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Midnight Comfort
The werewolf is patient, or she tries to be, at least.
But even her patience runs thin, eventually.
There is only so much anxiety, paranoia, and neediness she can take, coming from the daughters – even if she understands their inherent struggles.
She doesn’t blame them for it, either.
But she’s at her limit, she thinks, one early noon, after she witnessed Cassandra and Bela bickering about the former’s plans for a late-night hunt, come next full moon – again. It’s the third time this has happened and, while the werewolf appreciates the concerns for her mental health, she’s just… tired.
So, she simply left that conversation before it concluded, ignoring the confused call-out from Bela as she let herself out of the library.
Does she feel stable, in this castle? More often than not, yes.
Does she feel stable, right now? Not particularly.
The pressure of trying to please three women and balance out their needs without either of them feeling like they come up short – well it isn’t easy. It’s actually quite draining.
She wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world, but in moments like this, when she’s overwhelmed, the werewolf cannot help but wish for a more… stable companion. Just one person in her life that is stable and content enough on their own.
Before long, she finds herself on one of the many balconies of the castle, staring out onto the grounds and the vast forest surrounding them.
It’s cold outside today. Cold and foggy.
Fall has arrived early, chasing away the remnants of summer warmth and the werewolf would be lying if she said she didn’t abuse the temperature to stay outside on her own, knowing fully well that the daughters wouldn’t want to step outside.
So, she stands. She stares. Lost in non-thought, with her mind utterly empty.
How much time passes, she doesn’t know.
Eventually, she’s joined by a presence, as the opening of a door behind her announces. The werewolf raises her head, curious as to who would willingly step into the weather outside and-
It’s the Lady of the castle who steps outside, all terrifying grace and poised danger, her movements fluid and disconcertingly quiet.
“L-lady Dimitrescu,” the werewolf splutters, quickly lowering herself into a little bow. “Am I- am I not supposed to be on this balcony? I’m sorry, I’ve been lost in thought. I must have accidentally wandered here-”
She doesn’t reply verbally, raising one hand instead to stop the stream of words rushing from the werewolf’s mouth in a panic.
Standing to her full height, she towers over the werewolf, who cannot help but stare up at her face and swallow hard. The woman’s sheer size never fails to terrify her and remind her painfully of-
Getting grabbed by the neck and slammed into a wall and carried into the dungeon and-
She blinks her eyes, rubbing her face with both hands, trying to shake off the memories.
The sound of a lighter catches her attention and Lady Dimitrescu slightly bends away from the breeze to light herself a cigarette on her quellazaire.
“Lost in thought?” she asks after the first inhalation of smoke. “A guard dog should not be distracted by their thoughts, mutt.”
“I-” the werewolf pauses, frowning. “I know. But I can’t help it, sometimes.”
“Is Bela not supposed to help you with such… struggles?” the lady asks with what may as well be a veiled threat, a question of the werewolf’s intentions and motivations, and the smaller woman finds herself slouching onto the railing.
She’s tired.
She’s tired of being under constant scrutiny.
She’s tired of trying so hard and being constantly belittled or demeaned for being something she has no control over.
She didn’t choose to become a werewolf.
“Yes, she is, but that does little to help when she’s part of the reason my thoughts wander,” the werewolf grumbles, gritting her teeth. “Her and Cassandra and Daniela and-”
She pauses, shakes her head, and forces herself to shut up. One wrong word about the daughters, she fears, and she might be grabbed and tossed off the very balcony they are currently standing on. She knows the Lady does not take kindly to disrespect towards her or her family.
“Continue, mutt, I am intrigued to hear your explanation,” Lady Dimitrescu says, followed by another drag from her cigarette.
The breeze carries the scent of the smoke downwards and it plays around the werewolf’s nose, faintly reminding her of… home. Her parents had been smokers but she hasn’t associated the scent with her home in a long time – too traumatized by the terrifying presence that Lady Dimitrescu could be.
“I try to keep them happy, Lady Dimitrescu, I really do,” the werewolf whispers, glancing up at the giantess beside her. “And I love them equally. But some days… their arguments and their constant need for my presence is… well, it’s quite draining. And I don’t know what to do about it. I’m wearing myself thin trying to keep them content and trying to keep you pleased with how I treat your family and…”
She pauses, swallows, and clutches her hands hard into the railing. Maybe she’s already said too much, maybe she’s already offended the lady of the castle, but she continues, regardless, “I’m sorry, I’m just tired. I’ll be back to my usual self tomorrow.”
Or so she hopes, anyway.
“Their trauma runs deep,” Lady Dimitrescu says and another waft of smoke hits the werewolf’s nose. “A great deal has happened between their old lives and where they are now. It pains me to admit but they have not been this stable or happy in years. They came to be my daughters in their adult life and while I am their mother, in every way that matters, I cannot force them to be more open with me.”
She crosses one arm over her chest, while the other holds up the quellazaire.
“I still do not know what it is about you that makes them want to communicate but…” she trails off, takes a drag, and exhales smoke through her nose. “I am happy that they do at the very least express how they are feeling. Even if it is to a mutt.”
Her eyes find the werewolf’s, pinning her in place and the smaller woman frowns harder, trying to ignore it.
“I know you hate me for what I am but didn’t choose to become a werewolf,” she says, out loud, and keeps staring straight ahead, at the castle grounds. “I just want to be happy here, with your family, but you make it rather difficult to feel accepted. I know you don’t care about me and if your daughters were not so attached to me, you would probably already have killed me, but it still hurts, you know?”
There is a tense moment of silence that follows her little emotional outburst.
She meets the lady’s gaze stubbornly despite her fear and – much to her surprise – she finds her smiling slightly.
“I might have killed you, months ago,” she says, tapping the quellazaire to ash the cigarette. “You still have the uncanny talent to be a nuisance but… no, I do not hate you.”
“Then why do you keep belittling me?” the werewolf asks, head tilted in confusion.
“What, would you rather I give you head pats and tell you what a good girl you are, simply for doing the things that are expected of you?” Lady Dimitrescu asks, one eyebrow raised delicately as she takes another drag of the cigarette.
“No… I… well, I would like to at least feel appreciated, you know? Or… or tolerated?” the smaller woman shrugs her shoulders, turning away from the lady of the castle. “I don’t know. Anything is better than feeling hated for simply existing and trying to find happiness.”
The wind picks up in the moment of silence that follows, ruffling the werewolf’s hair and tugging at her shirt and she shudders as she feels the cold seep through to her skin. How long has she stood outside?
“Perhaps moving inside is advisable,” Lady Dimitrescu says, stepping away from the railing, and as she passes the werewolf her leather-clad fingers brush through the tips of the smaller woman’s hair in the ghost of a touch.
She doesn’t say anything else when she steps inside, but she leaves the door to the balcony open behind herself.
The weather doesn’t get much better.
It stays cold for most of the week and the wind never truly ceases. It takes a few more days, but then, finally, just as the week is about to roll over, there is the first proper rainfall – or perhaps torrent is a better way to describe it.
The rain is hard and it’s heavy, and the summer-dry, cracked, soil can barely soak up the flood of water that is whipped about by the gusts of wind. Within a matter of hours, the castle grounds and vineyard are turned into a puddle-ridden mud field.
To the daughters’ dismay, it seems summer is gone for good.
Much to the werewolf’s dismay, it continues to rain, until the next full moon is here, and if there is one thing the werewolf realized throughout the summer, then that she prefers spending full moons outside. It eases her mind to know that she is far away from human staff and can instead distract herself with a lycan hunt or a little play tousle – or both – depending on which of the daughters she ends up spending time with.
But with this weather? With the wind raging outside and howling around the towers? With the rain soaking anyone outside down to the bone within minutes?
The werewolf has to admit to herself, that she doesn’t want to go outside. In truth, she would rather curl up in front of a fireplace, warm and cozy and comfortable . Preferably with at least one of the daughters snuggled into her furry body.
But that means staying within hunting distance of the staff. And deep down, she knows it’s been too long since her last hunt. She feels violent desires claw at the back of her mind. Her dreams leave her with the impression of broken bones and blood and guts and in the quiet moments, she hears the distorted echo of laughter.
In truth, she needs to hunt, to run, to exhaust herself, and kill something humanoid.
Except, she doesn’t trust herself enough to want to do it alone.
Except , she doesn’t have anyone who could join her.
The evening of the full moon is there sooner than she likes and with the werewolf no step closer to a decision. It’s to her luck, then, that the rain slows into a drizzle in the early hours of the evening when she can feel the transformation slowly sneak up on her.
Post dinner, she heads outside and disappears into the night.
It’s past midnight when the werewolf is caught up in another torrent – this one accompanied by thunder and lightning which sends her scrambling back home to the castle, agitated in a way she doesn’t like; deeply unsettled and unable to calm down.
She finds all the doors to the castle locked – of course they would be, considering she’s outside and prowling, probably on a hunt, and requested the doors be locked for the staff’s safety.
Nobody expects her back home before the morning, either.
Her only option… is scaling the wall and hoping a family member spots her through the window and lets her inside – Cassandra, perhaps? She’s usually patrolling the castle around this time. Bela, too, is often still awake, though more likely to stick to her office.
Soon enough, she finds herself on top of one of the castle’s many wall walks, wet and slippery and she carefully navigates them as she makes her way to the first lit window she finds.
She climbs the adjacent balcony and inches close, peering into the room beyond the glass.
On the other side is a drawing room, one that she’s not at all familiar with. The fire in the fireplace is freshly stoked, roaring alive and warm and mocking her through the glass.
There’s no one in sight, though.
Lightning strikes again, sending her entire body jolting with fear and her paws briefly slipping on the wet stone before she regains her composure.
The werewolf huffs in frustration, casting a glance up and down the balcony, then makes for the entrance, finds it unlocked, and makes her way inside. Every worry of potentially scaring staff is all but wiped from her mind, replaced by the need to dry off and stay warm and how can she resist when the fire is beckoning her inside?
She stumbles inside, followed by a wave of rain and a howl of wind that sends the open curtains fluttering and the flame in the fireplace flickering furiously until the werewolf manages to push the door close with a nudge of her shoulder.
The howling wind calms, banished to the outside world, much like the thunder, but the rain continues to mercilessly hit the glass panes.
Inside, the sound is almost… soothing, and the werewolf finds herself standing by the balcony door for a long moment, fur dripping onto the floor as she simply listens.
The is no noise but the fireplace and the weather outside. No footsteps, nothing.
She makes her way further into the room, leaving a wet trail to the fireplace in her wake, and – oh, the warmth of the fire is divine, and for the perhaps fifth time today, she asks herself why she even bothered to head outside for the full moon instead of taking a risk and curling up in front of the fire with Daniela, hunt or not.
A full-body shudder of pleasure takes her, sending a few droplets of water flying and she has half a mind to shake herself off-
“Don’t you dare, mutt. You shake your fur, and I will throw you off that balcony you climbed in from.”
It’s embarrassing just how high the werewolf leaps upon suddenly being addressed out of the blue. She scrambles to turn, almost gets her tail caught in the fireplace in the process, and promptly leaps up once more – not as high this time.
There, by the door, stands the matriarch of the castle, arms crossed and one eyebrow slowly rising.
She isn’t in the white dress and black hat combination the werewolf is used to seeing, instead wearing only a simple, white, house robe.
“What did I say about putting your nose into places it does not belong?” she asks, closing the door behind herself and taking a step into the room. Only now does the werewolf realize just how tall the furniture around her is and that this must be the Lady’s private drawing room.
The beast shrinks back, past the fireplace, ears pressed low into her head and tail between her legs. There is a growing urge to whine but she keeps it down, not wanting to embarrass herself further.
Lady Dimitrescu’s eyebrow rises higher. Her eyes follow the trail of water left on the floor from the fireplace to the puddle in front of the balcony door. For a moment, she simply stares, and the only sound once more becomes the fire and the rain hitting the windows, then her eyes find the werewolf’s miserable, drenched, form again; all dripping water and sad puppy eyes and the Lady’s expression… mellows.
“I suppose I should not kick you out in this weather, should I?” she says, followed by a long pause and then, finally, a sigh, “Fine. You may stay and warm yourself up by the fire.”
The werewolf raises her head, ears peeking up curiously. Did she hear that right? She is allowed to stay? Not kicked out, even permitted? She huffs in surprise, already inching back to the fireplace…
“No.”
… only to freeze.
“You stay right there,” Lady Dimitrescu commands, and instinctively, the werewolf lowers herself back onto the floor, staring up confused with her head tilted. “Do not move until I return.”
And with that, she turns and – with impressive grace – ducks through the door, leaving behind a confused transformed werewolf, who doesn’t so much dare move its tail for the duration of… however many minutes she is made to wait for something to happen.
When the Lady eventually returns, she’s accompanied by her grand chambermaid, Zora. The woman, who carries a basket in her arms, briefly pauses by the door upon seeing the giant furry beast in the corner and casts a last look at her employer as if to ask ‘are you sure?’ before she’s lightly nudged forward with the press of a large hand to her back.
The werewolf raises her head, watching curiously as the maid approaches her with cautious steps. Her eyes fall upon the basket, which contains a pile of clean towels.
Are these for her?
They are, it turns out.
Zora puts the basket down on the floor and unfolds the first towel. It’sgigantic and it takes the werewolf’s mind a few seconds to conclude that these must be Lady Dimitrescu’s towels.
And speaking of the Lady – she’s watching with hawk eyes as the grand chambermaid approaches the werewolf, towel lifted between outstretched hands and with an almost stoic attempt at appearing unafraid. But the werewolf can’t help but notice the tremor in her hands as she inches close.
So, she lowers herself once more, tries to look as docile as possible, ears pressed low and tail on the ground, and the towel is slowly draped over her head and shoulders and the wetness of the fur worked into it.
It takes all the towels to get the excess water out of the werewolf’s fur, but even so, she remains damp.
Zora leaves the room with the drenched towels and it’s then that the werewolf notices just how tense Lady Dimitrescu has been this entire time.
The tension leaves her shoulders as soon as the door closes and she sighs as she turns to face the beast, which looks up at her with golden puppy eyes, still damp, chilly, and generally unhappy with the situation at hand.
“You may move…” Lady Dimitrescu says, followed by another sigh.
With her lips drawn to a thin line and her brows furrowed in something akin to irritation, she sits in the armchair closest to the fireplace, observing as the werewolf moves forward and sits down in front of the fire, upright and with her hind legs awkwardly sprawled out in front of her, using her front paws for balance.
So, she stays.
For approximately ten seconds.
“… down.”
The werewolf ducks out of reflex, scrambles to lie down before the fireplace instead. When she notices the shift of light around her, she realizes her heavy frame must have blocked most of it and a look off to the side confirms the Lady’s… annoyance.
Behind them, the door opens once more, quietly and carefully and the werewolf’s ears perk up. She lifts her head and spots Zora entering, this time with a mop and a bucket.
Guilt claws its way to the forefront of the werewolf’s mind as she watches the Grand Chambermaid work on cleaning up the water and mud the beast has dragged in. It’s already so late and now this poor woman has to mop the floors to deal with her mess.
She whines softly and it catches both Lady Dimitrescu’s and the maid’s attention.
Two pairs of eyes settle upon her, and she whines again, lightly pawing at the floorboards as if to say ‘I’m sorry’ and she can only hope the message gets across, somehow.
Zora blinks her eyes, clearly thinking for a second then turns to look up at the matriarch questioningly.
“I believe she means to apologize for the mess she has made of my drawing room,” Lady Dimitrescu hums. The silence that follows is interrupted by the sound of a lighter and the sizzle of a cigarette being lit, “and rightfully so. I expect a proper apology once your maw is capable of human speech again, mutt.”
The werewolf huffs in reply, awkwardly nodding her massive head in understanding, before lowering herself onto the floor once more.
Silence overcomes the room, interrupted only by the rhythmic noise of Zora’s cleaning. Mixed with the outside noise of the rain, it almost lulls the werewolf in. Eyes growing heavy and body relaxing the more the fur dries, she finds herself drifting off…
The crack of thunder immediately follows the sudden lightning strike and the werewolf yips as she jumps to her feet.
Zora flinches and almost knocks over the bucket of water when she instinctively raises the mop like a weapon aimed straight at the werewolf. She doesn’t relax until the Lady of the castle orders her to with a single hand wave.
“Down, mutt,” she says, putting out the cigarette in an elaborate crystal ashtray atop the table next to her armchair, “it’s a thunderstorm, not an attack on your life.”
The werewolf grumbles, huffs multiple times as she shakes her head in protest, even shuffles on the spot in a little dance with her paws tapping on the wood for emphasis.
It very much is an attack on her life!
Does the Lady not realize how loud the thunder is? How every rumble and crack crashes straight into her mind and leaves her rattled and agitated?
The werewolf refuses to back down and stays seated, staring Lady Dimitrescu down stubbornly…
Until another thunderclap makes her jump a foot into the air and immediately erases any rebelliousness she hopes to display.
The Lady settles further into her armchair, but her eyes never once leave the werewolf who is now audibly panting in distress. She sighs, heavy and weary with resignation.
“Come here, mutt,” she says, a single finger pointing to the spot next to her seat. “Do not make me wait.”
The werewolf’s first instinct is to disobey out of sheer spite, but then the rain picks up again and the fear makes her drag her behind across the floor to the armchair, where she awkwardly tries to settle down.
Massive head on her paws, she stares into the fire, trying to ignore the way the wolf wants to get up and move. It’s the Lady’s presence, she’s sure of it. The wolf doesn’t understand how they can hope to settle calmly beside such a terrifyingly tall predator.
Someone who can carry them with ease in their human form and – well, the werewolf doesn’t want to know if Lady Dimitrescu is strong enough to lift her in her transformed shape.
Then, a finger touches the fur between her ears.
At first, she wants to write it off as an accidental touch – one that makes her tail flick and her ears twitch. Only… it happens again. Two fingers, this time, lightly brushing through the fur, almost… playfully.
Is the lady of the castle petting her?
Curious, the werewolf tries to raise her head for but a glimpse-
“Stay.”
Well, that doesn’t leave her with much of a choice, does it?
Begrudgingly, she lowers her head, huffing again as the head-scritches continue and… work, honestly. She can’t help but slowly relax and calm down. Suddenly, the storm doesn’t seem so scary anymore, not when she’s lulled into this sense of comfort and security by the rhythmic movement of fingers in her fur.
Compared to the daughters, the lady’s hand is gigantic. With ease, her fingers cover the entirety of the beast’s head and the languid strokes send a shudder down her entire back to the tip of her tail, a feat that would usually take either of the daughters using both hands.
It leaves the werewolf torn, part of her wanting to simply enjoy the affection given, while the other part keeps stubbornly reminding her of the fact that it was Lady Dimitrescu who was currently ruffling her fur and scratching behind her ear like that.
But she does, somehow. Perhaps it’s the repetitive nature of the strokes, perhaps it’s the fact that eventually, the lightning and thunder grow distant, spaced further and further apart, then falling silent altogether. Her anxiety fades along with the storm and for the first time tonight, she finally settles.
Zora finishes cleaning and heads for the door, where she pauses once more.
“Good night?” she says, no, asks and the movement of the fingers stops.
“Good night, Zora. I will see you in the morning,” Lady Dimitrescu replies. Her tone is soft, almost affectionate and it makes the werewolf open one eye curiously.
The door closes and the werewolf cannot help but raise her head, looking at the Lady. Her gaze is met with a raised eyebrow.
“Missing my touch?” she asks, picking up where she has left off, scratching particularly rough behind one of the werewolf’s ears and making her leg twitch. “Ah, you like that?”
Her tone is teasing, more so than the werewolf has ever heard before, not even with one of the daughters, but she doesn’t have the mental capacity to try and make sense of it, as she is suddenly assaulted by recklessly scratching fingers until she can’t help but turn into figurative mush, all eager huffs and tail wags and kicking legs.
Before she knows it, she’s rolled over onto her back, massive furry chest exposed and – much to her surprise – Lady Dimitrescu capitalizes on that, too.
When she finally, mercifully, withdraws, the werewolf is left a panting mess on the floor.
“Moments like this, it becomes difficult to believe that you are very much capable of tearing my staff apart,” the Lady says, sitting back and regarding the werewolf.
She does not protest when the beast rolls over and sits up, meeting her gaze with a tilt of her head.
“Bah, enough with the puppy eyes,” Lady Dimitrescu complains, reaching for a new cigarette to fix in the quellazaire, “though I suppose I am beginning to understand what my daughters see in you. Your eyes are loyal, even in this form.”
Loyal? The werewolf huffs softly, pawing at the floor and she receives another look in response.
“You should not let it get to your head.”
Another huff.
“Listen, mutt,” Lady Dimitrescu grumbles and lights her cigarette to take a long drag from it, “I gave you a place to warm up during the storm. One does not bite the hand that feeds. I would advise you against testing my patience further.”
A whine, this time, complete with the werewolf’s ears pressed back against her head as she rests it upon her paws. She’s not even arguing, really. She’s just… confused!
The Lady sighs with an exhale of smoke and a shake of her head.
“There are still a few more hours until the moon sets,” she says, picking up a book from the side table and opening it to where it had been left bookmarked, “so I suggest making yourself comfortable.”
And the werewolf does, or at least tries to.
Nothing else happens that night, no more staff dropping by, no more storms. The room remains silent, save for Lady Dimitrescu turning a page now and then. Before long, the werewolf somehow finds herself drifting off to a dreamless sleep.
Daniela tries not to be worried, she really does.
But it’s already early morning and the puppy still hasn’t returned.
She’s even checked in with Bela and Cassandra, just in case, but they both have neither seen, nor heard from the pet since yesterday evening.
The first thought, the most obvious and painful one, is that the werewolf has finally run away and left her. And Daniela hates that the thought comes up at all. So many times her puppy has promised to return and she did, so why would be any different this time?
The alternative though? That the werewolf got injured and is now stuck outside, somewhere in the forest? It’s not much better.
Because, with this weather, she can count the number of people who can go out and search for the puppy on one hand.
Brinn and… mother.
Both options end the same way: Having to ask mother for help.
And she doesn’t like asking mother for help – especially not when she feels like it’s her mistake that led to this outcome.
Because if the puppy ran away, then surely that’s her fault, right? Something she said or did must have made her pet want to run away for good. And even if not – if she was hurt, well, just as much her fault! She should have convinced her to stay inside and not wander out into the storm!
All of this feels way too eerily familiar. A pet disappearing one night…
She dreads to think further than that.
It’s about three hours to breakfast when her anxiety finally becomes too much to bear and forces her to leave her bedroom to approach mother.
Daniela swarms straight to the office, knowing her mother is usually awake early to handle delicate matters but much to her surprise, she finds the office abandoned.
So, she races for the bedroom next, her agitated swarm state scaring and startling a bunch of maids along the way.
When she arrives, she’s trembling from nausea and anxiety. Her body struggles to stay in one shape, singular flies breaking off and buzzing around her in irregular patterns.
She raises her hand and gives a firm knock, then, as impatient as she is, she steps back and waits – because she does not need a repeat of her bursting in on mother being… busy.
“Come in.”
It’s almost a relief to hear her mother’s voice and she shoves the door open so violently, it almost hits the wall, and she barely manages to catch the handle beforehand.
Lady Dimitrescu casts her a glance accompanied by a raised eyebrow. She is seated in one of her armchairs by the fireplace, a letter in hand. The smell of tea hits Daniela’s nose and, sure enough, there’s freshly brewed tea on the side table, next to a stack of unopened correspondence.
“G-good morning, mother,” Daniela forces out, and even to her own ears the fear is audible in her voice. “Sorry for… for bothering you so early but- but the puppy didn’t come back and- and I’m so worried she got hurt during the storm and now she’s out there, injured and-”
Her mother raises her hand, instantly silencing the flood of words. Daniela closes her mouth, audibly.
“Keep your voice down. The mutt is fine,” her mother says, voice quiet and comforting. “She returned at the height of the storm and spent the night in my drawing room.”
“Okay but where-”
Again, her mother raises her hand, again Daniela falls silent, watches with bated breath as her mother raises the cup of tea to her lips and takes a few sips.
It’s difficult to keep quiet and not burst out with even more questions when uncertainty continues to eat away at her restraint, but there is no disobeying mother.
Finally, the cup is placed back down. Lady Dimitrescu folds the letter together and puts it away with the others.
“Now, if you were to turn to your left…” she says, accompanied by a broad gesture and Daniela’s eyes follow the movement to her mother’s favorite chaise longue… upon which lies a human-shaped pile of blankets that moves rhythmically with every breath.
“… puppy?” Daniela splutters, glancing back at her mother. “Why is she-”
“Here? Because she changed back in her sleep and I could hardly leave her naked before my fireplace, now, could I?” The reply is followed by a little chuckle and the glint in her mother’s eyes is definitely amusement.
“Can I-”
“Of course.”
Daniela rushes for the chaise, carefully wrapping her arms around the sleeping bundle. As soon as she moves the werewolf, the pet complaints – only to settle back into quiet slumber as soon as she burrows her nose against Daniela’s shirt.
“Aw… puppy,” she whispers, smiling and leaning down to leave a kiss atop the werewolf’s head.
Then, with her puppy in her arms, she turns towards her mother once more.
“I- thank you, mother.”
She doesn’t quite know what she thanks her mother for. Perhaps for not killing the puppy? Or for allowing her to stay the night?
“Of course. Now take care of your pet.”
Daniela nods and makes for the door-
“And Daniela…?”
“… yes, mother?”
“Next time there is a storm on the full moon, the mutt stays inside.”
“Of course, mother.”
“And for future reference… it appears head scratches greatly distract her from her astraphobia.”
Daniela raises her eyebrow and looks over her shoulder at her mother, and though the matriach’s attention is back on her correspondence, the youngest Dimitrescu can just barely make out the ghost of a smirk tugging up the corner’s her mother’s lips.