Cassandra’s thoughts spun in tight, panicked circles. How could she have been so certain, so calm, so proud, and still be so wrong. The answer felt brutal, because it was simple. She had wanted to believe.
For weeks she had slept with Reggie curled against her, his warmth soaking into the sheets, his breath steady beside her ear. She had taken that closeness as proof of trust. Now the memory made her skin prickle. Every night she had drifted off believing she was safe, and every night something else had been happening right next to her.
The warning signs were suddenly everywhere in her mind, bright and undeniable. The way Reggie’s golden eyes followed her across a room, not with the soft attention of a pet, but with focus. The way he planted his heavy head against her shoulder as if to claim her, pinning her to him in a gesture she used to call affection. She had even smiled at it. She had felt chosen.
Now she felt foolish. Worse than foolish. She felt exposed.
In the small, tidy town of Bar Harbor, privacy was a myth and curiosity was a community sport. People knew who bought new curtains, who had a loud argument in their driveway, who returned home late, and who was suddenly eating healthier. Gossip moved fast, passed along with morning coffee and waved across lawns like a neighbourly warning.
So when Cassandra, a quiet woman in her mid thirties who kept her curtains drawn and her life to herself, moved into a neat suburban street with an enormous wolf named Reggie, the whispers started before her boxes were fully unpacked. It began as murmurs, then became questions, then became fear wrapped in polite smiles.
Why would anyone keep a predator in a house like this. What if it got loose. What if a child wandered too close. What if it snapped.
Concern grew into something sharper. People did not just talk, they watched.
