Chapter 4
1141words
Her brain had completely stopped functioning in the face of this impossible reality. A monster—like some oversized lost dog—had rested its head on her lap.
Her hand, as if possessed by its own will, rose up uncontrollably. It trembled violently in the air, like a pale leaf caught in a wild gust of wind.
Don't touch it! The rational part of her brain responsible for survival screamed frantically.
This is a trick! It's a trap!
The moment you let your guard down, it will tear out your throat!
Trembling, she drew what felt like her first breath in an eternity. Then she lowered her hand.
Her fingertips gently brushed against his hair. It was coarser, thicker than human hair, but hair nonetheless. At her touch, a deep tremor ran through his entire body. And then a miracle happened—the violent trembling that had been tormenting him slowly subsided.
More firmly, almost affectionately, he buried his head deeper into her legs, and a deep, rumbling purr—like one that only large felines make when content—vibrated from deep within his body.
For the rest of that night, she just sat there. She didn't move, nor did she sleep. She simply kept her hand on his head, sometimes unconsciously stroking the rough fur, sometimes just resting it there, as if offering silent comfort.
She gazed out the window at that cold moon—the source of all this madness—as it traced its slow, silent path across the heavens.
And the beast at her feet—that monster, that man—quietly accompanied her like a breathing statue of terrible power and absolute loyalty, guarding her through what would be the longest night of her life.
.
The first ray of dawn, like a shy, hesitant visitor, quietly penetrated through the enormous glass wall.
Nina still sat in that throne-like armchair, a lifeless statue silently witnessing the end of this long, crazy night. Every muscle in her body sharply protested after remaining motionless for hours, stiff and sore. The hand that had rested on the beast's head was now completely numb, cold as if it didn't belong to her, yet she still didn't dare move it even slightly.
The furnace-like heat emanating from his body began to cool. That massive, bestial form full of primal power began... shrinking. It was a slow, quiet contraction, forming a stark contrast to the violent, terrifying expansion she had witnessed last night. Muscles tensed to their limit slowly relaxed, bones silently returned to their original positions. The coarse fur receded like retreating shadows beneath the skin, and the ferocious claws transformed back into clean, human fingernails.
That ferocious wolf head that had rested on her jeans slowly reshaped its contours—the jawline softening, the muzzle gradually receding—until finally, it changed back into the handsome man's face she had first seen in the park.
He let out a satisfied sigh in his sleep—one purely human—then his head gently slid from her lap as his entire body fully relaxed and collapsed onto the floor.
He was naked, his skin pallid in the morning sunlight from blood loss and exhaustion. His body was covered with angry, shocking red scratches—medals self-inflicted during last night's brutal war with himself. The expensive shirt had been reduced to tattered strips scattered beside him—the only evidence the beast had once existed.
This scene didn't reassure Nina; instead, it set off alarm bells in her mind, a new fear instantly seizing her.
The beast, somehow, she could understand better. Though frightening, it possessed a simple, primal, even pure logic.
But this man?
This man was a complete unknown. He had kidnapped her. He had imprisoned her here.
Extreme fatigue and post-traumatic adrenaline engaged in a fierce tug-of-war inside Nina's body. She should escape. Now was her best—possibly only—chance.
He was asleep, in human form, looking incredibly weak.
She could walk to the elevator and escape this nightmare.
But her legs, as if filled with lead, wouldn't obey. She was firmly pinned to this chair by last night's experience—so overwhelmingly heavy it could crush everything. Moreover, a foolish voice in her heart betrayed her rationality: Would she just leave him like this? Naked, covered in wounds, lying on this cold floor...
Her thoughts tangled into a ball of useless yarn. Before she could sort out any single thought, the man on the floor, his eyelashes trembling slightly, slowly opened his eyes.
.
Frank woke with a nauseating taste of ash and shame in his mouth.
His first sensation was a profound ache deep enough to shatter his soul—a pain that had nothing to do with his overstretched muscles but was the echo of madness and agony. He remembered everything. Every detail, every terrible moment that now made him want to strangle himself with his own hands.
Losing control, rampaging through city streets, and then that scent that cut through the boundless chaos like redemption.
Her.
He remembered her fear. Her soft voice with that tone of disbelief as she cried. The way she shrank back in terror when he approached. And her hands—so small, so hesitant—and the gentle, saint-like touch when she placed them on his rough fur.
God, no.
He didn't even dare open his eyes. He expected to be alone. No one could accept someone as twisted and repulsive as him—no human would not fear a werewolf.
However, this silence was not emptiness.
In the air, there was a soft, rhythmic sound that did not belong to him.
It was the sound of another person breathing.
His eyes snapped open.
She was still there.
Just at the other end of the room, curled up in an armchair that seemed too large for her. She looked so small, so fragile—like a delicate porcelain doll forgotten on the top shelf of a display cabinet. Her face was pale, still bearing traces of undried tears, her large eyes filled with lingering fear. She was looking at him.
She didn't run away.
This realization hit him like a physical blow, striking his heart with brutal force. A complex emotional wave of shock, disbelief, and desperate yet painful hope instantly overwhelmed him.
She had seen him at his worst, his ugliest, his most disgraceful—the monster he had spent his entire life trying to cage—and yet she didn't run.
What followed was a scalding, sharp sense of shame.
He propped up his sore body with all the dignity he could muster. Ignoring the protest from every muscle, he grabbed a soft cashmere blanket from the sofa and haphazardly wrapped it around his waist. As he moved, he clearly felt her flinch—that subtle movement stabbing like a sharp knife into his gut.
He had to say something. He had to explain. But what words could possibly erase the hell-like horror he had inflicted upon her last night?
None could.
But at least, he owed her the truth.
The whole truth.
