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The pot bubbles on the stove. The clattering lid and hiss of steam warn that it might boil over.
You know better than to touch it. You know better than to touch anything in the kitchen without permission.
The things you can’t remember are beyond counting. Or maybe you’re not missing anything—except for your name. How can you tell what’s gone? How can you know what’s been stolen?
But you’ve relearned your relationship and protocol. You know not to touch, and you know to stay in position, ready to receive pleasure or pain at the whim of your savior in the woods—your Master.
If you’re very good, he promises to give you something. He swears you can have your name back.
As soon as you’re ready. Won’t that be nice, pet?
Sometimes you think that there’s a hiss or a syllable that could be the start of your name. It is only ever the merest suggestion of sound before Master—Peter—cuts it short. If you protest, then he is quick to remind you of his kindness. Of how he saved you. Took you in while you wandered: homeless and alone. Forgotten. Of course he knows best.
Peter never reminds you of how he took you back again, after the accident, and nursed you back to health. Another kindness.
It’s good to be alive, and he is harsh but never cruel. What’s in a name? You’re grateful. You are. Even when your muscles burn and cramp from hours of maintaining position. Even when you feel the phantom sensation of needle-sharp claws sliding into your neck and begin to wonder what you believe. But that way lies madness.
I’m sorry he did that to you, pet. Stole you and your mind, but you’re safe now.
Footsteps echo through the house, as Master comes downstairs. Your collar clinks with the slight motions of correcting your posture and spreading your legs. You arch your back in the most inviting way. From the lightness of his tread, it sounds like he may be feeling generous today. You close your eyes and struggle against the hope blooming in your chest.
“Very good, pet,” he praises you, coming close enough to touch, to stroke over your hair and the knobs of your spine. “That’s exactly how you should greet me.”
Your bare skin heats under his hand. He’s spent months learning your body, testing the limits of your resolve. He palms your ass before smacking it and making a pleased hum at the sound.
“I think,” he muses, easing a thick finger between the cleft of your cheeks, “I’d like to hear you sing.”
“Yes, Master!”
It pushes a gasp out of you when he presses inside. Soon your breathy cries fill the kitchen as he stretches you open for him.
You don’t allow yourself to imagine your name on his lips.
The moon shines down—the only visible light for miles. Still, it’s almost bright as day; certainly bright enough that you can run without putting a foot wrong, so you do. You run as fast as your tiring feet can carry you.
There’s something in the woods.
As you pass between trees, branches seem to reach for you, tearing at your clothes. You ignore them. There’s a sound rising above the frantic beating of your heart: a wild, dark howling. A demand full of youth and righteous anger, and it’s behind you.
Closer and closer.
A shadow passes over the moon, but it’s not a shadow. A great beast leaps over you. It kicks back with powerful hind legs, knocking you aside. Snarls echo. The ground shakes. Your ears fill with a great rush of wings as birds take flight, fleeing the area.
You don’t look. You don’t move. Even when silence falls, you huddle in the dirt, shaken by the close call so similar to your old life.
In the light of the full moon, a great black beast walks out of the trees on two legs, and slowly it changes, shifts to a man who is naked and terrible in his familiarity.
You only have time to gasp his name before alpha-claws tear into your neck, and after that—darkness.
Later, you remember the aching sense of loss. You remember the fight in the woods. It took some of your memories, but I saved you. I’ll always save you. Of your time before Peter, there is only void. You remember the important things: Peter standing in the bright moonlight; Peter saving you; Peter offering you his hand, offering you a home, promising that he’ll love you no matter how much you’ve forgotten.
With Master, the rules are simple. I ask for so little, darling.
Never go into the workshop or outside without permission.
Don’t interfere with food preparation unless invited.
Always be clean and ready to please Master.
Life before Master wasn’t worth living.
It’s easy to feel isolated in your house in the woods with only Master for company. As much as you love him, sometimes you think it would be nice to see new faces.
One day, you get your wish.
When the doorbell rings, you scurry away. It won’t do to let someone else see you naked, not when you belong to Master.
There’s no time for you to make it upstairs, so you press the whorls in the wood grain, opening the wall to reveal a nook just large enough for two people.
In no hurry, Master enters the foyer, sending you a wink as he passes your hiding place. His eyes are very blue when he smirks.
But he’s not smirking or smiling when he opens the door. If anything, he looks bored.
“What brings you out of your jurisdiction, Sheriff?” drawls Master. The door blocks your view of anything but the green of his shirt.
“I’m looking for my son,” says the sheriff. Your brow furrows in puzzlement. Déjà vu rocks you. For a moment, you smell coffee and whiskey and see sad, blue eyes. “I found out you were here and thought maybe you’d seen him.”
“And how long did you wait before coming to me?”
A pause. Fabric rustles briefly, and the sheriff sighs. “Too long. A few months.”
Master snorts in disgust. You’re familiar with the sound although it’s never directed at you. “Of course. You never did like me, John.” Master lowers his voice. “He’s not here. He didn’t want to be with me. Go home.”
“Then you won’t mind if I take a look?”
“I think you’re going to need to come back with a warrant if that’s what you want.” Master takes a step forward and claps the sheriff on his shoulder. “Let me walk you to your car.”
You wait in the wall nook, body tingling with nerves, certain that they’ll take Master away. You sink to the floor and pull your knees to your chest. Each breath comes as a struggle.
Your hands are numb around your collar. What will you do without Master?
Minutes or hours later, the panel opens, revealing your master’s face. He frowns in concern and pulls you out, cradling you in his arms.
“I’m sorry, pet. I was just walking him out, and we talked longer than I intended. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“You can’t leave me,” you choke out. “Promise me, Master. Peter, please.” You bury your face in his shoulder, clutching at the blue fabric of his sweater.
He cups the back of your head, rubbing over your buzzed hair. “I’ll never leave you. I promise. We’ll always be together. I’ll always take care of you like I do now.”
Instead of spreading yourself over the table, you’re standing at the counter, wearing an apron. Master wants to teach you his family’s recipe for traditional ragu now that he’s sure your mind has recovered enough to remember it again.
Your hands tremble as you try to contain your excitement.
“I told you this before,” he says, “but I don’t mind doing it again.” His eyes crinkle happily when he smiles at you. “My grandmother taught me how to make this. It’s nothing like the bolognese sauce most Americans think of.”
“What makes it different?”
Master snorts. “How is it not? To start, most spaghetti sauces don’t use a soffritto, and while beef and lamb is fairly traditional, that’s not how we did it.”
“Because you’re werewolves?”
“Very good, pet.” The warmth in his voice is a palpable force. “I’ve been saving this kill since the night of your accident because I wanted you to enjoy it with me. When I was child we would have used it immediately.” He sighs in nostalgia and stirs the vegetable mixture. “Every full moon, we would hunt for the pot, and the next day our ragu would use the best of our kills. Times were simpler then.”
You edge closer to him, almost bumping into his elbow. “Do you miss it, Master?” you ask softly.
He smiles at you again and puts the spoon down long enough to kiss you. “Not when I have you. And,” he adds, nodding at the plate of finely minced meat, “I’ve been able to keep some of our traditions alive.”
Together you work, adding meat, milk, and wine in turn. After the tomatoes go into the pot, Master turns to you with heavy-lidded eyes. “We have three hours before we need to check it again.”
Something about pasta night always excites Master, and you’re happy to take advantage of it. You bite your lip and murmur, “What are we gonna do with all that time?”
He inhales deeply and releases it in a gust. “Take off your apron,” he orders.
You comply without speaking and stand naked before him, in a kitchen redolent with rich meat and spices, the food he’s prepared for you. Under his lupine regard, you shiver.
White flashes when he smiles. Bares his teeth. “Run.”
You’re in motion before the word fully exits his mouth, dashing through the kitchen and pelting upstairs—leading him on a merry chase.
He catches you on the stairs (of course he does), and you don’t mind a bit when he throws you over his shoulder, ass already stuffed full with his fingers as he carries you to the bedroom like a trophy of war. Master fucks you so hard and knots you so long that the two of you are almost late starting the pasta.
Both of you agree that it’s a fair trade.
It frightens you, in the beginning. The second beginning, according to Peter. You always called me Master.
He has to explain werewolves all over again. He has to explain that you’re together and very in love and shows you a pretty metal ring that’s meant to lock around your neck.
“This is yours,” he says, averting his eyes. Hiding his pain? “You don’t need to wear it now, or ever…. Not until you mean it.”
Your breath catches at the vulnerability this powerful man shows you. An alpha werewolf—only since last night—and so afraid that he’ll never have his life and relationship back because of the attack.
I have many enemies, and so do you. Because of me.
“Peter. Master,” you stumble over the word, “I don’t even remember my name. Everything’s so confusing.” The throbbing in your head and neck recedes, but your vision is still swimming. “Just… tell me what to do.”
Peter’s eyes bore down on you, a blazing red. “You’ll forget things for now. Maybe small. But it could be large, significant things. We can’t know until we give it time. I’ll help you as much as I can, but…” he trails off before refocusing his gaze on you. “Do you trust me?”
You hide your trembling hands in the folds of the blanket. “I–I don’t know,” you stammer. “I think so.”
“‘I think’ isn’t enough for this,” he declares. “If you accept this, then you will learn everything about me, us, yourself when I decide. Do you trust me enough for that?”
You’re the only thing I have. You either saved me or trapped me, but I need your love to be real. I need you to be the hero, not the villain. Helplessly, hopefully, you reach for his hand, the hand holding your collar. “I trust you… Master.”
You tug the collar with weak limbs, but Peter understands. He moves with alacrity, before you can change your mind, leaning over you to fasten it around your neck with reverent motions.
“Oh, pet I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers. “I won’t let you regret this.”
You close your eyes, dizzy with a wave of sudden tiredness. It’s not regret; you won’t allow it and neither will he.
These dinners hold new meaning now, again. Together, you and Master, chop and stir the ingredients. You slowly brown the special meat from his workshop freezer, where Master stores all of his kills. Sometimes during the long simmer, there’s a short chase followed by frenzied fucking. Other times, Master amuses himself by making you work while he keeps your hole filled with whatever comes to hand.
He likes to see you dance.
Today, it’s neither, but only because you have company for once. A visiting alpha who’s here to congratulate Master on his recent change in status. He knew my parents. We saw Deucalion at many of our post-moon meals.
In deference to that friendship, Master decrees that you won’t need clothes tonight. Nervous anticipation fizzes through your veins.
As though he knows, Master waits until their plates are full of fresh pasta and pinkish tomato sauce before casually pulling you over his lap. He settles you firmly across his knees, arms and legs hanging awkwardly as you hold yourself limp: ready to receive whatever he wills.
With no sign of hesitation or self-consciousness, he splays his big hand on the fleshy part of your ass, barely stroking between the cheeks. Your face burns, and you’re glad that it’s hidden in this position.
“It must have been years since you’ve had a ragu like this.”
Forks clink against china. “It has. It must have been when your mother was still alive.” You hear more clinking and chewing. “I must say, you’ve surpassed her gift in the kitchen. The depth and complexity of flavors is amazing.”
Master probes your slick hole with a blunt fingertip. “You flatter me,” he says easily. “And I must admit.” He slides one finger in, down to the knuckle, and you melt into a person-shaped puddle. “I couldn’t do it without the help of my darling pet.”
“Ahh. Your pet.” Deucalion laughs. “He’s pretty. And such exquisite manners. It’s hard to find a good pet these days.”
You squeeze your eyes tight and try to focus on the feeling of Master in you and around you. It’s hard to keep from panting, but you manage it. It’s a special day, pet. If you’re very good and remember all the rules, then I think you’ll be ready for more. Maybe even your name.
You’re tired of forgetting things. You want to be ready for your name.
When he skips the second finger and goes straight to three, you hold your breath until you’re sure that no errant noises will escape. Sweat beads at your temples and back. You can feel it collecting in the hollow of your throat, preparing to drip off the metal hanging around your neck.
You stop hearing most of their conversation after the first tap against your prostate. Your shoulders spasm, but you relax before they can move too much. Is it against the rules if you can’t stop shaking?
All you know is that you’ll die before you let your hips move. No matter how good it feels for Master to milk you from the inside. The firm, sliding pressure has your cock jumping and beading pre-cum against Master’s pants. It has to be making a mess, but it must be okay if he put you there.
“Hmm,” Master murmurs. “You’re doing so well, pet. Just a little longer.”
You nod jerkily; he hasn’t given you permission to speak.
“What a lovely boy. I don’t suppose you know where I can find one like him?” Deucalion jokes.
“I’m afraid that he’s one of a kind,” Master answers, pride obvious in his voice. It spurs you that much closer to coming, knowing how proud your Master is.
“Well what about this pasta? It’s delicious. Your mother always refused to give me the recipe, and I’ve never had anything like it except with your family.”
“Oh that… the secret’s in the sauce,” Master says slyly and laughs. “But I can tell you that it’s all due to the fine hunting we’ve had here. A tough, old buck gave up his life for our meal tonight. He was a bold one, even coming up to the house, but I outsmarted him.”
Master’s shifts his leg and uses the fingers spearing you to grind your cock against his thigh. The soft but firm touches turn rougher, past the point of solicitousness. He moves you around like a toy, and the casual objectification is almost enough to make you come all over him. You bite your lip, gnawing at the strip of loose skin, tugging until it draws blood.
“You always were hard on your toys,” Deucalion observes. “Why don’t you put him out of his misery?”
“I’m saving that for later.” And without warning, Master eases his fingers out of your sore ass and scoots you down the few inches necessary for you to hang in frictionless limbo. “Shh,” he breathes, petting your sweaty back. “You were the perfect pet and so, so good for me, Stiles. Just lie here and let the alphas talk, and then I’ll take care of your sweet pussy.”
Stiles? Despite having your orgasm yanked away, you float on a cloud of endorphins, blissed out on praise and pleasure, on the sheer comfort of having your name returned to you.
“Okay, Stiles?” Damp fingers tap your spine.
“Yes, Master.” My name is Stiles. “Thank you, Master.”