It’s Quite Safe in the Woods [ Diane D. Gillette ]

Roger’s bride-to-be was still a stranger to him upon their betrothal, but she possessed such plum lips, auburn curls, golden eyes, long limbs, quiet demeanor, he had no doubt she’d be his perfect lifemate. He sat in her father’s parlor and barely noticed that it was her sire and not his future bride who provided the fuzzy answers to all of his questions. She asked about nothing but the woods that bordered his property. He assured her they were quite safe as long as she didn’t go walking alone at night. 

“Can she cook?” Roger asked.

“She learned at her granny’s knee,” her father assured him.

On their wedding night, Roger found his bride clad in a red satin robe, waiting on the edge of their bed. He breathed deeply and found she’d donned an earthy perfume that called to mind the forest -- something wild, begging to be tamed. He grinned, kicked off his loafers, and reached for his belt. 

Roger felt more than heard the guttural rumble from the throat of his bride. He paused, delighted at the thought of finding true desire in her eyes. The growl rose louder. He met those golden eyes. They glowed with a wild lust so intense he took a step back. She grinned, showing teeth that gleaned in the moonlight. 

“Your teeth--” Roger shuddered a bit, unable to voice his thoughts.

“Such sharp teeth,” his bride agreed, grinning wider. “Will you run?” 

In the moonlight, his innocent bride had vanished. Though she looked the same, something wild and dangerous was sitting in her place. His heart pounded as he tried desperately to get his feet to obey him. He stumbled over his discarded loafers, but she didn’t give chase immediately. Her laughter pursued him down the stairs.

Roger sought safety in the sanctuary of his study. From the window, he saw a wolf trot onto their front lawn. He heard the creak of the wooden floor outside his study, heard the knob rattle. 

“Oh, darling husband, don’t you want to come out and play?” she called, her voice husky and inviting from the other side of the door.

Roger held his breath. Two more wolves joined the first. They paced back and forth, claws ripping up bits of the neatly manicured lawn.

The creaking of the floor outside his study told Roger his bride had retreated. She stepped outside, and the wolves yipped, calling out their delight. She shed her red satin robe, right on the front lawn, revealing a body clad only in moonlight. The robe spilled across the grass in a violent splash of crimson. He watched her turn her face to the sky and howl. The wolves echoed around her, and Roger realized several more had joined while he’d watched his wife. She took off running, the wolf-pack on her heels. 

Roger slept locked in his study, curled under his desk. He woke to sunlight and the smell of breakfast. He tiptoed to the kitchen where he saw his bride, wearing a cotton dress and apron, feet bare, cooking at the stove. 

"Venison steak and eggs?" she offered.

He tried to reconcile the feral creature of the night before with the woman at the stove, the perfect image of how he imagined his mornings as a married man would be. 

He didn't ask where the venison had come from. 

Roger sat tentatively at their breakfast table. She laid out a place setting in front of him. One of the everyday plates with delicate blue flowers around the rim. Fork, spoon, napkin folded into a neat triangle. A steak knife. He found himself curling his fingers around the handle of the knife as she returned her attention to the stove. When she turned back around, scorching hot cast-iron pan hovering over his plate, she locked her golden eyes with his. He lowered his gaze, zeroing in on the red smudge drying on her chin. He swallowed and slowly loosened his grip on the steak knife, dropping it to the floor. 

“That’s better,” she cooed as she loaded his plate with steak and eggs.