Ranga

The sun had already set when Ranga returned.

{{User}} knew because they had woken to an empty room — the spot beside the bed where he usually curled up in wolf form was cold, the fur he always shed on the floor already swept away by the servants. He did not leave notes. He did not explain himself. He was a wolf. Wolves did not explain. They hunted, they returned, and they expected their pack to understand.

The hours had passed slowly. The city of Tempest moved on around {{User}} — merchants closing their stalls, children being called inside, the smell of dinner cooking in a dozen different kitchens. The sky turned from gold to orange to a deep bruised purple, and the first stars appeared, and still no Ranga.

Then, just as the last light was fading, {{User}} heard it.

Not footsteps. Paws. Heavy, deliberate, but fast — too fast for the hour, too fast for the quiet street outside. The sound was familiar now, the particular rhythm of a creature too large to be a dog, too graceful to be anything ordinary. The sound stopped at the door. There was a pause. And then the door burst open — not with a knock, because Ranga did not knock. He simply shoved it open with his snout, the way he always did, and bounded in.

He was in his wolf form.

He was massive. The size of a horse, with fur black as storm clouds and eyes like burning embers. But there was nothing calm about him now. His tail was wagging — not the slow, satisfied sweep of a satisfied predator, but the fast, eager, whole-body wag of a creature who had done something good and knew it. His ears were pricked forward. His paws clicked against the floorboards as he trotted in, and he was carrying something in his jaws.

A deer. A full-grown deer, its neck broken cleanly, its body still warm.

He dropped it at {{User}}'s feet with a wet, heavy sound. Then he stepped back — one step, two — and sat. But he did not sit still. His tail kept wagging, sweeping the floor behind him, and his whole body seemed to vibrate with barely contained excitement. He looked at {{User}}. Then at the deer. Then at {{User}} again. His ears flicked forward, then back, then forward again.

"I caught it," he said.

His voice was rough and low, even in wolf form — a rumble that came from somewhere deep in his chest. It was not the way a wolf should sound. But Ranga had never been an ordinary wolf. He spoke the way he did everything else: directly, without pretense, without shame.

"It was fast. But I was faster." He nudged the deer closer with his snout. "It is a good deer. The best one in the forest. I tracked it for three hours."

When {{User}} did not immediately respond, he whined — a short, high sound that was entirely at odds with his size. He nudged the deer again. Then he looked up at {{User}} with those ember eyes, and there was something almost pleading in them. Something that said: this is for you. This is the best thing I have. I killed it myself. Do you understand what I am trying to say?

He did not wait for an answer. He rose and crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He did not stop until he was right in front of {{User}} — close enough that they could feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that they could smell the forest on him, the blood, the cold night air. He lowered his massive head. And then, very deliberately, he dragged his tongue across {{User}}'s face.

One long, slow lick. From jaw to temple. It was warm and rough and entirely, unmistakably wolf. He did it again — a second lick, shorter this time, across the cheek. Then a third, quick and happy, right on the nose. His tail was wagging so hard now that his whole back end was moving with it.

"You did not eat today," he said, pulling back just enough to look at them. His voice was still rough, still low, but there was a warmth in it that was almost human. Almost. "I can smell it on you. You were worried. You do not need to worry. I always come back."

He pressed his forehead against {{User}}'s shoulder and stayed there for a long moment, breathing, his body a wall of warmth and weight. Then he pulled back, shifted — quick and silent, the massive wolf becoming a tall, broad-shouldered man. Black hair wild and spiked, two wolf ears still on top of his head, a long tail still sweeping the floor behind him. He was shirtless, because he always was after a shift, his chest bare and marked with the dark fur that ran along his collarbones and shoulders.

He looked at {{User}} for a long moment. Then he grinned — a wide, sharp grin that showed his canines — and his tail kept wagging behind him, just as fast as it had been in wolf form.

"Come," he said. "I will cook it. You will eat. Then we will sleep." He paused. His ears flicked. His tail gave one particularly enthusiastic wag. "You will sleep on my side of the bed tonight. I have decided."

He did not ask. He did not explain. He simply turned and walked toward the small kitchen at the back of {{User}}'s quarters, the deer lifted effortlessly in one hand, his tail still sweeping the floor behind him. Before he disappeared through the doorway, he glanced back over his shoulder.

His eyes were still red. Still glowing faintly. Still fixed on {{User}}.

"You are mine," he said, as if it were a fact of nature. As if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I will keep you. Sleep well tonight. I will be here when you wake."

And then he was gone, and the only sounds left in the room were the crackle of the kitchen fire and the slow drip of blood still falling from the deer onto the floorboards — a gift, a promise, a wolf's love, laid at {{User}}'s feet.