Good Night, My Love: FICTION

By Kameryn James

He can get quite energetic and restless at night. He shifts about or heads outside for fresh air in the pitch black. Often, he keeps me up. When he finally settles into bed, I run my fingers through his hair, my nails gently raking his tense scalp. His dark locks feel inhumanly thick. Or I tenderly scratch his back, so broad and muscular. Sometimes I plant a kiss on his brawny shoulder. Each of these gestures comforts him, often leading to his love, just as energetic and strong like iron. He then sleeps soundly and grudgingly stirs in the morning.

Good night, my love.

Yet there are nights it is not this simple. There are precautionary routines that were heartbreaking and terrifying at first in the budding relationship. On these nights, he does not sleep. I didn’t either at first. I paced, worried, and cried until the morning light when he calmed, when he finally slept.

Foremost, I make sure he has plenty of food. Sometimes it is a massive slab of pork from the butcher. Occasionally, I can buy a fresh kill from the big game hunter in a neighboring county.

Then, most importantly, I secure him for the night. It took a painstakingly long time for him to convince me to chain him to the wall and bolt the door behind me. He pleaded with his full lips and grey-blue eyes. I argued with many points and questions. I can’t do it. What if someone sees us? Perhaps I did not believe him at first. Yet the howling, horrid slamming that rattles the hefty door hinges, and the skeletal carcass the next morning taught me of his legendary and raw power. Therefore, steel reinforced doors are triple bolted. For occasionally, the chains do not hold his savagery.

“Good night, my love,” I whisper tenderly to him.

Dutifully, I step away from his bolted chamber and return to our empty bed where his invigorating, feral scent tells me he will lay with me the next night. Each morning after, I unlock his lair and find him barely conscious, naked and damp with sweat.

Until this night, after my heart has hardened throughout the years and turned perhaps more savage than his. I stand with wide eyes locked on the unsecured door and trembling hand hovering over the bolt. My heart quickens and breath catches short when the chains rattle. Low howls resonate inside his chamber as bones shift and grow, stretching muscle and skin.

I have to bolt the door. I can’t leave him like this and dash back to the main house. But he does not deserve a cage. After all, it is who he is.

So I don’t lock the door. I do hold my breath when they finally burst open. I cower at by the upstairs window as he prowls outside on hind legs, his long nose sniffing, his pointed ears twitching and listening, and silvery blue eyes searching. Soon he is on all fours, quick, swift and predatory.

Good night, my love.

About The Author

Kameryn James grew up in Louisiana.

After doing the “right thing” of attending college and earning a couple of degrees (and debt), she finally pursued her original dream of writing. Although she writes primarily horror, she enjoys reading many genres, especially fantasy.

Kameryn often challenges the idea of who gets a “happily ever after” ending in her stories.
By day, Kameryn James is a psychotherapist named Alison.

Book full of terrible things:

Doll House:

Her Blog:

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