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MB Saucy Side: Puppy Love (Featuring Kenna)
🕑 Added 2022-10-11 04:12:56 +0000 UTCKenna Zarneki looks like a woman. Her face is beautiful, her grey eyes attentive and intelligent.
Had someone whispered in your ear that she was something more, you might have postulated that, if anything, Kenna might be a vampire. She certainly possesses the stereotypical pallor and standoffish demeanor of a night lurker befitting bedtime stories of horror and romance, so much so that those not familiar with Kenna’s true temperament usually assumes that your stoic girlfriend is cold and callous. “Ice queen,” the newspapers dubbed her throughout your relationship. Ironic, given that Kenna is both hot as hell and the most physically affectionate person you’ve ever dated.
The press’s misconception is understandable, you suppose. Kenna’s touches are usually subtle and hidden: stroking your thigh beneath the table during dinners; her fingers lingering overlong as she brushes a lock of hair from your eyes; her thumb pressing between your lips as she wipes away an invisible crumb; frantic, breathless kisses after she pulls you into the cloak closet at an overcrowded party (to Kenna, all parties are overcrowded). Her natural enthusiasm has been curbed by caution learned from an existence where public displays of affection provided paparazzi with photographs, and where a single hug from her father would lead to political speculation on whether the Mayor intended to take time off to spend with his poor, bereaved daughter. But there’s a difference between who Kenna was trained to be and who she is.
Each of her touches teaches you more about the real Kenna. She’s not indifferent; rather, she cares for you more deeply and abidingly than anyone you’ve ever meet. She may move the sleek grace of a cat (Sally accusingly refers to her as “feline” due to her tendency to accidentally sneak up on people), but Kenna has the adoring heart of a puppy. The only condition to Kenna’s devotion is that you accept her, and you have with utter totality. . . even after she revealed her secret.
More so than her father’s position, Kenna’s secret is the reason that she’s held everyone at bay.
Until you.
Kenna’s heavy lidded gaze slides over your body and lingers on your throat. The hunger in her eyes is darker and more primal than lust. It would frighten you—it should frighten you—had belonged to anyone else. Kenna, though, you trust utterly. Even as her silver eyes shift golden, you feel only excitement and longing. You could never fear Kenna, not when you’ve seen her heart and given her yours. Not even on a full moon.
“So pretty,” Kenna murmurs.
Kenna runs a claw—black, curved, talon-sharp—alongside the tendon of your neck, your breath hitching as her touch comes to a rest at the hollow below your jugular. Her hands and eyes are the only things which have transformed so far, but her muscles are tense and straining. She’s holding himself back, as promised.
“So fragile.”
Her claws explore lower, their caress against your skin featherlight even as their sharpness effortlessly shreds through the fabric of your shirt.
“I liked that shirt.” Your protest is half-hearted, your eyelids drifting closed and head falling back as she licks down the pathway bared by torn fabric. A pleading whine escapes your lips.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” she promises in a rough voice before returning her attentions to your exposed skin.
You thread your fingers through her black hair and pull her close; a low growl rumbles from her chest as your lips interlock and tongues intwine. Her kiss tastes of toothpaste and copper, and her need matches your own, longing laced with both devotion and desperation.
Something sharp slices a hot streak of pain over your lower lip, and you let out a surprised yelp.
Kenna stills.
“Did I hurt you?” she asks, gently drawing away. Her voice is lower than usual, echoingly deep in a way that makes the hair on your arms prickle and your heartbeat race from more than desire. Your mind and heart may not be afraid Kenna, but your instincts? The generations of evolutionary intuition which kept your forebears alive? Those survival instincts scream at you to escape, to run, damn you, run because she’s a predator and you’re a clueless deer and those fangs were designed to seize and shred and tear . . .
No.
You refuse to fear Kenna.
Your palm cusps her cheek, lifting her downcast head and gazing deeply into eyes as gold as the full moon outside your bedroom window. Kenna’s chest heaves with gasping breaths, her body shakes with effort to stave off the full change. “With you, I think that I can remain myself tonight,” she had said. “I want to remain myself.”
Slowly, as if comforting a wounded animal, you roll back Kenna’s upper lip. You stare without judgement or disgust at her extended canines, jagged fangs forcing their way through bloodied gums in a too-small human jaw that refuses to shift. That explains the copper of her kiss. You’ve seen Kenna’s wolf form, once, but never the transition from woman to beast. Kenna had warned you that her shapeshifting wasn’t pretty, yet you hadn’t realized that it hurt her. Werewolves always transform so easily in the movies.
The truth is uglier and far more brutal. No wonder Kenna wanted to fight the moon with you by her side.
You smile at her reassuringly, only to wince as the cut on your lower lip pulls. “Nothing a little Neosporin won’t fix,” you tell her. “I’ll be fine.”
“I hurt you,” Kenna’s expression turns crestfallen as she stares at your mouth.
She stands abruptly, and you almost tumble off the bed at the way the mattress shifts from the movement. Then her entire body spasms, her back curving like a bending cage bar. She collapses back onto the bed with a guttural, broken moan.
“Leave,” she orders.
You wrap your arms around her shivering torso and mutely shake your head. Her lips and teeth migrate towards your neck, her growl is so low that you feel its vibrations.
“Leave!” she snarls. This time the command is ragged and begging, her low voice—so low, it no longer sounds like Kenna—cracking on the word. “I can’t . . .”
You place both hands on her shoulders, forcing her upright so that you can glare directly into her eyes.
“You can, and you will.” You grin widely, ignoring the sting of your lip splitting even further open. “When have I ever been wrong?”
Her laugh at your audacity ends in a pained whimper. Still, your girlfriend is well-trained.
“You’re never wrong,” she jokes between muscle spasms. “Except I . . .”
“No exceptions,” you say with mock sternness. “I’m always right. And Kenna?”
Her eyes, squeezed tightly shut through the pain, reopen. They’re still attentive and intelligent, but the hunger is darker than ever before. Their gold is so bright that it burns. This time, her expression does scare you a little, but you push down the fear and focus on the woman—not the beast—in front of you.
“It’s okay if you can’t hold it in,” you say softly. “You’ll still be you, and I know that you would never hurt me.”
It’s only when you say the words aloud that you realize the full depth of their truth. The instinct to flee dissipates entirely, and you cradle her in your arms with newfound resolution. Even if the moon wins and Kenna end up losing a part of herself tonight, she would still never hurt you. She might become stripped of her words and rationality (last month, she almost ate Antigone), but her desire to keep you safe is as deeply ingrained as your need to protect her.
Wrapped in your tight hug, Kenna’s breathing eventually steadies. She buries her face in the crook of shoulder, but the proximity of her teeth to your neck doesn’t make you shudder as it did before. You simply hold her tighter and wait for morning.
Hours pass. Neither of you fall asleep.
Dawn creeps in through the window, its light through the glass casting rainbow prisms against your bedroom walls. Kenna stops trembling.
And when she finally looks up from your embrace, her eyes are once again grey.
