Chapter 4: Wolves Song

Rainy's POV

I am lounging in a hot, steamy bubble bath in our big, deep, cast iron clawfoot tub. Letting the cotton candy scented bubbles slide between my painted red toes as I lift my foot, splashing playfully. I can finally relax and process what has happened.

I’m getting a bit overheated as I recall finding my strange gift. Who here knows my name? I have to stop searching my mind or I will never sleep tonight.

I have so much painting to do tomorrow. I am so far behind on completing my submissions to the local art council. I really do want to be taken seriously as an artist and to make it in this city. Painting is not just child’s-play like everyone seems to think.

With Cass going to that new bar, The Rooftop, for her first shift in the morning, and all the work I must start, I am finding it really hard to unwind enough to get to sleep.

How will I even lie down when my mind is this electrified? Nothing this bizarre has ever happened to me before.

I need to relax. I let my mind drift toward Bron, and the dream. I still feel him as though it had been real. Hot moisture gushes from between my legs the very second I picture Bron’s face. His chiseled jaw, his smoldering eyes, his musical, luscious voice, long, elegant fingers.

I close my eyes and allow my fingers to brush over the pulsating heat as my nipples harden. I moan, “Mm, Bron,” as his luscious lips and muscular chest envelop me. His lips caress my shoulders, kisses tingling down my arms like an electric fire.

I’m swept away in an intense, unbridled orgasm. I feel the weight of his body on top of me in the bath with me, now behind me, holding me up to stop me from drowning as wave after wave of pleasure consumes me.

His black hair is wet, hot water drips from his chin, as he looks into my eyes and grabs my hair but not too roughly. I look into his eyes as his fingers wrap gently around my neck, pushing my head back. He is strong and rugged, but feminine and beautiful all at once.

Bron is my delicious fantasy. My dream. When I close my eyes, he becomes my everything. Holding me with such warmth, passion, and protection. Kissing me with his soft, full lips.

I think maybe I can get out of the tub and fall asleep. I grab the soft, white fluffy bath towel from the warmer. I never had towel warmers back home.

As I fall into the cool, crisp sheets that smell of lavender and vanilla, I allow my body to sink as if to the very bottom of the ocean. I am so exhausted that sleep comes over me like a tsunami wave. Sudden, and deep.

I drift in and out of dreams.

***

I am ravaged by a huge silver wolfman on an altar under the full moon surrounded by other wolves that stand on two feet and speak. There is a young girl with long blonde hair and blue eyes wearing a white, floor-length, long sleeve cotton gown. The wolfman’s muscles gleam with sweat as his teeth tear into the straps of my nightgown.

“I declare this woman Luna of Brett Wolfsong, ruler of the Wolfsong Clan. His blue icy eyes are fierce but filled with wisdom, love, and pain.

Fires burn all around me. Drums beating.

I moan, legs opening to receive him as his furry hand rips off the rest of my clothing.

A chalice filled with thick red blood is raised. Blood flows from it like a river onto the arms that hold it ceremoniously.

In the background, I see lion faces on the big brick mansion. They are grinning at me like Cheshire cats.

***

I wake up in a cold sweat. Heart pounding. Out of breath. A dog was chasing me. The blue numbers on my vintage alarm clock say 3 a.m. almost as if they are taunting me for being awake at this hour.

I feel so acutely alone.

I am suddenly aware of being the only person in the city who is awake, all alone with my own thoughts. I can’t sleep. I sigh deeply, walking to the kitchen with my cell phone torch as my only guide. I let the water run for a moment before filling the kettle and making chamomile tea.

I need to find out who owns that house, who was looking down at me, and what these strange dreams and voices are trying to tell me.

Putting my teacup on the desk, I open my computer and type in the address. I really doubt that I will be able to find out who owns that place so easily. But who knows?

The oversized, heavy antique skeleton key and its glittering silver box gleam in the light of the open laptop in front of me. Fracturing my thoughts for a moment.

My eyes strain a little at first. With my brain slowly leaving behind its fog, my fingertips eagerly run ahead and type in the address.

Article after article pops up. House and Home. American Architect. The River Times. The New Yorker. Pictures of the Houses’ beautiful interior are everywhere. With the owner bragging about his art collection.

I can’t believe it. How often can you type in an address, and not only find out who the owner is but see pictures of the interior of the house, complete with pictures of him wearing his quirky house-shoes?

There is even an article dedicated to his dog that is named after Johnny Cash. This guy must be a huge country music fan.

The homeowner is apparently quite famous for having been on a television show where millionaires invest in people’s businesses after a presentation is made. His name is Brett.

Brett has gorgeous, ice-blue eyes. And thick, wavy silver hair. He wears cowboy boots and tight jeans, and blazers on the show ‘Wolves Den.’

Suddenly the wolves outside his house make sense.

I find a video interview with Brett online and I do not hesitate to click on it and watch it, even though I really should be focusing on my own life. I scold myself for being so interested in a stranger. But this feels different.

What can I see in his eyes?

I swear I can feel this man’s huge presence right through the screen, and I cannot believe this fabulous man was the one who was looking down alone from his upstairs window. Was that his bedroom?

Why are so many lights off inside his house when he has so much money to his name? Is he cheap? I hate cheap people. But is he all alone in there? If he is, I kind of feel sorry for him. Just trapped in his own prison of riches.

A lump forms in my throat, and I gulp reading his last name. Wolfsong. His name is Brett Wolfsong, just like in my dream. Have I heard it before and just forgotten? I am shocked. Shook. Shaken. Not stirred.

Is he the one who left me the key? But why or how would he ever know my name when I have just moved here? No, that doesn’t make any sense. But then again, none of this does.

This is just crazy. But then again, a lot of things around here seem to be odd.