His Winter Wolf

The White Wolf's Warning

42°F

When my father got home, I was still trapped in the silent, lingering world of the wolves. My mind replayed the feeling of my wolf’s thick fur beneath my fingertips, the scratchy coarseness of it against my palms, the subtle rise and fall of his breath under my touch. Even though I’d reluctantly washed my hands while finishing up dinner, his scent clung to my clothes—earthy, musky, wild. The moment felt imprinted on me, as though it had settled under my skin.

Six years. Six years I had waited for him to let me touch him. Six years of watching from a distance, waiting through summers that felt unbearably long, holding my breath every time autumn returned, hoping he would, too. And now, not only had he let me touch him, but he had protected me. He had stood between me and the she-wolf, shielding me.

I wanted to tell someone—to share the exhilaration humming beneath my skin—but I knew better. My father wouldn’t understand. My mother certainly wouldn’t. Not when the news anchors were still going on about the attack, their voices dripping with carefully measured concern. To them, the wolves were dangerous. To me, they were home.

From the front hall, I heard the sharp click of the deadbolt turning and the heavy stomp of my father’s boots as he came inside. Even though I was still in the kitchen, unseen, he called out, “Dinner smells good, Grace.”

A moment later, he stepped into view, looking tired but content. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, and he absently pushed them up with a finger. He smiled when he saw me, his expression warm despite the exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin.

“Where’s your mother?” he asked, already shrugging off his coat. “Painting?”

I nodded toward the stairs. “Does she ever stop?” Then, narrowing my eyes at the coat now draped over a kitchen chair, I added, “I know you aren’t going to leave that there.”

Dad grinned and obediently picked it up, slinging it over one arm. He turned toward the stairs and called out, “Rags, time for dinner!” His voice carried through the house, an easy fondness in the way he said her name. My mother’s nickname—a relic from her college years—meant he was in a particularly good mood.

Mom was in the kitchen within seconds, appearing at the bottom of the stairs as if she had been summoned by the scent of food alone. She was slightly breathless, likely from sprinting down, her usual energy undimmed. A smear of green paint streaked her cheek, an unintentional splash of color against her skin.

Dad leaned in to kiss her, careful to avoid the paint. “Have you been a good girl, my pet?”

She fluttered her eyelashes at him, a coy smile playing at her lips. “The best.”

He turned to me, his brows lifting. “And you, Gracie?”

I smirked. “Better than Mom.”

He chuckled and cleared his throat, straightening slightly, as if bracing for an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, my raise takes effect this Friday. So…”

Before he could finish, Mom clapped her hands and spun in a delighted little circle, pausing briefly to admire her reflection in the hall mirror. “I’m renting that place downtown!” she declared, eyes bright with excitement.

Dad nodded, grinning. “And, Gracie girl, you’re getting rid of that wreck you call a car as soon as I can take you to the dealership. I’m tired of taking yours into the shop.”

My mother let out a giddy laugh, clapping again before breaking into an impromptu dance across the kitchen, twirling and chanting some nonsensical tune. If she got her studio, she would probably disappear into it completely, only emerging for meals.

But that was unimportant compared to what my father had just promised me. A car. A real one. One that actually worked.

“Really?” I asked, barely able to contain my excitement. “My own car? You mean one that actually runs?”

Dad smirked. “A slightly less crappy one,” he clarified. “Nothing too nice.”

I didn’t care. I lunged forward and hugged him, unable to suppress the grin stretching across my face. A working car meant freedom.

That night, I lay in bed, tangled in my sheets, my thoughts refusing to settle. The world outside my window was still, heavy with the kind of hush that usually came with snowfall. But there was no snow—just an eerie silence, thick and pressing.

I held my breath, straining to listen beyond the walls of my room.

A sound.

At first, it was barely there, a faint click, click, click against the deck outside. It was soft, almost hesitant, but insistent enough to make my skin prickle. My heart skipped a beat.

Then—a quiet scrabbling.

Then—a low growl.

Not a raccoon.

I sat up, my pulse quickening. Pulling my quilt around me like a cloak, I climbed out of bed, my bare feet cool against the floorboards. The dim glow of the half-moon cast pale light across my room, stretching my shadow long against the walls.

I hesitated, listening.

Another faint tack tack tack against the wood.

Carefully, I crept toward the window, fingers gripping the edge of the blinds. I lifted them just enough to peer out, my breath hitching.

The yard stretched out in front of me, empty. The trees stood tall and dark, their bare branches clawing at the sky. Beyond them, the forest loomed, vast and unknowable.

Then—movement.

A flash of white.

And then, suddenly, a face appeared directly in front of mine.

I jerked back, startled.

The white wolf was standing on the other side of the glass, her front paws resting on the outside sill. She was close enough that I could make out individual droplets of moisture clinging to the strands of her fur. Her striking blue eyes locked onto mine, unblinking.

A slow, deliberate growl rumbled through the windowpane, so low I felt it in my ribs rather than heard it. It wasn’t just a sound—it was a message.

You’re not his to protect.

A challenge. A warning.

Something inside me bristled.

I stared back at her, refusing to look away. Then, before I even realized what I was doing, I curled my upper lip and let out a quiet snarl of my own.

The sound startled both of us.

For a fraction of a second, the white wolf’s ears flicked back in surprise. Then, as if dismissing me entirely, she dropped from the windowsill. But before she turned away, she made a point of lifting her leg and peeing on the corner of the deck. A clear message.

I watched as she loped back toward the woods, her pale coat blending into the darkness between the trees.

I swallowed, my throat dry, the shape of that unexpected snarl still curling on my lips.

Shivering, I grabbed the sweater from where I had left it on the floor and climbed back into bed, pressing my face into the fabric.

The scent of my wolf clung to it—pine needles, damp earth, cold rain, something unnameable and familiar all at once.

I breathed it in deeply, letting it wrap around me, anchoring me to the moment.

It was almost like he was there.