Rosa could smell him, even through the cabin door– that thick, familiar burning that always rushed deep to the void inside her, alerting her. Her mother had alerted her as well, warnings well forgotten. Her mother’s warning of the forest, the path, the cabin, the Wolf. One beast alone that howls in the night? All well forgotten. Those myths faded with each new memory, but inevitably the Wolf would arrive.
For forty nights, he had called for her. Long, deep, needful calls that haunted the forest each of those nights; shaking creatures that crawled along the soil to burrow a little deeper; shifting ravens in their branches; shivering the souls of unfortunate men. In her cabin at the Glen, Rosa lay in bed every night and whimpered with every roar, wishing with dark breaths that he would come to her.
And that night, the roars had finally stopped. That was how Rosa knew to expect him. She bit her lip as she drew back her blanket, untying her hood to reveal a soft, fertile bosom. The Wolf pounded his mandibles against the thin, aged cedar: a phalanx. The barrier would surely burst, and Rosa swelled for him. She floated, just for him, neither sacrifice nor serving.