by Ava Lore
Number Four, the escapee, seemed the same as he always was, placid and unconcerned with much of anything. He rolled on his back, exposing his belly, then thrashed around as though he were scratching his spine. It was such a dog-like move that Michelle found it striking. He had always been the tamest of the beasts.
And Number One. He started the day as he always did. Alert. Sitting on his haunches. His intense gaze staring straight at the hidden camera.
How did he know it was there? Michelle often wondered. And why did he stare at it so?
He arrested her, set her off balance. His heart-stopping eyes, a brilliant green muted by the black and white camera, bored into the lens, tunneling through the wires, slipping through time and space to meet hers. As if he knew she would be watching him. As if he wanted her to know he knew she was there...
No. Michelle had to physically shake herself. No, that was impossible. She was imagining things. She felt a connection with Subject Number One only because of his strange beauty. Where the twins were nervous, where Four was ridiculous, where Five was terrifying, One was simply... magnetic. Like a tiger. Like a lion. An apex predator, filled with deadly intent.
Any prey animal would feel the same way. And after all, Michelle thought, we're all just naked apes to them. Helpless, but for the tools they could wield in their adapted paws.
In her seat, Michelle worked her thumbs, reminding herself that she was a human, not an animal. A person. An intelligent, adapted ape. She had no business feeling a connection to a beast, even if he could speak, even if he spent one night of the month in human form.
Why then did she feel as though she were the fly dreaming of the spider?
Before her eyes the day sped on. The beasts ate, paced, talked to each other in their beastly language that Michelle sometimes thought she was on the verge of understanding, then milled some more. They slept. Five tried to tear the bars of his cell off. The twins curled up and licked each other. An intern came in to inspect the cages. Four wagged his tail at him. Number One lounged, bored. Michelle had suggested television for them, or audiobooks, to stave off the boredom and the madness that surely crept up with it, but the proposal had been rejected. Dr. Wells was worried that TV or books could bring up the subjects' erased memories.
Another pang of conscience. Those pangs were getting worse. Michelle swallowed around the lump in her throat.
Another feeding, this time in the afternoon. The twice-a-day schedule was maintained due to the threat of bloat. Like wolves, the beasts' stomachs were not connected and subject to twisting, leading to food becoming trapped, endangering their lives. Smaller portions meant hungrier beasts, but less chance of them dying. And that was all that mattered to Dr. Wells, sometimes. They were incredibly lucky to have five subjects to study, but each one was precious. Most of the other wings sat almost empty, with some of them only housing one monstrous occupant. At least the wolves could talk to each other.
Then something happened. Subject Number One walked to the side of his cage and tossed his food across the gap between cells, the strength of his monstrous arms sending the meat flying, but the imprecision slapping the meat against the bars rather than through them. Subject Number Four reached out and grabbed the food from the floor. Michelle watched him as he devoured it, seemingly ravenous.
Cooperation. Collusion.
And from Number One to Number Four.
There was no real pack hierarchy in the wild. Packs were families, with all the intricacies that went with the family structure. But when the wolves had been captured, Number One had certainly been the de facto leader. He was the eldest after all.
He was helping Number Four. Why was Number Four the one who had escaped, and not Number One?
Michelle reached out and stopped the tape. "I need to speak to Subject Number One, alone, without the others around," she said. Her voice barely shook. She had never spoken to the creatures before, and the opportunity thrilled her in secret, shameful ways.
Would One speak to her? Let her touch him? She wanted to. Wanted to very badly. In the fleeting moments she had been allowed to examine his body for injuries or signs of stress and self harm, she had stroked his head, trying to tell him through her touch that someone gave a shit about him, but she had always had to wear latex gloves. She'd never touched him directly. She told herself it was the same as any person's desire to touch something furred and fierce, but her hands trembled all the same.
Behind her, Dr. Wells was silent for a moment. "Are you sure, Dr. Dimaano?" he asked.
Michelle nodded. "Number One was helping Number Four. If he was helping him, he must have known what was going to happen. They speak in their language to each other, so he might have had a clue, or a hint..."
"That language is bestial," Dr. Wells interjected. He had always been dismissive of the wolves and their yips and growls. There was no way they could be communicating like humans, he had insisted. They are animals. When they did speak in English it was slow and slurred, and Dr. Wells was not a scientist of the mind or of behavior. He thought them stupid. He was a geneticist. He cared only for the minute, for the tiny strands of chemical compounds in every cell of the beasts bodies'. What they held in their hearts and minds was inconsequential to the mission of the lab.
Though he didn't say it out loud, Michelle knew that he felt her presence on the project was worse than useless. A psychologist and behaviorist with a background in zoology, tasked with retaining at least some humane methods in the treatment of the creatures in the facility? Constantly interjecting, constantly reminding him that the beasts under his care had emotions, suffered, cried out, grew angry, despaired? She was an active hindrance.
But now he needed her help. "They knew each other before," Michelle insisted. "He might have an idea. And maybe a friendly face will persuade them to speak." Instead of torture, she added silently. Instead of ignoring them. Instead of treating them like animals.
Dr. Wells withheld his judgment for a moment longer, but outside in the lab people were arguing, angry, frightened. Michelle had heard nothing about the break out, but she was willing to bet someone got hurt. This was a huge black eye for the program. People were going to want answers. And they were not going to want a half-mad wolfman on the loose.
Finally he sighed. "Very well," he said. "We will arrange it."
Michelle had to press her lips together to hide her smile.
Chapter Two
The guards came and shot him with a dart. One wasn't quite expecting that. He'd thought that the escape of Four would make their captors wary of trusting their drugs, but it seemed they had figured out the ruse Four had played on them. Four, who always acted goofy and benign in front of them. Number One had not possessed such foresight. But that was all right. As long as his brother was free, he was happy with that.
The dart was one of the smaller ones that stung more than hurt, and he knew he wouldn't be out for long. He let sleep take him over.
When he awoke, he was in another cell, much like the one he had left, but this room smelled queer and stomach-turning. The stink of dead flesh. Something dead had dwelt here, and for quite a while. Its stench was all over the place. He could almost place it, but for the millionth time he ran up against the block in his memory. The erased time. The time before. He sighed and rolled upright, giving a huge yawn. The tranquilizer made him groggy.
The door at the end of the hall opened, and he caught a whiff of scent...
Her scent.
Immediately he was alert, the drugs receding. Without quite meaning to, One stood up, instinct overriding his deliberate nature. He walked to the front of his cage and pressed against it, his nose poking through. He let his tongue slip from between his sharp teeth, tasting the air. The sound of footsteps reached his ears. One pair. The scent grew stronger.
She was coming toward him. At last.
At last.
Number One had never seen his fated mate. He'd only awoken with her scent on his fur after the guards had taken him a
way and experiments had been performed on him. She had never directly touched him, but she had been close enough to leave her scent behind. She must have been nearby while he was passed out, inspecting him for some reason. It didn't matter. Now she was coming toward him.
Now they would be together. Now they could join.
Now they could escape together.
Number One pressed harder against the bars and began to pant as between his legs his balls tightened and his cock hardened. Delicious sensations, reminding him he was still alive, still a male, still virile and potent. Still able to feel through the numbing boredom, still able to act as nature intended.
His mouth watered, and by the time his mate reached him long ribbons of drool were dripping to the floor. He licked his chops and tried to make himself presentable.
She came into view, and his heart stopped.
She was lovely. Small, petite. Long black hair, dark skin, almond eyes, full lips. She wore a white lab coat and an identification badge, but he couldn't make out the name on it. It was hard to get his beastly eyes to focus as he might as a human.
She carried a chair and outwardly she was purely professional, but his sharp nose could discern she was excited... and not just by the prospect of speaking to him.
Somewhere, deep inside, she knew she was his mate. The tiny hint of arousal between her legs was enough to tell him that. He watched her, not moving, as she sat down in front of his cell and rearranged her skirt before placing a tablet in her lap. The screen shone bright up at her, illuminating her face from below. Even in the industrial lighting of the cell block, she was beautiful. A rare creature, come to grace his life. A captor, yes, but one that could be turned.
One that would be turned.
He pressed harder against the bars, the bones of his skull painful on the steel. His half-hands, half-paws twitched at the thought of touching her, and it was very difficult for him to keep from slavering at her scent.
She turned her beautiful dark eyes to his, and he heard her catch her breath.
For a long moment the two of them stared at each other through the bars, across the tiny distance that separated them, so small and yet so vast. Her fingers tightened on her tablet, and her lips parted. A small, delectable tongue darted out and licked them, and he wanted to chase it back into her mouth with his own.
Then she appeared to suppress her emotions at finally meeting her mate face to face, swallowing them down and pushing them into the deepest recesses of her heart. Running a nervous hand through her long dark hair, she smiled at him.
"Hello, Subject Number One. My name is Doctor Michelle Dimaano. I'm here to talk to you about Subject Number Four."
Number One watched her and refused to speak. The click and whirr of a camera filming them grated on his ears, reminding him that their moves were being watched by interlopers, intruders. They were mates. A sacred bond. No one else should be observing them, and he refused to speak until he had the opportunity to tell her just what he wanted her to know, what she knew already in her heart.
He sat down.
Her eyes flicked over his body, and he saw them widen as she took in the pink tip of his half-erection thrusting out of the furry foreskin between his legs. Good, he thought. Let her look. Let her know that he wanted her.
"Er," she said. "Are you... can you understand me?"
Number One worked his mouth for a moment. He wanted to get this right. It had been a very long time since he had spoken in human language, knowing that he was being watched at all times. His tongue flopped, uncooperative, before he managed to wrangle it.
"Per-fect-ly," he said.
That got her attention and she gasped. "Oh!" she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ask a silly question. Then... will you talk to me?"
"No cam-er-as," he managed to grate out. "No see. No hear."
She stiffened. The wolves weren't supposed to know about the cameras. He was showing his hand a bit here, but it was necessary. He had to speak to her.
And he had to touch her. Her scent had kept him sane for all these months—now it might drive him mad.
She swallowed and gave him a smile. "All right," she said. "I'll see what I can do." Abruptly she stood and hurried back down the hall, and he forced himself to sit still, watching the chair where she had perched her delectable round ass, briefly glimpsed as she hurried by. He wanted to push his cock into her, press his hips against those glorious mounds, fuck her until he came inside her again and again, reclaimed his sanity, reclaimed himself.
The intense control he had been exerting on himself throughout his confinement was beginning to fray at the edges with the nearness of her. One closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He couldn't frighten her away. He needed her help. He needed her in so many ways...
The ever-present hum of the cameras suddenly cut off, and the silence crashed in, deafening him. One opened his eyes, astonished.
She'd done it.
The door clicked open again, and she came hurrying back down the hallway, her footsteps loud in the empty cell block. One felt his heart pick up the pace as she came into sight again, but this time she didn't sit down. Instead she stood in front of him, and he heard her ragged breathing, smelled her excitement—and her confusion and shame. She was ashamed to feel such things for him, to want to be close to him. If he could have smiled, he would have.
She would be closer to him yet.
Number one licked his chops and stood, starting to pace up and down by the bars of his cage. His mate watched him intently, as though trying to decipher exactly what he wanted from her, and he returned her gaze head on, reveling in the darkness of her eyes. Once or twice she glanced at his genitals, now more than half-swollen with need, and he heard her swallow hard.
"Let's start again," she said. "My name is Michelle Dimaano, and I'm the staff psychologist." He noted she didn't introduce herself as doctor this time. He didn't reply to her sally, and she shifted on her feet. The movement brought the scent of arousal again to him. "I'm here to talk to you about Number Four."
One ceased his pacing and stared at her. She shuffled nervously under his gaze, and he couldn't help but note the way her small breasts began to heave as she grew more and more nervous. He would wrap his tongue around them, lave them until she thrashed—
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly. "I know I'm the first woman you've seen in ages. I'm so sorry about that. I told Dr. Wells that he needed to let you and the others live more socially, more intellectually... you know, television or something, but he rejected all my proposals. I really have been trying to help you, but I can't. I'm so sorry. I know it must be very hard on you, very hard, in here without any entertainment, or anyone to talk to except each other..." She was babbling now, her mouth running away with her thoughts. "I've been trying to tell them you're not just animals, that you're people, too, underneath the fur. Um. That didn't sound right. But you are people. I know it. You talk and everything, and I've been trying, I really have." She paused, her lips pressed together. Then she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I'm pretty useless. I don't mean to be, but they don't listen, no matter how many times I tell them..."
To his shock, he heard a hitch in her voice. A hiccup as her throat closed.
His mate was starting to cry.
Primal anger welled in him, and the hackles along his spine rose as a growl suddenly erupted from his chest. This Dr. Wells, the one who had ignored her, who had made her feel impotent and worthless—he would pay!
His mate squeaked and jumped, shying back from the cage, and immediately remorse flooded him. She hadn't known, she couldn't know the depth of his feeling for her...
"Mi-shell," he said. "No fear." He forced the growl down, commanded his body to calm. She had jumped almost all the way across the hallway between the cells, and she stood, back to the bars of the cell across from his, breathing hard. He saw her swallow and did the only thing he could think of.
He rolled onto his back.
A tense silence reigned between them
. Then she took a step forward. Then another and another, until she stood next to his cell. He could easily reach between the bars and touch her. She would know that he could kill her with a swipe of his claws. But he remained perfectly still.
"It's all right," she said after a moment. "I understand. I'd be angry with me, too."
No, that's not it, he wanted to cry out, but his monstrous lips and mouth were too unwieldy. For the first time since he woke up in confinement, Number One didn't feel entirely comfortable inside his own skin.
The realization startled him.
He'd always been the calm, collected one. Always been the one who accepted and moved on. But now, in the face of his beautiful human mate, he felt... beastly.
He didn't like the feeling.
"Not mad," he managed to force out. "Not mad at you."
She sniffled, and the sound spurred him to roll back over, sitting up slightly so he could catch her scent better. The smell of unshed tears hit his nose, and a swell of empathy filled him. She wept because she couldn't help him. She wept because she was ashamed of her own role in his captivity.
He sat up, but she didn't back away, and when he pressed his forehead to the bars, she stood before him, penitent and sweet.
"I'm still sorry," she said.
He couldn't stand it any longer. "Touch me," he said. "Touch. Touch." And he pressed himself up against the bars, waiting.
Michelle froze, uncertain what to do. Number One's beautiful fur, dark and thick, stuck through the bars at her, inviting her fingertips. She had dreamed of running her hands along it, burying her fingers in it, but she had never quite thought of what it would be like if she had the chance. Would it be as soft as she imagined? Would he be warm? Would he reach through the bars and hurt her, or would he...
