Heart of the Wolf

Chapter Two

Lynn's POV:

I trudge up the stairs to our apartment, my feet aching after a grueling ten-hour shift at the flower shop. All I want is to collapse into bed and sleep for days. But as I unlock the door, my heart sinks.

"Oh Alan," I sigh, taking in the chaos before me.

Our living room looks like a tornado hit a thrift store. Mismatched shoes are lined up in neat rows across the coffee table. Stacks of old magazines teeter precariously on every surface. And dozens of plastic grocery bags filled with... who knows what... are scattered across the floor.

I pick my way through the mess, careful not to disturb Alan's "organizational system." The last time I moved one of his piles, he had a meltdown that lasted for hours.

"Alan?" I call out softly. No response.

My stomach clenches as I notice shards of ceramic on the kitchen floor - remnants of my favorite mug. The one he gave me last Christmas.

I grab the broom and start sweeping, trying to focus on the rhythmic swish swish instead of the bubbling resentment in my chest. This is my life now. Working myself to the bone, then coming home to clean up after my boyfriend's drug-fueled "adventures."

But I can't leave him. I love him. Even if loving him is slowly killing me.

As I'm dumping the shards in the trash, I hear a thump and muffled cursing from the bedroom.

"Alan?" I call again. "You okay in there?"

"M'fine," he slurs. There's another thump, followed by giggling.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, steeling myself. Time to make sure he hasn't hurt himself. Again.

As I head toward the bedroom, unbidden thoughts of Adonis flit through my mind. His strange steady presence. The way he looked at me like I was worth talking to. To ask how I was doing.

I shake my head violently. No. Alan needs me. I made my choice. Even if sometimes, in my weakest moments, I wonder if I made the wrong one.

I push open the bedroom door, my heart clenching at the sight of Alan sprawled across our bed, one arm dangling off the edge. His chest rises and falls slowly, and I approach cautiously, my footsteps muffled by the carpet.

"Alan?" I whisper, but he doesn't stir.

I lean over him, gently placing my hand on his stomach. His skin is warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and I feel the slight rise as he takes a deep breath.

"No, no, the purple elephants are dancing," he mumbles suddenly, his arm swinging wildly through the air. I jump back, narrowly avoiding a collision with his flailing limb.

"Shh, it's okay," I soothe, even though I know he can't hear me. "Just sleep it off."

I turn to leave, my gaze falls on the framed photo on our nightstand. Us, laughing at the beach. Before things got this bad.

I swallow hard and force myself to look away.

Back in the living room, I survey the chaos. Clothes strewn about, knick-knacks in disarray, couch cushions on the floor. With a heavy sigh, I start picking up, my movements mechanical.

I fold Alan's favorite sweatshirt, and the dam finally breaks. Hot tears spill down my cheeks, and I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to stifle the sobs threatening to escape. My vision blurs as I continue cleaning, each item I put away feeling heavier than the last.

"Get it together, Lynn," I mutter to myself, angrily wiping my eyes. "This isn't helping anyone."

But the tears keep falling, silent testimony to the anger and hurt I can't allow myself to voice aloud. Because if I start, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop.

I clutch Alan's sweatshirt to my chest, inhaling his scent. It's a bittersweet mixture of his cologne and the acrid smell of whatever he's been smoking. My heart aches with a familiar, painful longing.

"Why?" I whisper to the empty room. "Why does it have to be like this?"

The unfairness of it all hits me like a punch to the gut. Tomorrow, Alan will wake up as if nothing happened. He'll smile that crooked smile I fell in love with, kiss me sweetly, and tell me how much he adores me. For a few blissful hours, everything will seem perfect.

But then, like clockwork, the darkness will creep back in. His mood will plummet, eyes growing distant and cold. And before I know it, he'll be raging, hurling accusations and insults that cut deeper than any knife.

"It's not fair," I choke out, sinking to the floor. "I can't keep doing this."

But even as the words leave my lips, I know it's a lie. Because despite everything, despite the pain and chaos, I love him. The thought of leaving makes my chest constrict with panic.

"I should go," I say aloud, testing the words. They taste like ash in my mouth. "I need to leave."

But I don't move. I can't. The invisible chains of love and obligation hold me in place, as surely as if they were made of steel.

"What am I supposed to do?" I ask the silence, desperately wishing for an answer that doesn't come.

Exhausted and emotionally drained, I drag myself to the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grime of the day and Alan's mess. But it can't cleanse the turmoil in my heart.

I slip into bed beside Alan's sleeping form, my eyes drawn to his face. Even in slumber, he's breathtakingly beautiful. My heart aches with a love so fierce it borders on pain.

"No... don't... please," Alan mumbles, his brow furrowing. He thrashes slightly, caught in some nightmare I can't save him from.

Tears slip down my cheeks as I watch him.

"Oh, Alan," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "What are we doing to each other?"

I carefully extend my leg, seeking the warmth of his skin. The moment we touch, a jolt of electricity courses through me. It's a bittersweet comfort, this connection that feels like both salvation and damnation.

"I can't let you go," I confess to his unhearing form. "Even when I know I should. You're like a drug, and I'm hopelessly addicted."

Alan's hand twitches, and for a moment, I think he might wake. But he only sighs and mumbles something unintelligible.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come. My alarm is set for an ungodly hour - another day of shouldering all our responsibilities while Alan sleeps off whatever he's taken.

"It's not fair," I murmur. "Why can't you just-"

Suddenly, unbidden, an image of Adonis flashes behind my eyelids. His piercing blue eyes, his handsome face, the quiet strength in his tattooed arms.

My eyes fly open, guilt crashing over me in waves.

"No," I whisper fiercely. "I can't think about him. I won't."

But even as I try to banish thoughts of Adonis, I can't help but wonder: what would it be like to be with someone stable? Someone who didn't leave me to clean up their messes, both literal and emotional?

I shake my head, disgusted with myself. "Stop it, Lynn," I hiss. "Alan needs you. You can't abandon him."

But as I drift into an uneasy sleep, I can't quite shake the image of those blue eyes, or the treacherous whisper in my heart that wonders if there might be another way to live.