“How did this happen?” you mutter, continuing your renewed dedication toward minimizing shrieking. It’s a valid strategy and a valid question. You don’t want to startle the nurse into releasing the wheelchair and sending you flying, after all, and this entire trip to the emergency department has been a whirlwind experience.

‘E’ stood for ‘eggs.’ The servants opened the bedroom door and lobbed eggs at you without crossing the threshold, abiding by BTS’ rule of not entering the room while also maintaining their dedication to snuffing you out. You thought they’d lost their minds. Eggs aren’t an implement of death. And then you broke out in hives and your throat swelled closed, and you realized you were allergic to eggs, and you were in very real danger. Fortunately, BTS had an EpiPen on hand for his bee allergy (yes, that was the trouble in the magical field of flowers). One injection and one ambulance ride later, you were at the hospital getting treatment, and nobody was trying to kill you. It was amazing.

Well, except a hospital is a bad place for a hungry vampire to be. The smell of blood was low-key driving you crazy, and when you caught yourself wondering how the salt content of intravenous fluids compared to sweat or tears, you insisted upon being discharged against the doctor's orders. It was a slow night at the emergency department, and BTS owns this hospital, so the doctor had already treated you. You just skipped out on the recommended period of observation.

BTS helps you out of the wheelchair and into his limousine. “Don’t you dare,” he growls at his chauffeur. “The next person who tries to hurt her is getting fired and losing their 401k.” He slides into the seat next to you and pulls the door closed, then turns to you and asks, “What’s your address?”

It springs to mind, and you rattle it off to him. That has happened several times over the past couple of hours. Hospitals want tons of personal details during the check-in process, but no matter the question, you had the answer. Your fictional life is becoming more realistic by the moment, which is as disturbing as the chauffeur glaring daggers at you in the rear-view mirror. His pupils have even sharpened to diamond shapes with a distinctive metallic glint.

You cross your arms over your chest and slump down in the seat. There’s dried egg in your hair. Your egged clothes are in a plastic bag on the floor, and you’re wearing the shirt BTS gave you before this whole fiasco. The sleeves cover your hands, and the hem lands a few inches above your knees. You could pull this look off with the right belt and shoes. Alas, you are shoeless and beltless. You want to go home, take a shower, change into your own pajamas, crawl into bed, and stay there for at least two days.

BTS must sense how upset you are. He isn’t trying to talk to you.

The city gives way to dense, dark forests crowding in on both sides of the limousine. The tree branches extend over the road and obscure the night sky. Morning can’t be too far away.

“I didn’t realize your financial trouble was this bad,” BTS comments when the limousine pulls up to a small log cabin.

“It isn’t.” You follow him out of the vehicle and swat his hand away when he tries to help you, preferring to hobble along on your own. It’s hard to pull off the tough boss lady persona with egg in your hair, an oversized shirt, and a foot in a brace. “I own this forest.”

You find the key under the welcome mat and let yourself inside the cabin. It’s like a rustic studio apartment. Open floor plan, plain wooden furnishings, discrete sections for your twin bed, your loveseat, and your kitchen area. Two doors lead to your bathroom and your closet.

“Rrawk! Where have you been, young lady? Did you forget you have responsibilities here? Rrawk!”

“What is that?” BTS stares at the offending scarlet macaw in its cage next to the stove. You’ve heard cooking fumes can be toxic to birds. This one won’t die.

“It’s a gift from my uncle,” you reply.

“You’re such a disappointment! Rrawk! You bring shame to the family!”

“Polly want a sedative?” you snap at the bird, but you’re already opening its bag of food to refill its dish.

“Why don’t you get rid of it?” BTS wonders.

“Would you take it?”

“You’re a failure! Rrawk!”

BTS shakes his head. “No way.”

“Didn’t think so.”

It could be worse. Many werewolf romance stories involve an abusive uncle, but since I’m trying not to give this story a Mature rating, I’ve substituted a mouthy bird. He’s better than a whole squad of security guards. The last burglar who broke in was sobbing hysterically and calling his mother to apologize for all his wrongdoings when you arrived. Your famous shoe collection couldn’t be safer.

“The bathroom’s through there,” you tell BTS, pointing at one of the two doors exiting the main room. You’ve determined there’s no point in asking him to leave, since it’s apparent you two are inseparable now. “You can use the bed. I have stuff I need to do before I can get to sleep, anyway.”

“Hold on. We need to talk.” He glances at the parrot. “Can that thing keep a secret?”

“Don’t trust her! Rrawk! She’s an evil, vile enchantress who will—”

You toss a blanket over the parrot’s cage. “He only repeats insults. Go ahead.”

“Okay, well… you were right.” BTS shuffles his feet and drops his eyes to the floor. He’s still in his blue plaid pajamas, and despite the man being tall, muscular, and ridiculously handsome, he also looks adorable right now. “I want out of the mafia. That’s why I’ve been amassing a personal fortune, so I can buy the right people off and get all the paperwork I need to disappear. But even with that, it’ll be hard to get away, so when I heard about this frayed tag that would help me rewrite my story—”

“Oh, no! Freytag!” You clap a hand to your forehead. “How could I forget about Freytag?”

“What—”

“She’s in danger!” You grab BTS by his upper arms, and even his bulging biceps can’t distract you from your panic. “If we don't find Freytag before that knight finds her, then—”

“What the heck are you talking about?” he asks, seizing you by your upper arms. “Slow down!”

You stop and take a deep breath. “Okay. She lied. The dragon didn’t eat the frayed tag. Her name is Freytag. She’s the legendary weapon you were looking for. And there’s a knight who’s after her, and if she dies—”

“I’ll never get out of the mafia alive,” BTS finishes for you.

That isn’t what you were thinking, but it’s close. You’ll never get out of the story alive without Freytag, because I added this prompt in the last chapter: ‘You discover that the dragon everyone fears is in danger, and you are the only one who can save it from the knight sworn to slay it.’ Combined with the rest of the prompts, the case is clear. Save Freytag, save yourself.

Speaking of survival, BTS’ neck is within biting distance again.

Your stomach growls. You shove him away and rush toward the refrigerator, hoping it has something morally acceptable to eat. Three shelves of glass bottles filled with thick red liquid greet you. Their labels proudly proclaim, ‘I Can’t Believe It Isn’t Blood!’ You grab one, unscrew the lid, and chug its contents, too flustered to question the obvious parody of a well-known brand. But I’ll enlighten you anyway. I don’t like to pair a word that ends in an apostrophe and the letter ‘s’ with the word ‘not.’ It sounds like ‘snot,’ which is gross, hence my use of ‘isn’t.’ So there.

This from the woman who’s forcing me to drink blood, sweat, and tears? you think.

Hey, I just provided you with an alternative. And yes, it’s tomato juice. Just go with it.

You drain the bottle and pull it from your lips, sighing your contentment as you wipe your mouth. Your stomach feels full for the first time since this story began. When you turn to look at BTS again, you don’t see him as a food source. Much better.

He’s looking at you with a raised eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

“I am now.” You chuck the bottle into the trash. “Now, about Freytag—”

“That’s recyclable!”

You roll your eyes and pull the bottle out of the trash, then go to the sink to rinse it out. “Now, about Freytag—”

“What about me?”

The dragon’s roared voice startles you into dropping the bottle, which hits the stainless steel sink and shatters. You groan and reach down to pick up the pieces, but strong arms encircle your waist and pull you back against a rock-hard chest, and your heartbeat picks up as all thoughts vacate your mind.

“Don’t! I’ll handle it. We don’t need another emergency room visit,” BTS says, unaware of how he is turning you to mush.

“Um… I… uh…”

Freytag flies in front of you, holding another bottle of the celebrated tomato juice. She’s smirking. “I brought you this, but I guess you don’t need it anymore, do you?”

Your face is on fire, or close to it. “C-could you let go of me? Please?” you ask BTS. “I… uh…”

He releases you, and you dart into the bathroom and slam the door shut behind you. Your face is bright red in the mirror’s reflection, but there are no literal flames yet, so you stick your tongue out at yourself and turn on the shower. It’s time to wash away the egg and the embarrassment of falling apart at BTS’ touch.

But the man back-hugged you. After everything else he’s done for you, he back-hugged you. What are you supposed to think when a hot, nice guy back-hugs you? Nothing! You’re just supposed to melt into a puddle of warm fuzziness.

A non-anaphylactic puddle of warm fuzziness. Pay attention, Y/n. You don’t want another hospital visit, do you?

At my warning, you press your lips together and tilt your head back, shampooing your hair without letting the egg-shampoo-water mixture enter your mouth. You rinse and repeat, and then, satisfied that the egg is gone and you won’t have another allergic reaction, you resume your normal shower routine. Your heartbeat slows to a healthy rate. Your face cools off. When you step out of the shower and reach for a towel, you are back in control. Your white bathrobe is hanging on the back of the door, and your fuzzy red slippers are sitting on the floor next to you. You put your hair in a towel turban, don your bath apparel, and exit the bathroom, the picture of luxurious, confident composure.

Oh, look. The boot on your ankle is gone, and you feel no pain. How convenient.

Also, BTS is sitting on your bed, playing with a kitten.

“Oh, it’s so cute!” you squeal. “Where did it come from?”

He looks up at you and shrugs. “It followed your cat inside. That is your cat, right? It’s wearing a collar and acts like it owns the place.”

You look over at the calico cat curled up on the loveseat. “Every cat acts like it owns the place, but yes, that’s my cat. She’s spayed, though.”

“She must have found it, then.” He tickles the fluffy gray kitten under its chin and smiles. “Are you looking for a home?” he coos.

You can hear the kitten purring across the room, or maybe you’re purring. Either way, you’re certain you’ll self-combust if you watch this much longer, and you need to put on some clothes. You flee through the second of the two interior doors, the one that leads to your closet. When you are alone and surrounded by shoes, you relax. You rest your back against the door and slide down to the floor with a silly grin. You’ll get dressed in a moment. First, you need a moment of quiet squealing and giddiness while I give the reader a tour of your closet.

It’s the same size as the main cabin. Shelves line every wall, but they do not hold books. Oh, no. They hold shoes. High heels, pumps, flats, slippers, sandals, snow boots, sneakers—it’s a library of footwear. There are smaller display sections throughout the room, like display racks at a shoe store, and they hold even more shoes. There are hanging shelves suspended from chandeliers, each spinning at a slow rate, allowing the crystalline light to dance across patent leather and polished polyester. They’re all red. Every single shoe is a bright crimson red. Every light bulb is red. It’s a vicious room of blood and six-inch spikes, and it is your happy place.

You climb to your feet and go to the bureau wedged in the corner like an afterthought. It has five drawers. All of your clothes fit within those five drawers. You came by your fortune through hard work and frugality, and you’ve maintained your spendthrift philosophy in most areas of life. Shoes are the obvious exception. In fact, you entered the business world on a quest to buy more shoes, and your collection is now in the Guinness Book of World Records. It isn’t enough. You need more shoes. Your white pajama shirt has a red high heel embroidered over your chest with the phrase, ‘Dreaming about shoes,’ and assorted red shoes cover your white pajama pants. It was a custom order, and it’s your wish list. You’ve obtained twenty of the shoes on your pants so far.

You smile and return to the main room. BTS is gone now, and the bathroom door is closed. You spot your cat’s white-tipped orange tail exiting through the cat door. She leaves at about this time every night. You shrug and curl up on the loveseat, ready to rest after a long and bizarre day, and you dream of shoes.

A howl awakens you.

You sit bolt upright. The lump in your bed must be BTS. Sunshine is streaming through the windows. The clock says it’s afternoon now. Your parrot is oddly quiet, and the gray kitten is clambering through the cat door.

You get up and follow it outside.

Grass and leaves crunch under your feet. You hear another howl, and you flinch. You recognize that howl. It doesn’t hold good memories for you. When you round the corner of your cabin, what you see in the backyard makes you gasp. Your cat is sitting on a pedestal, surrounded by a horde of kittens and the pack that rejected you. She turns her odd eyes upon you, one blue, one green.

“Deploy Plan F!” she meows.

You groan. Not your cat, too…