak the words aloud. Didn't pull out a wand or conduit.

I just willed it.

The magic flowed out of me, invisible and silent, wrapping around Rue's broken tail like a warm, golden thread.

For a moment, nothing happened.

And then—

Crack.

Rue's entire body went rigid.

She let out a sharp, guttural growl, her hands flying to her tail as it suddenly moved.

The broken bones snapped back into place with a sickening pop, the twisted angle straightening, the matted fur smoothing out as the magic knitted the damage back together.

Rue whimpered, her golden eyes wide with panic and confusion.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

The tail was whole.

Healed.

Perfect.

Rue stared at it, her breathing ragged, her hands trembling as she touched the newly-restored appendage.

And then she looked at me.

Her golden eyes were wide. Wider than I'd ever seen them.

She knew.

She knew I'd done something.

"It's okay," I said quickly, holding up my hands. "I just... I saw it was broken. I wanted to help."

She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at me with those wide, unblinking eyes.

And then, slowly, she reached out and touched her tail again.

This time, there was no pain.

No wince.

Just... relief.

Her ears flattened back, and for a moment, I thought she was going to snarl at me.

But instead, she just... relaxed.

Her shoulders dropped. Her breathing slowed. Her tail—now whole and healthy—swished once, twice, testing its range of motion.

And then she looked at me again.

This time, there was something different in her eyes.

Not fear.

Not rage.

Understanding.

She knows I'm not just some kid, I realized. She knows I have power. And I used it to help her.

The next few weeks were different.

Rue was still cautious. Still wary. But something had shifted between us.

She started accepting food from my hand.

The first time it happened, I nearly cried.

I'd been sitting by the cage, holding out a piece of chicken, when she slowly—so slowly—reached through the bars and took it from my fingers.

Her claws brushed against my skin, sharp and dangerous, but she didn't scratch me.

She just took the food and retreated to the corner, eating it while watching me with those golden eyes.

Progress, I thought, my heart pounding. Real, actual progress.

After that, it became routine.

Every day, I'd bring her food. Every day, she'd take it from my hand.

And every day, she got a little less feral.

A little more... human.

Her hair was cleaner now. Less matted. She'd been grooming herself more, and I'd even managed to sneak her a comb, which she'd accepted with a suspicious glare but had used nonetheless.

Her clothes were still rags, but my mother had promised to get her something better once she was "tame enough" to be measured.

Tame enough, I thought bitterly. Like she's a pet.

But I kept my mouth shut. For now.

It was during one of our daily visits that Rue started trying to speak.

I'd been sitting by the cage, talking to her about nothing in particular—just rambling about my day, the weather, the annoying cat that kept scratching me—when she suddenly made a sound.

Not a growl.

Not a whimper.

A word.

Or... something like a word.

It sounded like... Russian? But with more growls and grunts mixed in. Guttural. Primal.

What the hell?

"Uh," I said, blinking. "What was that?"

She repeated it, her golden eyes locked on mine.

She's trying to communicate, I realized. That's beast speech. She's speaking her native language.

I had no idea what she was saying.

"I... I don't understand," I said slowly.

She tilted her head, one ear up, one ear down, and repeated the phrase again.

She probably thinks I'm an i***t.

I sighed and pointed to myself. "Wyatt," I said slowly and clearly. "My name is Wyatt."

She stared at me.

I repeated it. "Wyatt. Wy-att."

Still staring.

I said it again. And again. And again.

By the fifth repetition, I was starting to feel ridiculous.

I'm a forty-year-old man pointing at myself and saying my name like I'm teaching a toddler.

Rue's ears twitched. One up, one down.

Yeah. She definitely thinks I'm an i***t.

I sighed and stood up, brushing the dirt off my pants. "Alright. I'll try again tomorrow—"

"Wyatt!"

My mother's voice echoed across the garden, calling me for dinner.

"Coming!" I called back.

I turned to leave, giving Rue one last glance.

And then I heard it.

"Wy... att."

I froze.

Did she just—

I spun around.

Rue was right up against the bars now, her golden eyes wide, her hands gripping the iron.

She was close. Really close. Close enough that if she wanted to, she could reach through and hurt me.

But she didn't.

She just stared at me, her lips moving as she tried to form the words again.

"Wy... att," she said, her voice broken and rough, like she was speaking for the first time in years.

Holy s**t.

"What?" I whispered, my heart pounding.

She tried again, her brow furrowing in concentration.

"Wyatt."

Clearer this time. Still broken. Still rough. But clearer.

I felt something crack open in my chest.

She said my name.

I laughed—a short, breathless sound—and dropped to my knees, bringing myself to her level.

We were inches apart now. Close enough that I could see the flecks of amber in her golden eyes. Close enough that I could smell the faint scent of dirt and wildness that still clung to her.

Close enough that she could hurt me if she wanted.

But she didn't.

"Yes," I said, smiling. "Wyatt. I'm Wyatt."

I pointed to her. "You're Rue."

She stared at me, her ears twitching.

And then, slowly, she reached through the bars.

Her hand—small, clawed, trembling—moved toward my face.

I didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just waited.

Her fingers brushed against my cheek.

Soft. Tentative. Curious.

And then—

I reached for her.

Too fast.

Shit.

Rue hissed, her ears flattening back as she jerked away, retreating to the far corner of the cage.

"Oops," I said quickly, jumping back. "Too fast. Sorry. I'm sorry."

She stared at me, her eyes wide, her body tense.

I held up my hands in surrender. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

She didn't move. Just watched me with those wide, wary eyes.

I sighed and stood up slowly. "We're not there yet," I said softly. "But we will be. Soon."

I turned and walked toward the house, my heart still racing.

But before I reached the door, I glanced back.

Rue was still watching me.

And this time, I saw something different in her eyes.

Not fear.

Not rage.

Hope.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

She said my name.

The thought kept repeating in my mind, over and over.

She chose to try. She chose to speak. She chose to reach out.

Something fundamental had shifted between us.

The bond was forming.

Slowly. Painfully. But forming.

I closed my eyes, a smile tugging at my lips.

We're getting there, Rue.

We're getting there.