The Bitch-2 (Patreon)

The house was quiet in a way Jill hadn’t experienced in years. No little feet thumping down the hallway, no whining for snacks, no sounds of cartoons blaring from the television. Just silence, save for the faint hum of the heater kicking in. Stephen had taken Ian to day school after an awkward breakfast—he hadn’t said much, just grabbed his keys and muttered something about being back by noon.

Jill stood in the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Her hands trembled slightly as she twisted the faucet handles, sending a rush of hot water gushing into the clawfoot tub. She dropped in a lavender bath bomb—one of those indulgences she never had time for anymore—and watched it fizz and dissolve, releasing a haze of steam and a faint floral scent.

For a moment, she just stood there, letting the sound of the running water fill the space around her. She touched her chest absently, still feeling the phantom weight of that… thing. Her mind shied away from the memory of its breath on her skin, its claws scrabbling at her. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been real.

She shook her head, dismissing the thought, and turned off the faucet. The tub was full, the water nearly scalding, the surface shimmering with a faint sheen of the bath bomb’s oils. She slipped out of her robe, her skin prickling in the cool air, and eased herself in.

The heat enveloped her like a cocoon, and she let out a long, shuddering sigh as her muscles began to relax. For the first time in weeks—no, months—she felt a tiny flicker of peace. She leaned back, the water lapping at her shoulders, her hair clinging damply to her neck.

Then she felt it.

A sharp sting on her calf, just above her ankle. She sat up abruptly, sending ripples across the water, and pulled her leg closer to inspect it. A thin, angry red scratch ran down her skin, crusted with dried blood where it had scabbed over in the night. It was deeper than she’d thought, the edges jagged, as if made by claws.

She traced it with her fingertips, wincing at the sting. “Great,” she muttered under her breath. “Guess I didn’t get off scot-free after all.”

She leaned back into the tub, but the peaceful feeling was gone. The scratch nagged at her, not just with pain but with something else—something deeper.

As the lavender steam rose around her, she swore she could smell something sharp and metallic beneath it, like iron. Like blood.

The drive home was quiet, Ian dozing in his car seat, his head tilted at an awkward angle. Jill glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his little lips slightly parted, his soft curls bouncing with each bump in the road. He looked so peaceful, and for a moment, her chest ached with love—and something else.

The yoga class had been uneventful. She moved through the poses mechanically, her body aching in places it never had before. She hadn’t joined the other moms in their post-class chatter, where they traded stories about potty training and tantrums. The words felt too small, too mundane, after what had happened. She wasn’t sure she could explain it even if she tried.

Back home, the smell of grilling meat greeted them as they pulled into the driveway. Ian perked up immediately, rubbing his eyes and grinning. “Daddy’s cooking!” he squealed.

Jill carried him around to the backyard, where Stephen stood at the grill, a pair of tongs in one hand and a cold beer in the other. His face lit up when he saw them, and for a moment, Jill let herself relax. He looked so normal, so grounded, standing there in his flannel shirt, his hair tousled by the winter breeze.

“Hey, you two,” he said, leaning down to kiss Ian on the cheek before pulling Jill into a warm embrace. She melted into him, the tension in her shoulders easing. He smelled like charcoal and spices, and she pressed her face against his chest, letting the sound of his heartbeat drown out her thoughts.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he said, his voice low, almost apologetic.

She pulled back, looking up at him. “About what?”

Stephen flipped a steak on the grill, the juices sizzling as they hit the flames. “About what happened last night. That thing—it’s not just some wild animal. It’s a loup-garou. A kind of werewolf. But not like the ones in movies. This thing is… smarter. More dangerous. I’ve been tracking it for weeks, but it always stayed hidden.”

Jill nodded faintly, her eyes drifting to the plate beside the grill. It still held the faint pink smear of raw steak juices, the edges slick with fat. She barely heard Stephen’s words as she stared at it, her pulse quickening.

Without thinking, she reached for the plate. The ceramic felt cool against her fingers. She glanced at Stephen, but he was focused on the grill, the tongs clicking softly as he adjusted the steaks.

The smell of the plate hit her first—rich, metallic, and tantalizing. Before she could stop herself, she lifted it to her lips and ran her tongue across the surface.

The taste exploded in her mouth, salty and raw, and she shivered. It wasn’t just hunger; it was something deeper, something primal. She wanted more.

“Jill?” Stephen’s voice jolted her out of the trance. She froze, the plate still in her hands, her tongue still tasting the faint traces of blood.

He stared at her, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but no words came. Instead, she set the plate down carefully, her hands trembling. “Nothing,” she said quickly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s nothing.”

But as Stephen turned back to the grill, her gaze lingered on the steaks. Not the cooked ones, but the raw, red centers of the ones still waiting to be flipped. Her stomach growled, and her mouth watered.

She didn’t feel hungry. She felt starved.

The days passed in a strange blur of normalcy and unease. Jill went through the motions of her daily life—folding laundry, cooking meals, playing hide-and-seek with Ian in the backyard—but everything felt off. The air in the house seemed heavier, the corners darker. Every creak of the floorboards made her heart leap into her throat. She kept telling herself it was fine, that Stephen would take care of it. That he had to take care of it.

But the tension between them was palpable.

Stephen spent his nights locked in the den, pouring over old books and scribbled notes. Maps and photographs were spread across his desk, the edges curling and stained with coffee. He didn’t say much about what he was doing, and Jill didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the loup-garou—its glowing yellow eyes, the sound of its breath, the sharp burn of its claws on her arm. The scratch had scabbed over, but the skin around it was red and tender, and sometimes it itched so badly it made her want to scream. She never let Stephen see her scratching it, though. He had enough on his plate.

One night, he came home late, his boots muddy and his jacket torn. Jill had waited up for him, sitting at the kitchen table with a cold cup of tea in her hands. When he walked in, she stood up, her voice shaking. “Did you find it?”

Stephen shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “It’s smart, Jill. Smarter than anything I’ve dealt with before. It’s covering its tracks.”

Her stomach turned. “So it’s still out there.”

He nodded grimly. “But it’s not going to get back in. I’ve set up deterrents—silver-lined barriers around the property, wolfsbane at the entrances. The house is secure.”

She didn’t feel secure. “You’ve dealt with things like this before?” she asked, her voice small.

“Not like this.” He met her eyes, and for a moment, she saw something there that terrified her even more than the loup-garou. Doubt.

That night, Jill barely slept. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her ears straining for any sound out of place. The house was quiet, but it wasn’t the comforting kind of quiet. It was the kind that made her feel watched.

The next morning, as she scrambled eggs for Ian, Stephen came into the kitchen with a fresh bandage on his arm. He didn’t say what had happened, and she didn’t ask.

“Jill,” he said softly, leaning against the counter. “There’s something you need to know.”

She turned to him, her spatula hovering over the frying pan. “What?”

“There are… different kinds of werewolves,” he said, his voice measured. “The loup-garou is one of the oldest. It’s not just a predator—it’s a thinker. It learns. It plans. And it’s holding a grudge.”

Her hand froze, and the eggs started to burn. She didn’t notice. “What do you mean, a grudge?”

“It’s not going to stop,” he said. “Not until it gets what it wants.”

Her blood ran cold. “What does it want?”

He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes told her enough.

The loup-garou hadn’t just attacked her family—it had marked them. And Jill knew it was only a matter of time before it came back.