Kitty’s husband returns from the magical war distant and reserved. To help him recover, she plans the perfect—albeit belated—Christmas. Red and gold ornaments. Boxes with bows. She hopes her husband loves everything, even the present under the tree that, well, wriggles.
But Doug can smell it from all the way across the room. And he doesn’t like what he smells.
Does this spell the end of their relationship after all?
A richly-imagined, private moment in a world where people can choose to be transformed for the sake of their country—for everyone who wants to believe that soldiers deserve a happy ending.
A Wolf For Christmas
“Kitty,” Doug said as he stopped at the far side of the all-white kitchen, beige towel slung low around his hips, dark hair still damp and tousled from the shower. “Why does my lounge room smell like dog?”
I shrugged nonchalantly from my spot on the thick grey rug, trying to keep the sparkle from my eyes and the nerves from my heartbeat—and trying not to give in to the temptation to hunker down out of sight behind the wrap-around couch. Please don’t hate me, I thought at him. Please don’t hate me.
It was possible, of course, that he already did. He’d been gone six months after all, and everyone knew the front lines changed people, messed with their heads, broke them down.
Oh, he’d seemed okay for the most part since he’d returned, a gleam still there in his amber eyes, the hint of a strut in his walk, confidence in the set of his strong, well-defined shoulders.
But he hadn’t wanted to be close to me for long, hadn’t wanted to touch me, and the voices that had been slowly growing in volume for the last half a year reached fever pitch: He doesn’t love you anymore. He found someone else. Someone who knows what it’s like.
Doug inhaled deeply, doing all sorts of pleasant things to his chiselled pecs and shoulders, and snorted. “I can definitely smell dog.”
The white benchtops in the kitchen were so clean they practically sparkled in the light from the skylight; the floor was almost a mirror with its polished white tiles. I could still vaguely catch the scent of the pine-o-fresh floor cleaner I’d used two hours ago, though it was mostly overpowered by the smell of the roasting leg of lamb in the oven (marrying Doug had definitely made my regular senses sharper, that was for sure, even if I was as locked out as ever from anything supernatural).
The lamb even had a homemade basting sauce, and there were root vegetables currently browning nicely, and I had things out on the stove to make gravy in another few minutes.
I was kind of proud, to be honest. I’d learned a lot since Doug had been away.
Hopefully he’d be proud, too.
The small, four-person dining table in the far corner near Doug was cleared for a change, and covered in a white-ish table cloth; the couches were clean, and I’d even moved them to vacuum underneath.
I shrugged from where I sat on the rug in between the three sides of the couches, my back to the switched-off TV. “I don’t see anything in here that could smell like dog.”
Quickly, I shifted my leg, deliberately knocking against the white laminex TV cabinet to cover the little snuffling noise behind me.
Doug sharpened, senses alert. “What was that?”
I shrugged, but I couldn’t keep the edges of my grin contained—or my nerves. “No idea.” This was a good idea, wasn’t it?
Dammit. The poor little thing was going to freak out, like they all did, and then what was I planning to do? I was an idiot. A blithering, insecure idiot who—
Doug sniffed disbelievingly and stalked closer, abs and towel both shifting as he did.
An idiot who was easily distracted. That was me.
Mmm. Six months was a long damn time.
“Kitty,” he said in a soft growl, dark amber eyes pinning me to the spot. “What have you done?”