You Shouldn’t Have Brought Me In
1181 Words
I should scream.
That’s the first thought that hits.
Scream. Run. Grab a knife. Something.
Anything.
I don’t move.
Because he’s still standing there.
In my kitchen.
Barefoot.
Covered in blood.
Looking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t belong here.
My brain is trying—really trying—to find a logical explanation.
It fails.
Spectacularly.
“You named me Wolfy.”
My heart stutters.
Again.
Same words.
Same tone.
Like we’re already in a conversation I don’t remember starting.
“I didn’t—” I swallow. “You’re not—this is not—”
Not possible.
Not real.
Not happening.
Except it is.
I can smell the blood.
Metallic. Sharp.
Real.
“You were a wolf,” I say finally.
He tilts his head slightly.
“Yes.”
My brain just… stops.
“No,” I whisper.
Because that’s the only word I have left.
He watches me.
Not impatient.
Not confused.
Interested.
Like I’m the strange one here.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, because apparently that’s where my priorities are now.
His gaze flicks down to his side.
Then back to me.
“You noticed.”
I stare at him.
“Of course I noticed. You’re standing in my kitchen like a crime scene.”
A faint curve touches his mouth.
Not quite a smile.
“You brought me here.”
“I brought a wolf,” I snap.
Silence.
He takes one step closer.
Everything in my body reacts.
Instinct.
Tension.
Awareness.
Too close.
“That distinction matters to you,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Very much. Extremely. Crucially.”
Another step.
I don’t step back.
I should.
I don’t.
“Why?” he asks.
My pulse spikes.
“Because wolves don’t—” I gesture at him “—do this.”
His eyes flash.
Blue.
Too bright.
Too alive.
“And men do?” he asks.
Good question.
Hate that.
“I didn’t invite you,” I say.
His gaze sharpens.
“You opened the door.”
My stomach drops.
No.
No, I didn’t—
I did.
I brought him in.
Something shifts in his expression.
Subtle.
But dangerous.
“Be careful with what you allow,” he says.
I don’t like that sentence.
I like it even less that it feels like a warning.
I cross my arms.
Defensive.
“You’re not answering my question.”
“And you’re asking the wrong one.”
Of course I am.
I exhale sharply.
“Fine. Let’s try this again.” I point at him. “What are you?”
A pause.
His eyes hold mine.
“Hungry,” he says.
I blink.
“That is not what I meant.”
“It’s still true.”
Great.
Fantastic.
I brought a sarcastic predator into my house.
“You’re not going to eat me,” I say.
A beat.
He looks at me.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
“That depends.”
My heart jumps.
“On what?”
His gaze drifts.
Down.
Then back up.
“On what you do next.”
Okay.
No.
Absolutely not.
“Right,” I say, backing toward the table. “We’re not doing whatever this is.”
His eyes follow me.
Every step.
Like he’s tracking me.
Like prey.
Nope.
Hate that.
My hand hits the edge of the table.
My laptop is still open.
The screen still glowing.
His attention shifts.
To it.
The air changes.
Again.
“What did you write?” he asks.
My stomach twists.
“Nothing.”
Lie.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re not very good at that.”
“Excuse me?”
“Lying.”
I glare at him.
“I just met you.”
“You brought me into your home.”
That is not the same thing.
Except it feels like it is.
I glance at the screen.
Just for a second.
That’s enough.
He moves.
Fast.
One second he’s across the room—
The next—
he’s right in front of me.
Too close.
My breath catches.
His hand comes up.
Not touching.
Hovering.
Like he’s deciding something.
“Read it,” he says.
My pulse spikes.
“No.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
“Read. It.”
Lower.
Closer.
Not a request.
My fingers tremble.
I look at the screen.
At the words.
The town is wrong.
My voice comes out quieter than I expect.
“Not in a way you can explain…”
Something shifts.
The lights flicker.
I stop.
“Keep going.”
“No.”
His eyes flash.
“Keep. Going.”
Something in my chest tightens.
Fear.
Or something worse.
I swallow.
“…in a way you feel.”
The house creaks.
Loud.
Like it’s reacting.
I stop breathing.
He doesn’t.
He’s watching me.
Not the room.
Not the walls.
Me.
“Do you feel that?” he asks softly.
I nod.
I don’t mean to.
“That’s you,” he says.
My heart slams against my ribs.
“No.”
“Yes.”
I shake my head.
“No, that’s not—this is just—”
“Coincidence?” he offers.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Then—
he leans closer.
Close enough that I feel his breath.
Warm.
Alive.
Dangerous.
“Then stop,” he says.
My stomach drops.
“What?”
“Stop writing.”
I blink.
“I already did.”
His gaze sharpens.
“No,” he says quietly.
“You didn’t.”
A chill runs down my spine.
Because I realize—
my fingers are still on the keyboard.
Still pressing keys.
I look down.
And my blood runs cold.
There are new words on the screen.
Words I didn’t type.
He steps closer.
He does.
He doesn’t let her leave.
His hand closes around my wrist.
Not tight.
But not optional.
My breath shatters.
“No,” I whisper.
His grip tightens just slightly.
“Now you understand,” he murmurs.
My heart is racing.
Too fast.
Too loud.
“I didn’t write that,” I say.
He tilts his head.
“You started it.”
My stomach drops.
“No—”
“You opened the story.”
My pulse spikes.
“And now?” I whisper.
His eyes burn into mine.
“Now it doesn’t just belong to you.”
Silence crashes into the room.
I look at the screen.
Then at him.
And for the first time—
real fear settles in.
Because this isn’t just about him.
It’s not just about the wolf.
It’s not just about the town.
It’s about something else.
Something bigger.
Something I don’t control.
His thumb brushes lightly against my wrist.
“You should have left the forest,” he says softly.
My breath catches.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
His gaze darkens.
“That’s the problem.”
A pause.
Then—
very quietly—
“You still don’t.”
My heart stutters.
“Then explain it to me.”
He leans closer.
So close I stop breathing.
And whispers—
“Write.”
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