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Chapter 4.

14:00, Thursday, the 4th of February, 2029.

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I wasn’t much of a driver.

I owned a car; I knew how to drive and maintain it, but that didn’t mean I liked it. I’d never developed that affection for engines and long, pointless drives I’d seen in friends growing up.

It was a machine. A way to get from one place to another. That was all.

But not that time.

Just once, I enjoyed it.

The countryside rolled past as wind moved freely through the open windows – I’d kept them lowered the entire way. I wasn’t going very fast; I quite literally couldn’t. If anything, that just made it better.

I was going somewhere. Somewhere other than the compound. Somewhere to do something different, to speak to someone else. I’d been stuck with Charlotte, though ‘trapped’ was probably more accurate.

A flash of the night before hit me. Heat. Panting. Her fur beneath my lips, skin between my teeth and her claws at my back. The sound she’d made; open, breathy, almost begging.

My chest tightened. Breathing suddenly felt like an effort.

I pressed harder on the accelerator. The GPS said the nearest town was close, and I wanted something to drink that wasn’t bribery alcohol. I was already sick of it. Maybe just sick of her.

It didn’t matter which. The solution was the same. Temporary, but the same.

Fields slipped by in a blur of green and gold, wind tugging at my hair. My hands stayed steady on the frayed leather steering wheel, my foot firm on the pedal. I’d never been out this way before. It had always seemed too ‘rich old town’ for my liking.

That didn’t matter now.

The road was empty, stretching ahead without interruption. In the distance, my escape came into view – old stone buildings, pale timber frames, cobbled streets catching the light.

I kept driving.

Twenty minutes of uninterrupted silence later, I pulled into the town centre. It was an odd mixture of old and new. A metal-and-glass supermarket stood a short distance from houses built in a near-Victorian style. The contrast should have clashed more than it ended up doing.

There weren’t many cars. I found a space quickly, parked, and got out, locking the door almost as soon as my feet hit the ground.

Then I stood there, hands in the pockets of my yellow raincoat.

It looked nice. Calm.

There were shops, too, so I walked.

Inside the supermarket, cheap fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The air smelled faintly of chemical cleaner – too sharp to be comforting. A tired-looking man at the counter propped his cheek in his palm, staring at nothing in particular.

In my trouser pocket, I still had Jack’s card. More money than I could spend in a year, and all I wanted was something.

I didn’t know what.

I just wanted something.

That something ended up being an egg-and-cress sandwich and a coffee from the shop’s aging machine. I bought a paper cup, set it beneath the nozzle, and tapped for a latte. The machine sputtered and whined before releasing a steady stream of black sludge, followed by a reluctant splash of milk.

I took it anyway, along with a paper stirrer and two packets of brown sugar.

Sorted.

I stepped back outside and wandered further into town, taking small bites of the sandwich so it would last. It was slightly sour but still edible. I left the coffee alone for the time being; it was hot enough to feel through the cup, steam slipping through the narrow gap in the lid.

The town really was nice. Genuinely nice. Flowers clustered beneath windowsills of cobbled houses. A vintage car rolled past at an unhurried pace. Independent shops lined the street.

And bookshops. Too many bookshops.

I hadn’t read anything in a while. The sight of so many books in so many windows stirred something almost nostalgic in me. I slowed in front of the closest one, hesitated for half a second, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The bell above the door chimed softly as I stepped inside, and the smell hit me first. Paper and dust, something faintly sweet and dry, the traces of old coffee melted into wood.

It felt warmer than the street despite the lack of any heating. Shelves climbed high along every wall, dark wood bent slightly under the weight of hardbacks and paperbacks packed in uneven rows. The carpet was worn flat down the centre aisle, patterns faded into something neutral by years of feet.

There was no music. Just the small sound of pages shifting.

A woman stood behind the counter at the back, glasses low on her narrow nose, ballpoint pen moving slowly across a ledger. She glanced up when I entered, offered a nod and returned to her page. I wasn’t interesting. I wasn’t being assessed.

It felt strange. Good but strange.

I moved toward a shelf at random, fingers trailing lightly along the spines. History. Local folklore. Crime novels with dark forests and lone silhouettes on the covers. I kept walking until a crooked card pinned above a section read Fantasy and Adventure in uneven blue ink.

I crouched a little to see the lower shelf. Dragons and castles and glowing swords. Newer releases with glossy finishes and bold fonts. Then, wedged sideways between two thinner volumes, I spotted something thicker. Its spine was creased straight down the middle, the colour faded to a softer blue.

I pulled it free.

A wizard in a robe far too dramatic for practical use stood on the cover, staff raised toward a stormy sky. A young knight in bright, over-polished armour planted a glowing sword into the ground at his side, looking determined in a way only illustrated men ever did. The title was embossed in gold that had dulled over time. 'Copyright 1989' was printed near the bottom in small, unassuming text.

It looked earnest. Slightly ridiculous. Utterly Itself.

I opened it.

The pages were yellowed at the edges, faintly brittle. Someone’s name was written inside the cover in blue biro, dated 1991. A gift, probably. Given, read, outgrown, and passed on.

I read the first paragraph. Too many adjectives. Forests described as ancient and knowing. Destiny hanging thick in the air. It didn’t matter. I felt my shoulders ease, just slightly.

It was five pounds. A small white sticker said so.

Five pounds.

I had access to a card that could probably buy the entire shelf, and I hesitated over five pounds. Habit, maybe. Or some leftover instinct that told me buying things for myself was stupid.

I closed it, held it in both hands, and realised I wanted it.

Not because it was good. Not because it was impressive. Just because it looked like something I would have loved once.

I took it to the counter before I could overthink it. The woman scanned it without comment.

“Classic,” she said mildly.

“Is it?”

“It’s been around,” she replied, which felt like a fairer answer.

The card machine beeped softly. Transaction approved. I slid the book under my arm and stepped back out into the street, absurdly pleased with myself.

It was small. Embarrassingly small. But it was mine. No one had suggested it. No one had handed it to me. No one was expecting anything in return.

Across the street, a couple stood near a bakery window, arguing in low, tight voices. Between them, on a slack leash, sat a golden retriever. It was large, broad-shouldered, its fur slightly matted along its flanks. Its tongue hung out of the side of its mouth, pink and damp.

It blinked slowly, head tilted in vague confusion and nerves at the raised tones above it.

The couple’s hands moved sharply as they spoke. The leash jerked once when one of them shifted position. The dog swayed with it, adjusting automatically. It didn’t seem to mind.

It slumped onto its haunches, back curved slightly, shoulders loose in that way only animals manage. There was no self-consciousness in the posture. No awareness of how it looked. It simply occupied space without question.

Its eyes were open but unfocused. Glazed. They followed movement because that was what eyes did, not because it was analysing anything consciously. A hand waved near its face, and it blinked, slow and untroubled.

No irritation. No judgement. No embarrassment.

Content, in the loosest possible sense. Existing.

I found myself watching it longer than I meant to.

If it could talk, would I—

The thought arrived fully formed, and I stiffened, blood freezing.

Would I?

I studied it again, deliberately this time.

It wore no clothes. Because of course it didn’t. Fur lay flat along its body, uneven where it had shed or been scratched. Its tail thumped once against the pavement, not in joy, not in agitation. Just a reflexive response to shifting weight.

There was no poise to it. No sense of presentation. It didn't hold itself in a way that communicated anything beyond basic comfort or discomfort. It did not try to look appealing. It did not try to look anything.

Animal.

The word felt clean. Accurate.

Its owner reached down absentmindedly and scratched behind its ear. The dog leaned into the touch immediately, eyes half closing, mouth parting in something like pleasure. Simple. Direct. Stimulus and response.

I tried to imagine that gaze looking back at me with understanding.

I couldn’t.

There was nothing behind it to understand.

The couple’s argument shifted tone, softer now. The leash tugged again, and the dog stood, stretching its front legs out long and low in that exaggerated way, back arching. Then it followed, obedient.

I looked down at the book in my hands.

Charlotte didn’t move like that.

She slouched sometimes, yes. Draped herself across furniture in ways that were deliberately careless. But it was performance. Even her laziness had intention behind it. She chose how to sit. How to stand.

She adjusted her clothes. She checked her reflection. She applied makeup with concentration, not because she needed to cover fur, but because she wanted to look a certain way.

The retriever didn't care how it looked.

It didn't know that looking could mean something.

I swallowed.

…Would she like this place?

The thought came quietly, almost against my will.

I pictured her in the bookshop, ears flicking at the bell’s chime.

Her room surfaced in my mind. Plush toys lined along the headboard, pressed together in neat rows. Bright pinks and soft shapes. They made the room look younger than she was.

Then the bookshelf against the wall. Not decorative. Not for show. Paperbacks bent at the spine. Hardbacks missing jackets. A stack on the floor where she had run out of space.

I had seen her once, late, when she thought I was asleep on the sofa. She had padded past in an oversized jumper, book in paw, and curled into the armchair near the window. Reading. Fully absorbed. Her tail was wrapped around her own hindleg, absentmindedly.

A grown woman, or as close to one as she could be, and she spent most of her time inside that house. Trapped.

The mansion.

The compound.

How often did she walk into town alone? How often did she stand in a shop and not feel like an event? Like something to be observed and assessed.

The retriever had been ignored entirely by passersby. It was background. Familiar. Safe in its simplicity.

Charlotte would never be background.

I realised I was still staring at the spot where the couple had stood. They were gone now, turning the corner, the dog trotting behind without question.

Exhaling slowly, I took a sip of my coffee. It had cooled enough to drink without burning. It was still terrible.

I walked toward a fountain and sat on the low stone wall surrounding it. The water moved steadily, small ripples catching light. I set the book beside me and rested my elbows on my knees.

I had wanted something.

I looked at the cover again, at the wizard and his knight, ridiculous and earnest and unapologetic.

Five pounds for a story about magic written before I was even born.

I hadn’t treated myself in a long time. Not really. Every purchase had been justified. Necessary. Sensible. Microwave meals and porridge in a parked car.

The book wasn’t.

The simple fact of that made me oddly happy.

Would she mock it? Probably. Would she read it anyway? Almost certainly.

The image formed. Charlotte on her bed, back against the headboard, tail flicking lazily as she turned the pages. Making a snide comment about the prose while continuing to read.

A pang of something uncomfortable settled in my chest.

I shifted on the stone wall, the fountain water murmuring steadily at my back, and picked the book up properly. The cover bent slightly where the spine had already been broken in. It opened easily, falling to the first chapter without resistance.

The story began with a squire. Seventeen, apparently, though described with the solemn weight of someone twice that age. He cleaned out stables in a crumbling castle that no one respected anymore.

The kingdom had fallen into disrepair under the rule of twin half-brothers who had seized the throne after their father’s death. They were described as tall and pale and cold-eyed, wearing iron circlets and ruling with calculated cruelty. Taxes were high. Villages were burnt for minor disobedience. The people were tired.

The squire did not know, at least not yet, that he was the last legitimate descendant of the ancient king who had first forged the realm. Magic ran in his blood, dormant but waiting. There were hints of it already. Small accidents when he was angry. Sparks where there should have been none. Animals reacting to him in ways they did not to others.

It was predictable. Transparent. I could see the shape of the arc within a few pages.

I kept reading.

The coffee cooled between my hands as I turned page after page. The language was dramatic and clumsy. Every emotion described in full, every shadow heavy with meaning.

It didn’t matter.

The world was clear. The stakes were simple. Evil was identifiable. Good was hidden but inevitable.

The squire discovered his heritage through an old wizard who had served the true king in his youth. There was a hidden sigil on a pendant. A story told in whispers. A moment in which the squire’s hand brushed the ancient throne in the ruined hall and the stone warmed beneath his palm.

Magic, it turned out, responded to recognition.

I shifted my weight, barely aware of how much time was passing. People walked by. Voices rose and fell around the square. The fountain continued its steady rhythm.

The half brothers ruled from a capital city described in oppressive detail. Iron gates. Black banners. Public punishments carried out in the name of stability. They had discovered fragments of magic too, but twisted, corrupted versions of it. They used it not to build but to control.

The squire, meanwhile, trained in secret. Learning to summon light in his palms. Learning to hold a sword properly instead of clumsily. Learning that his anger could either burn the world or reshape it.

It was absurd.

It was also comforting.

There was something soothing about the clarity of it. A golden lineage that explained everything. Power that justified itself through blood. Villains whose cruelty was not complicated by vulnerability or insecurity. They were iron. That was it.

I lost track of the coffee entirely until I lifted it again and realised it had gone cold. I drank it anyway, grimacing slightly. It tasted worse that way, thin and bitter.

A shadow fell briefly across the page, and I looked up.

An older woman stood a few feet away, hands clasped loosely in front of her coat. Grey hair pinned back neatly, sensible shoes, expression hovering somewhere between approval and faint judgement.

“Good to see,” she said, nodding toward the book.

“...Sorry?” I asked.

“Young people reading,” she clarified. “You don’t see it much anymore. Always on their phones.”

I glanced down at the paperback in my hands, then back at her.

“Right,” I said. “Yeah.”

She gave me a look that suggested she had more to say but had decided against it.

“Carry on", she added, tone brisk but not unkind. “Nice to see.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

She moved on at an unhurried pace, disappearing down the path toward the high street.

I watched her go for a moment, then looked back at the page.

Young people reading.

I realised, distantly, that I had read far more than I intended to. The sandwich wrapper sat crumpled beside me, empty. The fountain’s steady murmur had become background noise, almost like white noise in a quiet room.

My shoulders were no longer hunched.

I closed the book slowly, my thumb marking my place.

The old woman’s comment lingered faintly. Good to see.

I looked around the square. People moved in loose, uncoordinated patterns. A man pushed a pram. Two teenagers sat on the edge of the fountain wall opposite me, sharing cheap, wired earphones. A delivery van idled briefly before pulling away.

Life continued without narrative structure.

Without grand meaning.

I picked up the empty coffee cup and tipped it back to drain the last of the cold liquid. It tasted metallic. I stood, joints stiff from sitting longer than I had planned, and walked the few steps to the bin. The sandwich wrapper followed. The cup went in after it.

For a moment I stood there, hands resting on the edge of the bin, staring at nothing in particular.

In the book, the squire would return to the ruined castle eventually. He would reveal himself. The people would rally. His brothers would fall.

There was a certainty to it that felt indulgent.

The real fantasy, I decided, was the simplicity.

I slid the paperback back into the inside pocket of my raincoat, pressing it flat against my chest. It fit neatly there, its weight noticeable but not cumbersome.

I began walking back toward the car.

The streets seemed slightly different, not because they had changed, but because my head had been somewhere else long enough for the return to feel sudden. The bookshop's window caught my eye as I passed. The handwritten cards still taped in place.

I wondered, for a moment, what Charlotte would make of the half brothers. She would probably criticise how flatly they were written. No nuance. No interiority. Just cruelty.

Or maybe she would enjoy that part most. The thought didn't come with the same sharp edge as before. It felt mean, reductive.

I reached my car and unlocked it, the familiar click loud in the relative quiet. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I shut the door and sat for a second without starting the engine.

The book pressed lightly against my ribs.

I had come into town because I wanted something.

At least, then, I had an answer. Small. Inconsequential in the grand scheme of anything. But real.

I started the engine. It sounded louder than it needed to in the enclosed space of the street. I adjusted the mirrors automatically and glanced once at the square through the rear window.

Then I pulled out.

The town thinned quickly. Cobblestones gave way to smoother tarmac, shopfronts to hedgerows, and then open fields. The light had shifted while I’d been sitting by the fountain. Late afternoon edging into evening, the sky shifting to purple at the horizon.

Fantasy was easy in daylight.

Real life did not offer that kind of clarity.

The road ahead narrowed as it cut through countryside. No other cars passed for long stretches. My headlights carved out a pale tunnel through the darkening air. The fields on either side were indistinct shapes, hedges rising and falling like low waves.

I became aware of a faint tightness in my chest that had nothing to do with the drive itself.

It was easier to sit by a fountain and read about inherited destiny than to think about what I had said that morning.

…

…I had vomited.

That memory arrived with physical force. The taste of bile.

I had taken her virginity and then thrown up.

Called her an animal.

The words replayed in my head without mercy.

I gripped the steering wheel harder than I meant to, knuckles paling briefly.

She had said cruel things too. Threats wrapped in composure. The suggestion she would tell her father. Tell my mother. Post something suggestive online. Not because she wanted to ruin me, she had claimed, but because she refused to be erased.

Idiots, both of us.

That was the simplest explanation. Two people driven by ego and shame and pride, flailing. But simplicity felt dishonest.

The retriever in town had been simple. Its body and mind aligned. Instinctual. Content with food, touch, and routine.

Charlotte was not that.

She was in body, yes, there was no removing that. Fur and tail and ears that flicked when she was annoyed. Teeth sharper than mine. A physiology that had once belonged entirely to something that did not wear eyeliner or post online.

Work a job for a distant, adoptive father.

But she spoke. She reasoned. She manipulated. She read people’s weaknesses with unsettling precision.

I’d had sex with her regardless.

The thought sat heavy.

Was I attracted to a canine body if it came with an adult mind? Was that how it worked? Was that the dividing line?

If intelligence and consent and emotional reciprocity were present, did the body matter less? Or did it matter exactly the same, and I was just ignoring it?

Was that even allowed…?

The word itself felt childish, as if there were some official handbook I could consult. A list of approved attractions. A moral boundary drawn in clean ink.

An invisible audience watching my every movement? Judging me?

I tried to imagine explaining it to someone. To my friends from school, to my mum.

She’s not an animal. Not really. She talks. She thinks. She chooses.

And yet.

Her body was not human. Not shaped like one. Not skinned like one.

My stomach twisted.

…Or was I just disturbed? Had something in me always been vile, and I'd simply never tested it before?

The road curved sharply, and I slowed automatically, focusing on the turn until the car straightened again.

She hadn't seemed to mind that I was human.

That thought crept in quietly.

She'd not recoiled from my skin. From my lack of fur. From the shape of my face. If anything, she was curious. Hungry, even. No hesitation over the difference.

Were humans just the standard for intelligence? The default option?

Did she grow up surrounded by humans enough that we did not feel foreign to her in the same way she felt foreign to me?

Or had she done the same mental gymnastics and simply arrived at a different conclusion?

‘You were the one begging’

Her voice in my head was steady, iron threaded through it.

‘You told me not to stop. You came inside me.’

I swallowed.

‘And now you’re looking at me like I’m something dirty.’

The compound’s gates appeared in the distance, dark metal bars framed against the dim sky. I slowed and pulled up beside the access panel, fishing the keycard from my wallet. It beeped once as I pressed it to the sensor. The gates slid open with a smooth mechanical hum.

I parked in my usual spot and sat for a moment before turning the engine off.

The silence that followed felt immediate and heavy.

The book pressed against my ribs reminded me, absurdly, of the squire’s pendant. Hidden lineage. Magic in the blood.

There was no such explanation waiting for me inside that house. No revelation that would tidy everything up.

I stepped out of the car and shut the door carefully. The air had cooled noticeably. My breath fogged faintly as I crossed the courtyard and let myself in through the side entrance with the keycard.

The lights flicked on automatically in the hallway, bright and neutral. The house smelt faintly of polish and something floral from the diffuser Charlotte insisted on keeping near the entrance.

Too clean. Too controlled.

I listened.

No television. No music. No movement.

I walked into the kitchen first out of habit. The counters were untouched. No plates in the sink. No glasses left out. The fridge hummed steadily.

She had not eaten.

I knew that without checking, but I checked anyway.

My jaw tightened.

I closed the fridge and stood still, listening more carefully.

Back in the living room. Still chaotic. Still overflowing with fried junk and bottles. Quickly, before the drain of the day could take me, I cleaned up.

Then, down the hall.

A faint sound, almost imperceptible over the house’s quiet mechanical noises. A hitch in breath. A soft, irregular inhale followed by something that might have been swallowed quickly.

Sniffling.

Hours later.

My chest constricted in a way that felt almost unfair. She had threatened me. She had cornered me. She had said she would expose me if I tried to rewrite what had happened.

And I had vomited and called her an animal.

I moved toward the door. The automatic lights followed me illuminating each step. The carpet muffled my footfalls.

Her door was closed.

There was a thin line of light beneath it.

The sound was clearer. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just the small, involuntary sounds of someone trying not to cry anymore but failing occasionally.

I stood in the hallway, staring at the wood grain of her door.

Knock.

The word formed in my head, begging almost.

Knock and what. Apologise? Explain that I was confused. That I didn't know what that meant about me.

Explain that I knew she was not an animal. That my reaction had been fear, not truth.

That I had enjoyed it.

My throat tightened.

If I knocked, it would be another confrontation. Another exchange of words that could not be unsaid.

If I didn’t, I would be leaving her alone with whatever version of me she was constructing in her head.

I raised my hand slightly.

The sniffling paused, as if she had shifted position on the other side of the door. As if she knew.

I lowered my hand again.

Coward.

The house hummed quietly around us. Lights steady. Temperature regulated. A space built to feel safe and controlled.

I stood there for another few seconds and then I turned away.

My room felt smaller than usual when I entered it. I shut the door gently behind me and leaned back against it, staring at the ceiling. The bin bags had been taken out, the living room sorted. There was no more work to distract me.

Fantasy was clean.

In books, if you said something horrific, you could atone through action. Through a clear quest. Through slaying the iron-crowned tyrant. Through a simple, if long-awaited talk.

Here, there was no dragon to fight. No half brother to overthrow.

Just a closed door and the knowledge that on the other side of it was someone who was not an animal, no matter how I had tried to reduce her.

Someone who had wanted me.

And whom I had wanted.

I pressed my hand against the inside pocket of my coat, feeling the outline of the paperback beneath the fabric.

Down the hall, the faint sound of a sniffle rose and fell again.

I did not move.