Lyre was right.
Fenris hides under the dinette table as I vacuum black fur off the daybed comforter. I'd tried to kick him out when I woke up to a furry, dead weight on my feet, but he's ultimately too heavy to drag out the door.
The vacuum roars as I attack another patch of black fur. Every swipe feels like a tiny rebellion against the wolf—against Caine—against this whole ridiculous situation. If I can't control anything else in my life, at least I can eliminate this evidence of unwanted company.
A pathetic whimper sounds from behind me, followed by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a tail against the camper's floor. I refuse to turn around. Fenris might look like an oversized puppy right now, but he's not. He's a full-grown wolf, and he knows exactly what he did wrong.
I shut off the vacuum with more force than necessary. The sudden silence feels accusatory.
