Why does it feel like my entire blood volume is in my head? And that it's leaking out of me? One drop at a time?

Probably because it is...

I'm still a wolf, I think, but I'm too out of sorts to make the distinction for sure. I'm swaying, enough to get seasick, but everything is black.

Sam. Where is she? Did they...? Will they...? Ivy . . . was it just a threat or does she really intend to KILL her?

Her scream has burned a track in my mind. Still, it sounds fresh and somewhat close. The gasp I emit brings my eyes to a flutter.

I'm surprised to see daylight. It's dull and grim, and burns like hell, nonetheless, and it gradually sheds light on my predicament. It isn't a long way up, but it sure is a long way down.

My chains rattle. I'm hanging from the rafters of the barn by my hind legs. Blood is dripping from my muzzle and soaking into the dirt below in roughly a circle. I can't tell if it's coming from the nose itself or some other part of my body.

Blood spatter radiates outward, I notice. I must have been swaying wildly, like a pinata, and I wouldn't be surprised if something like a bat was used.

It certainly feels like I was beaten with one all night. I suppose I'm lucky I don't remember any of it. I was dead meat at the time. Of course, that wouldn't stop Brock if Ishmael gave the order. They'd make sure I felt it when I woke up.

And they succeeded.

Help, I send out to any wolf who might catch the signal. 9-1-1, S.O.S. Code red.

I don't get a response.

Faolan? Shilo?

They're conveniently out of range.

Barking is out of the question. I'd just as likely draw in the monster who'd knock me back out, maybe for good. It wouldn't take much.

While that thought is pinballing through my mind, the chaos is pierced by a slow, bone-jarring set of footsteps. My slight movement was probably enough to let Brock know that I'm alive and conscious.

Fuck. How could I ever save Sam if I can't save myself?

"Get him down from there..."

Brock's footsteps. Ishmael's voice. His tone is both hot and cold, but it's not like water. They don't mix. I won't mistake it for warm.

A lever clicks before the command sinks in. I'm plummeting to the ground, unprepared. I finally start to wriggle, just in time to save my neck. I'll live for now. I can't say the impact does me any favors, though. My ability to walk was probably questionable before I fell.

Ishmael doesn't hurry, but he makes it to my location before I can find my feet. I'm forced to complete this task underneath his haughty glare. "My office. Immediately."

He then zips through the open barn door in a supernatural blur. He expects me dressed and in human form, but the immediately leaves me no time to heal or pull myself together, or get a clue, from within or from someone else.

I need to know what happened while I was out, what Ishmael might know, and how I should respond, but I get no help, not even from myself. The gaps in my memory don't seem to fill. Not with Brock breathing down my neck, closer than usual. In the damp barn, the heat of him cuts right through. It's enough to bring on an added swell of panic when my clothes are off and my back is turned.   

With pins and needles in my human legs, three missing fingernails, and bruised and broken flesh all over, I get dressed at a pace I've never matched. I jog up to the manor with a speed that is necessary but not healthy. Although it hurts, everywhere, it keeps Brock at a slight distance and shouldn't test Ishmael's patience beyond the norm.

I join Ishmael in his basement security station, but I don't take the open chair until he commands it. While wrapping a sturdy rope around his hands, Brock takes a position a few feet behind me. If I lose my temper, if I find the nerve to try something, I'd undoubtedly have that rope around my neck before I could inch away from my chair. It may end up there regardless of what I say or do. 

Only for a second does Ishmael peel his eyes away from a particular monitor. A new monitor. A large CCTV monitor for an HD security camera—that Spanish gold, hard at work, once again.  In it, I can see the details of Sam's matted hair. Her shoulders are trembling beneath her sheets. She's facing the peeling, toxic paint of the wall. In the attic somewhere, I would guess. I don't need the audio to know she's crying.

Ishmael zooms in on the tray by her bed. "She still hasn't eaten."

What am I supposed to say to that? Can you blame her? Does that bowl of mush look appetizing to you? She likes pancakes from scratch, Captain Crunch if she's in a hurry, sometimes by the handful, and orange juice. She longs for the day she can regularly afford the fresh-squeezed stuff. She hates eggs, uses them only for cooking, and in the breakfast meat category, she only likes bacon if it's burnt to a crisp.

I shrug the shoulder that hurts less and look to my fast-healing nail beds. I'm about halfway there, and they sting like they're on fire. "I can try talking to her," I offer, forcing some quiet-calm through my scratchy throat.

If I could get in there, I could somehow reassure her. Even if that's all I can do...

I'm not a good actor, though, and Ishmael is no fool.

He scoffs in response and doesn't even bother to remove his eyes from the monitor. "She'll come around. We have our ways. And I'd expect some resistance, perhaps a little more than she's giving. She really is the perfect catch. And what we do with her from here is our concern. Not yours. Now, we can make her time here bearable, but if you volunteer your services again, get anywhere near her, or continue to be as weak and shortsighted as you've been, that'll be the first thing to change. Is that understood?"

My lowered head bobs out a nod.

"Jael..." Ishmael swivels his chair to face me, and I force myself to look up. "I know you've grown . . . attached to this girl. This has gone on for weeks. On camera. While you were supposedly sharing a bed with my daughter..."

My eyes slip to his canines, still slightly elongated even when he's not feeding. "I didn't know there were hidden cameras everywhere." 

"Does that make it right?" Ishmael cocks his head to ask. "You're our employee. A damn dog. You should be grateful for everything we've done for you. I've had my qualms in regard to your habits." Ishmael shudders at the thought of me with anyone, most likely. I am clearly subhuman. "But I allowed it to go on, without comment. Then you blatantly and recklessly shatter our trust."

"Ivy and I..." I shake my head. "I told her, we're done. Over a..." How long has it been now? Since I've really been with her? Feels like a distant memory, but... "It was over a week ago."

"A whole week, you say?" he chides, sneering. His expression then sinks to a stone-cold neutral. "And yet, according to Ivy, there was no breakup."

"I . . . I. . ." Stammer and pause to feed my racing heart a few extra breaths. "I said . . . 'we're done here,' after she tried to kill me!"

Ishmael leans forward in his chair and lowers his voice like he has some secret to share. "Done fighting? Done fucking? Done seeing each other when you live and work on our property? See how this is not explicitly clear? And besides, if Ivy wanted to kill you, she would have."

"Does that make it right?" I throw back at him.

I know it's coming, but his reflexes are faster than mine are. Ishmael's on his feet, and with his fat ruby-ring and supernatural strength, he slaps me across the jaw with the back of his hand.

Brock cracks his knuckles and takes a step closer as well.

Then, like it never happened, Ishmael retakes his seat, shoos Brock back with the lazy flutter of his hand, and resumes staring at his favorite monitor. Once I can see straight, I follow his eyes there.

Sam is wiping her face dry with the skirt of her nightgown and gets out of bed. Rather than eat the "breakfast" they gave her, she disappears off camera. Ishmael's mouth quirks with apparent disappointment, and then he decides to assess the other monitors.

Nothing much is going on anywhere else. Almost everyone is still sleeping, including the two new Halloween-night trespassers being held captive in the barn somewhere. Prue is boiling something in the kitchen—it certainly doesn't look edible. Shilo is on perimeter. Rollin and Faolan are off camera, and may even be off-site, probably sleeping off a long night as well.

Who's on? Who's off? It's hard to know for sure these days. Because of my special assignment, I haven't been here lately. Everything's been shuffled to account for my absence and Ivy's shifting whims.

Are we now supposed to resume some sort of normalcy? Assuming I survive this conversation, will I be joining everyone? It would be far from freedom, and there are only a handful of camera blind spots, even fewer of which would help me. Even so, it's the best I can hope for.   

"I pride myself on being a reasonable man, Jael," Ishmael starts again when Sam reappears on screen-left.

She crosses the room and sits cross-legged on her cot with the bowl in hand. She seems to make a genuine effort to consume that pigs' feed.   

If I watch, I might gag or cry, or reveal every card in my hand, and Ishmael's seen four-out-of-five already. "I know." I attempt to make eye contact instead. "You are, and I'm sorry."

Ishmael's gaze is unmoved by mine, both physically and metaphorically. Sam seems to be more than just a preference.

"I haven't always been," he goes on. "But over the centuries, I've tempered some of my darker impulses for the sake of progress. And nine times out of ten, it was the right choice. Now," he says and then pauses. "I can understand that you were going through a rough patch with Ivy. I'll be the first to admit that she isn't the easiest person to get along with. But you made your bed, and as long as you were libidinously engaged, you didn't have the cojones to complain. I get that, too. Something is better than nothing, and you do what you must to preserve what you have. What I don't understand is why you seemed so intent on undoing what we were obviously trying so hard to preserve."

"I—"

"Don't bother trying to deny it," he cuts me off. After a couple of taps on his laptop touchpad, he brings up an image of me with Sam, just like Ivy did, except this one is much worse. Sam's chest is exposed, there is ample evidence of my arousal, and my hand is hovering by the button of my jeans. "Ivy entrusted you with this task. You agreed to it. You led us to believe you could handle it. And then, you almost corrupt the entire operation with your..." He bristles with what looks like a combination of rage and disgust. It's the envy that surprises me, and he can't seem to muster the composure to finish that statement. "What could you possibly have to say for yourself?" he asks instead.

My eyes dart around while I wait for my face to cool. Is this a rhetorical question or is he giving me a chance to answer?

"Sam is..." Deny, downplay, appeal to Ishmael's masculinity... "Reasonably attractive, if you can ignore a few character flaws and red flags in the heat of the moment. Which, you know..." I shrug. "I could. Dry spell, and all, I guess. And Sam helped me out of the woods when I was injured. What was I supposed to do? Reject her when she came on to me? Go ahead and reverse the video," I tell him and allude to his laptop with a sweep of my hand. "You'll see who started it."

Ishmael simply lifts an eyebrow.

"Right, well..." I clear my throat and shift in my seat, leaning my elbows on my knees, pretending this is all very casual, and everything is fine. "I look at it this way. Sam never would have told me about her past if we kept all our clothes on."

Ishmael crosses his arms and lets out a snort. "So, this was all part of your plan?"

"It was," I try to convince him, glancing up at Sam's monitor. She's standing beside the window, staring, probably wondering if and when she should jump. "I never intended to actually deflower her or anything. I just wanted to fool around a little. I admit..." I put my hands up. It's complete surrender. "I got a little carried away, but nothing went too far. Ivy and I were, in my mind, well and truly over. And, yeah, I overreacted when I got caught, red-handed." That's a grotesque turn of phrase, but I can't deny the relevance here. "It wasn't cheating, but it wasn't exactly considerate. And I was upset that I was being so closely monitored without my knowledge. And no one ever told what would happen to Sam, and I didn't like it when I found out. That's all. If I had been better informed..."

"You were told what you needed to know," Ishmael states, checking his watch.

What I know is still next to nothing. More today than yesterday, I suppose. This is a big deal to them. The whole family is involved, and Sam is going to die when her virginity is no longer of use to them, but I don't have a timeline or any real reason yet.

Is Ishmael pulling all the strings? He usually does, and I wouldn't put it past him—to take a virgin as a hostage, make some ritual out of it, and kill her when he gets tired of her. But to my knowledge, he does his own hunting for these things and isn't particular about quality.

With his glitz and glamour, and the self-control he gloats about, he wouldn't have to kill anyone. He would take what's offered. What's easy and discreet. He can blur the memory. Unless Sam is some new fetish, which I suppose, is possible, based on what little I know about his relationship with Rosemary—one of convenience that is undoubtedly losing momentum. Still, he's a hunter in his own right, and wouldn't need a small army's help. It would be too expensive and time-consuming for him and would take away all the "fun." And Ivy would never be called upon to participate. She wouldn't answer that call, even if she had been.

This has to be Ivy's thing, and Ishmael is fully supportive. Even that is weird, though. Common ground is in short supply with them. I'm the perfect example. Except now, they both hate me. They usually create strife amongst themselves, but I guess, in times where it's assured, they find themselves on the same page?

"And no one has ever led you to believe that this girl was yours, or that you had any say in this," Ishmael continues after another silent stretch, staring at Sam in the monitor.

I could be wrong, but he seems kind of testy that he can't have her, either.

"Of course not," I cough up. "It's just that . . . Ivy is now saying that Sam is going to die. Won't someone realize she's gone? The nice college girl from a respectable Christian family? They could track her here, couldn't they? Do we need that kind of trouble?"

Ishmael's gaze darts to the dirty picture of me with Sam. It lingers there, and then he snaps the laptop shut. His thoughts are loud—good Christian girl, indeed—as he pushes the laptop aside. "It's possible, but, thanks to your carelessness, it's much less likely. Yes, it seems, despite your many errors in judgment, you actually did something right. You need a win in your column, and I suppose, in a way, I should thank you."

"Why is that?"

"It's the manner of Sam's disappearance," he informs me. "She was last seen at the center of a brawl between three football players, one linked to rumors of a black eye. It would have been better if the wolf never came out, but, without a body or convincing evidence, it will come across as a fabrication and a conspiracy between teammates. They'll probably drop or minimize the wolf tale sooner or later and start turning on each other. Supposedly, Ian Tierney's parents have already lawyered up, and they'll try to pin it on poor-white-trash Ted, no doubt. We could plant a few things to help them out, and Ted could be behind bars by the end of the week. As for you, like Sam, we've removed all evidence of your existence. You live here now. Your room, truck. Your driver's license. Your bank account—"

"My bank account?" I break in. "I've earned that money."

He crosses his legs and throws his hands up like I'm complaining about pocket change and not thousands of dollars. "I'm holding on to it for safekeeping."

"For what reason?" I jerk to the front of my chair and Brock, somewhere behind me, grunts out a warning and marches closer. "Yes, I've made mistakes..." I glance over my shoulder. Brock is preparing his rope for an attack. "But you have your virgin. Like you said, no one will look for her here. Was there really any harm done?"

"So..." Ishmael holds his hand up, and Brock halts. "You won't interfere when her time here comes to an end?"

"No," I say a beat too late.

"I'd like to believe you. Until I do believe you..." He gives Brock the nod, and that rope is around my neck an instant later. "Until you prove yourself well-behaved for the first time in recent memory..." My chair collapses as I'm tugged to the floor by my throat. "Brock will be your new best friend. Or better yet, you'll be his—man's best friend."

"What?" I gurgle out, my fingertips at the rope giving me a final breath. "No!"

"You're right." Through the blur of oxygen deprivation, Ishmael's face floats into focus.  "There was no real harm done. It's the only reason you're still with us. And I intend to keep it that way—you, close at hand and harmless. You'll eat with Brock. You'll sleep with Brock. You'll have a new appreciation for sit, stay, lay down, heel. And you'll be on that leash until I decide otherwise. If I decide otherwise..."

At the swift kick to my ribcage, a pitiful little yelp slips out. I didn't even see it coming. I can't even be sure who delivered it.

"Brock has been asking me for his own dog for a long long time." Ishmael uses one of Brock's favorite phrases. Then his gaze—all flint, steel, and fire—lifts to Brock, who is securing the rope around my throat in an unforgiving knot. "Now, get that mangy mutt out of my sight."