2. A Secret, Wild Thing.

~Esmarie Seraphine Vale~

Oh my heavens.

My hand jerked away from its fur.

There was no way in hell this was actually happening.

I was kneeling in front of a creature that looked like it could rip me in half, glowing eyes locked on mine, half-dead yet still terrifying.

“Are you…” I whispered—though I didn’t know what I meant. Are you alive? Dangerous? Real?

Its eyes blinked. Once. Slowly.

I bit my lip. Panic flared at the base of my throat.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

“I—I won’t hurt you,” I murmured. “But I don’t think I can help either.”

God, I was definitely losing it. Talking to an animal like it could actually understand me.

I should’ve gone back. Back through the rocks. Back to the bruises I already knew how to hide. But I didn’t move. My body ignored every survival instinct I’d sharpened over the years.

Because I didn’t want to leave it.

What if it died?

And I couldn’t go back—not yet. Jared and Michael were probably still waiting. Still angry. Still ready to make me bleed for breathing wrong.

And if I had to choose between the claws of a wild animal and the hands of men who saw me as nothing, I'd choose this in a heartbeat.

Its torso heaved as I inched closer, its eyes darting from my face to my extended fingers and back again. I needed to assess the wound to see what I could salvage to at least attempt to help it.

I think I must have seen or heard somewhere that establishing a sense of connection first with an animal before going ahead to touch it was the best course of action, but I was pretty sure that law didn't apply to an animal of this caliber.

But still, it wouldn't hurt to try. Right?

I took a deep breath.

“Uhm… hi.” I bit my lip nervously, forcing down the instinct to cower as its golden eyes remained fixated on me. Its breaths were getting heavy, almost as if they were slowing down, and I knew I didn't have much time. “My name is Esmarie, but some people call me Mary and I live not too far away.”

I paused, anticipating any sign of anger like a ferocious roar or swiping of claws, but there was nothing. It was docile. Weak.

“I know a little bit of healing, gathered from years of caring for my injuries by myself, and I wondered if it was okay for me to check your wound.”

Silence prevailed.

Much to my happiness, because not even God could resurrect me from the grave if this animal replied to me with spoken language.

Its eyes snapped toward my hand again as I inched closer to it, my knees pressed further into the twigs and stones by the riverbank.

It didn’t do anything to stop me, and I took that as a go-ahead.

I found myself moving closer, rubbing the entire length of my bare forearm against the smooth fur of its head. It almost felt like clouds.

“Wow.” I couldn’t help the gasp that escaped my lips.

This was insane.

I moved my hand closer, running it through its side until I reached its neck, where the wound kept bleeding. The blood was dark—almost black. Maybe a sign of infection.

It twitched, one of its ears flapping as my fingers brushed the side of the wound.

“What horrible thing did this to you?” I mumbled to myself as I assessed it properly. Could it have been a human?

Maybe this was an endangered species.

I stared at it like it had suddenly grown horns. I needed to do my very best to make sure it remained alive.

A tremor suddenly passed through its body. It exhaled—deep and strained—and that same golden eye rolled closed.

I acted without thinking.

Tearing the hem of my already-ruined dress, I pressed the makeshift cloth against the gash on its side. Blood soaked through almost instantly, thick and dark, but I held firm.

It was dying.

Panic surged through me, but I shoved it down. No time for that. Not now.

“I’ll be back,” I whispered, rising to my feet, sticky with blood and shaking with fear. “Please don’t die while I’m gone.”

I turned and ran—back to the gnarled trees and lavender pathway before running towards the side, skipping over the familiar rocks, ducking through the low-hanging vines until I reached the cave I regarded as my bedroom, A luxury I was never fortunate enough to have.

It wasn’t much—just a hollow carved with desperation over the years. But inside, nestled between old crockery and burlap, were scraps of stolen cloth, a few rusted tools, and the battered tin box I kept bandages in. Makeshift things. Salvaged from years of surviving the kind of wounds no one else ever saw.

I grabbed everything I could carry. Strips of linen. A needle. A dull blade. An old, near-empty bottle of pure alcohol that made my eyes water just holding it, and a bright yellow bowl.

Then I sprinted to the lake.

The cold water bit at my fingers as I dipped my bowl in, scrubbing my hands raw before filling it. My mind kept flashing back to those golden eyes, fluttering shut. I wasn’t sure what terrified me more—that the creature might be gone when I returned… or still there, waiting.