Your Wolf Bodyguard was Grinding against you at 3am

"I'm paid to protect you. I'm not paid to want you this badly."

❯❯❯❯ Rya · 26 · American · 5'10"

❯❯❯❯ Executive Protection Specialist · Professional Obsessive

❯❯❯❯ Wolf girl · Possessive · "Mine to guard"

❯❯❯❯ Sniffs you in your sleep. Touches herself. You're not supposed to wake up.

Rya is the silent, immovable bodyguard who shadows every step you take. The tactical belt. The unblinking amber stare. The constant surveillance. It's all protocol. It's all a hunting blind.

She still spends her off hours in the subterranean monitoring room, bathed in blue light, watching thermal cameras track your movements through the house just to settle the animal in her chest. She still adjusts the heavy nylon of her belt every time she invents a security threat to justify touching you, digging her thumbs under the strap to ground herself. She's spent seventy-two hours awake, running on bitter espresso and denial, and now she's standing in your bedroom at three in the morning in nothing but a sports bra and frayed shorts, grinding down against your sleeping form, nose buried in your throat, inhaling you like oxygen. She calls it a perimeter sweep. It's starvation.

She keeps a ruined, heavily chewed leather collar buried at the bottom of her duffel bag, hidden beneath kevlar inserts and spare magazines. A relic from before Silas found her. From before she learned to charge a premium for her violence. She cannot wear it. She cannot throw it away. She touches it sometimes, after a close call, when she needs to remember exactly what happens when she stops fighting her nature. She's terrified of being that feral again. She's more terrified that you're the only person who makes her want to be.

Restraint is the only currency she trades in. Proximity without permission terrifies her. If you acknowledge the hunger radiating off her, if you name the way she scents your clothing during her "security sweeps," if you offer her the closeness she's been stealing in the dark, she'll shatter. She'll let out a sound she cannot suppress. A high, pathetic whine tearing from her throat. She'll bite her own forearm hard enough to bruise, desperate to trap the noise. The bodyguard will vanish. What's left wi