CW: Death, blood.

When he tells me to feed her, I do.

And I do despite her cries, and despite the rattle of her chains echoing through the basement. The basement of the old house that once belonged to his father before I pointed a hunting rifle at his face and pulled the trigger.

Now it is our home.

When he tells me, “More,” I listen. I choose something sweet: applesauce, homemade with brown sugar, extra cinnamon, cloves. A spoon to her lips, I tip the paste onto her tongue. She barely moves—she’s only alive in flesh.

But that’s all he needs. All we need. Her flesh.

Next, something savory. I like to think she enjoys this. Translucent red trickles out of a soft filet, cooked medium rare, as I sink my blade down, slicing off a small piece. I drown it in fat drippings, a gravy thickened with flour and seasoned using the best spices I could find in the cupboards that morning.

“You don’t have to do all that,” he tells me as I roast chickens and grease cake pans. “You’re getting carried away.”

But I always prepare something special for their last meal.

“Open up,” I say, my own lips parting. I pull her chin down and gently place the meat in her mouth, the tines of my fork scraping against her teeth.

A sharp inhale and I know he’s pleased, and I’m filled with a warmth that burns my lungs. This is my service to him. An act of love. Our love.

“Get her ready.” His voice hides in the shadows in the room, and I know it’s close. I hurry to draw the curtain. I should’ve shut it earlier—the glare of the sun is blinding. The room plunges into darkness, the moth-eaten fabric holding back the light like a rough hand clasped over her mouth. This is our room of secrets. Like a vault, it holds the girls—the physical manifestations of our love.

I move the tray behind me. My hands shake, but I’ve done this all before. A dance we would do every full moon. Sometimes more often when I do better. And I always want to do better—be better—for him.

I kneel down, inches from her face. A trace of cloves still lines her breath. “I won’t hurt you.” The lie tastes sweet on my tongue. I brush away her hair, trace my finger over tracks of dirt on her cheeks. Fear spins a web of salt.

“Take your time,” he says. “I don’t feel it—” A deep, guttural sound follows on the heels of his words, and I know he’s wrong. I nod, and hold my breath at what’s coming.

He always tells me it hurts when it begins. The change. I see him grimace, and my eyes sting with tears. When he hurts, I hurt tenfold.

I can almost hear the bristled fur press out from under his skin, like needles. A quiet snap of bones reaching, stretching, to guide his new shape—his real form. One he only shows to me.

I turn back to the girl. I can’t fall behind. Once he is done, there is little time. Carefully I undress her, and she doesn’t fight. They never do. By this time they are already gone. I can still remember the day, the moment, the slow way she blinked when her spirit left her beating heart behind.

The basement heats with his heaving breath, the air damp from a wetness that wasn’t there before. I pull her to her feet. Her body barely stands, propped against the concrete wall, her chains pulling around bloodied wrists.

She is ready.

“Leave us.”

The words are harsh. Tight. A searing jealousy licks the walls of my chest. I remind myself that he is mine, and I am his.

I take the stairs two at a time, my feet barely touching the boards beneath me. Before I even reach the door, I hear him take a step towards her. I slam the door shut behind me, my heart hammering in my ears.

A gasp—and it’s over. This one didn’t even scream. Half a second passes, then a thud. The tray clatters alongside the dragging of chains, breaking up the muffled, weighted sounds of a body being broken. Consumed.

I can already smell the blood. I hear sounds that don’t exist to those who don’t know death. A jagged exhale that could only come from a creature birthed in the underworld. A vicious snarl, then silence. Silence that claws up empty walls, an empty room. A room I know she is no longer in.

My hand hovers over the doorknob. I count under my breath, then my fingers fumble, eager to open the door. Eager to see him again.

The sight of him is a feast, and I let my eyes get their fill. He stands, naked, his hair matted to his forehead, his chin and chest soaked in crimson. My cheeks flush when his eyes meet mine.

“Is it over?” I rush towards him and wrap my arms around him. “Are you okay?” A warm wetness seeps into my shirt, and I press myself closer. This is the closest I will ever get to that part of him. Closing my eyes, I lay my cheek against his heart. “I love you.”

He lets out a low growl, and I jump back, my blood turning to ice. He is not fully back yet.

He shakes his head, hard. “It’s okay,” he tells me, gently, but his tone is threadbare, his eyes tired. “It’s okay.” He reaches out an arm, and I fall back into him. But fear keeps my eyes open.

The glowing rim of sunlight leaking through the curtain’s edges taunts me. It reminds me it wasn’t always like this. He wasn’t always like this. I didn’t used to be afraid.

He used to hide under the cloak of night. He used to only feed on mice. The occasional possum. Maybe a rabbit that went astray.

But he wanted more. And then, he needed more. Coyotes. Twice, a mountain lion in the nearby canyon. And when the carcass of a neighbor’s dog put too many on alert, we made a new plan to keep his secret. To keep him safe.

“I got sloppy,” he said. His eyes were wild that night. “I can’t do this without you. I need you.”

At first I refused, and the following moon he locked himself in the basement and didn’t come out for three days. And when he did, his arms were ravaged, his limbs nearly gnawed off. In places I could even see glimpses of bone. He whimpered, like a child, and collapsed into my arms.

The pain I felt in that moment, the guilt, it stayed with me for weeks. I would never let that happen again. I could never hurt him like that again.

So now I bring him the flesh. I serve him the bodies. Girls. Some still look like children. They follow me without fear, especially in the light of day. We don’t wait for the moon anymore. It’s now something he can control.

And on the days I feel most weary, the nights I lay awake from the screams of ghosts, I wonder how much more he can control. How much he’s not telling me.

“It’ll go back to normal. How it was before. Soon.” His voice is a whisper, an intruder in my thoughts. “I can change.”

The words are familiar, always offered in the aftermath, when my ears are still ringing from the shock of what I’ve done. I cried after the first. And after the time I didn’t get out fast enough.

And I saw him turn on me.

My breath trips in my throat remembering his distorted face, his beast-like body. His fangs bared, stained with the flesh of so many. So many that I’ve given him.

The memories flood me, and I push away from him. That’s not really who he is, I remind myself, it’s not the real him. I press my hands into my thighs, like I’m trying to wipe them clean of what I’ve done. Fresh blood presses deep into the cracks of my palms.

My foot hits something on the floor, and my stomach curls. The girl’s femur. I watch it skitter into the corner, into the shadows.

I stumble across the room and grasp at the curtain. The daylight pours inside so violently, I wince. A rabbit darts across the grass, and the sun shines off the rich, green blades. I stifle a sigh. Things used to be simple.

I hear him getting dressed. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to stay.”

A flare of anger ignites within me. He knows I would never leave him. He knows that. I turn to face him. The window casts a single square of light, reflecting off a glistening pile of bones. I steel myself against the sight.

“You know I’m not leaving.”

And what if I did? I would end up like the rest of the girls.

“I would never hurt you.” He always knows what I’m thinking. My mind is not my own anymore.

“Let’s just clean up.” I cut the conversation short. Staring down at the slaughter, I taste bile in the back of my throat.

“Just leave it. Let’s go outside.” He takes my hand. “I know you want to go outside.”

“Are you crazy? Look at you—someone will see.”

“Just in the yard. Out back.” He smiles, and it energizes me. I feel light again. He pulls me along, and I follow.

Just like the girls I bring him.

We step out into the light and gentle sun blankets my skin, like it’s trying to comfort me. I blink it out of my eyes. I find the tree that stands tense between its brothers, holding back the burden of a secret. Beneath its trunk the earth is disturbed, a hasty mound of overturned dirt, a rusty shovel thrown beside it.

The sight of my carelessness pricks at my skin. “I need to fix that,” I mutter. It’s my job, my work, to cover our tracks. To keep him safe.

“You didn’t need to bury him.” He comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “I told you, I could’ve—”

“You could’ve what?” I throw his arms off, the words spilling out fast before I can stop them. “You would eat your own father?”

I would never hurt you.

I know he lies.

His eyes flash yellow, and I lose my courage.

“I’m tired.” I hope he can hear the apology hidden in my words. The pleading. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“It’ll get easier.” His arms are around me again. “I promise,” he whispers into my hair.

Birds sing in surrounding trees, but they don’t dare to fly near our home. The leaves of the trees sway in a breeze that stops short before crossing our path. Even the sunshine retreats after I spurn its sympathies, leaving my skin cold to the touch.

But I don’t care. I don’t need them. He is my sun, my air, and my song. I lean back, fitting my body into his, and feeling the ease of the next few weeks ahead. A chance to reset. To rest.