Nobody tells you that when you're pregnant with wolf cubs, the pregnancy cravings hit differently. Humans get pickles and ice cream. I get the overwhelming urge to gnaw on raw bones and howl at the fluorescent lights that never dim in our glass prison cell. Twenty-five weeks in, and my body feels like it's housing a miniature wolf pack that's practicing for the Olympic gymnastics team.
"I swear to god, they're playing soccer in there," I groaned, shifting uncomfortably on my cot. "With my bladder as the ball."
Damien looked up from where he was carefully arranging our playing cards into an elaborate house of cards that had surpassed all reasonable expectations. Six levels high now, a testament to the mind-numbing boredom of captivity.
"Maybe they're practicing their escape techniques,"
