Hell hath no fury like a dog-girl scorned.

  There was something almost frightening about her devotion—the absolute certainty with which she'd decided I was her childhood-best-friend Alec, the fierce protectiveness that radiated from her.

  "Nessy, you don't need to—" I began, but she cut me off by pressing her wet nose against my cheek, nuzzling harder.

  "Yes, I do," she insisted, her fur rubbing against my freshly cleaned skin, leaving damp patches behind. "I'm going to stick to you like shed fur on a black suit. Like motor oil on a mechanic's hands. Like—"

  "Yes, I get the picture," I interrupted, trying to create some space between us. Her arms only tightened in response, clawed fingers curling into the fabric of my towel.

  "Do you though?" Her head tilted, those blue eyes staring deep into mine with an intensity that made it hard to look away. "Because I'm not sure you understand just how important this is to me. To us.”

  She shifted, somehow managing to wrap herself even more thoroughly around me, her damp tail coiling against my leg. The towel she'd been wearing was slipping precariously, but she seemed utterly unconcerned, focused entirely on maintaining and increasing the fur to skin contact ratio.

  "You're suffocating me," I said, only half-joking.

  "Am not. You're still talking, aren't you?" she countered, but loosened her grip slightly only to start rubbing all over me. "I just... I need this, okay? After everything I've gone through, I really need to know you're really here. That you're not going to disappear again. That you’re not going to vanish without an explanation.”

  “I’m not sure if this counts as helping my mental state,” I said.

  “Eh. It’s helping my mental state which in turn should help your mental state,” she said. “If you want to stop ‘the marking’ then say so very sternly. Make it an order, not just a half-hearted whine.”

  "Marking?" I asked, trying to process her words as she continued to distractingly rub against me. "Is that what this is?"

  "Mmhmm," she confirmed, nuzzling her head under my chin. "Scent marking. So other predavarians know you're part of my pack. It's instinctual." Her wet nose traced a line up my neck to my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

  "There aren't any other predavarians here to smell it," I pointed out, my voice strained as I tried to maintain some semblance of personal space.

  "Don't care," she replied, her voice muffled against my collarbone as she rubbed her cheek against it. "Makes me feel better. Safer. More connected."

  Her damp fur left trails of moisture across my skin as she continued her determined marking campaign. She shifted again, practically climbing into my lap as her paws kneaded rhythmically against my shoulders. The towel she'd been wearing had now slipped almost completely off, hanging precariously from one side.

  "Nessy, seriously," I protested, trying to hold her at arm's length. "This is too much."

  "Too much what?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. Her head tilted in that distinctly canine way, ears perked forward attentively. "Too much bonding? Too much comfort? Too much friendship?"

  She was practically shoving me down with her weight now.

  "Too much... unexpected mauling," I said, attempting to create a small gap between us. "Look, I understand you've been through a lot. I get that you're happy to have found me—or someone you think is me. But this level of... physical intensity is pushing it."

  "Why?”

  “Because I just met you yesterday, damn it!”

  “Not from my point of view,” she laughed and then eyed my expression. “Okay, okay… I'll dial it back from eleven to maybe... a ten? That's my final offer."

  "How about a three?" I countered.

  She snorted. "A three? What am I, a cat? Nine and a half, and that's as low as I can go."

  Despite being smothered by her body, I found myself smiling. "Four."

  “No deal,” she said. “Just for that lowball offer, I’m bringing it back up to ten and a half. I will follow you everywhere. Even to the bathroom."

  "No. That's where I draw the line!" I said firmly.

  "Fine, I'll wait outside the door," she compromised. "Seriously though, I'm still not letting you out of my sniffing range ever again."

  "Isn't your sniffing range like a few kilometers?"

  "I was being metaphorical," she rolled her eyes.

  "You're going to get tired of sniffing me very quickly."

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  "Nope," she declared, finally pulling back enough to meet my eyes again. "Dogs don't get tired of their pack. It's against our nature."

  “Nessy…!” I began

  “Alec…!” She copied my tone exactly.

  We stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills that I was clearly losing. Her face was inches from mine, her breath warming up my face.

  "You're being ridiculous," I sighed.

  "Ridiculously devoted," she corrected, resuming her rubbing with renewed enthusiasm. Her wet fur left damp trails across my shoulders and neck as she nuzzled against me. "Ridiculously loyal to the pack as is expected of me."

  "That's not—"

  "Shhh," she interrupted, pressing a fuzzy finger to my lips. "Accept it. I am going to be your shadow, your protector, your constant companion whether you like it or not."

  She continued her thorough marking campaign, circling behind me to rub her cheek against my back, her tail swishing with satisfaction. The towel she'd been wearing had now completely abandoned its post, leaving her entirely unconcerned by her nudity as she methodically covered me in her scent.

  "There," she declared finally, sitting back to admire her handiwork. "Now you smell properly like my pack."

  "Thanks. I just got clean and now I smell like wet dog."

  "You're welcome," she said cheerfully, completely missing or ignoring my sarcasm. "And it's premium wet dog, thank you very much. Top-shelf stuff! Accept no substitutes!"

  She padded over to the mountain of boxes. Giggling to herself and wagging her tail, she started methodically digging through it.

  “Aha! Clothes!” She declared after a few minutes and padded back to unceremoniously dump a box of assorted outfits onto the damp air mattress. There were several t-shirts of various sizes, a pair of jeans that looked too small for me, some cargo pants that might work, and a flannel shirt similar to Calvin's.

  "No underwear," she observed unnecessarily. "Guess you'll have to go commando." She winked, her tail wagging mischievously.

  "Thanks for the update," I muttered, sorting through the options. "Could you maybe turn around while I get dressed?"

  "Seriously?" she asked, tilting her head. "After we washed each other?"

  "Yes, seriously," I insisted.

  With an exaggerated eye-roll that involved her entire head, Nessy turned to rest her back against mine, still completely unconcerned about her own nakedness.

  I quickly grabbed the cargo pants and a faded gray t-shirt with a lumberjack brewery logo and

  “Beard Cultivator" tag on it.

  "These will do," I pulled on the pants. The shirt was next, sliding over my head just as Nessy turned back around, apparently deciding she'd been patient long enough.

  "Not bad," she assessed, circling me with a critical eye. "The t-shirt brings out the green in your eyes."

  "I'm more concerned with functionality than fashion," I replied, adjusting the too-loose waistband of the cargo pants.

  "Here," she said, diving back into the box and emerging with a belt. "Function and fashion, two birds with one stone!"

  She approached me with the belt, but instead of handing it over, she proceeded to thread it through the loops herself, her face a mask of concentration as she worked.

  Then she went to the pile of boxes once again. A part of me was expecting her to get dressed but she emerged with a bag of doggie treats and a pet brush.

  She tore open the treats bag, thrust the brush at me and plopped in front of me. “Make with the brushing.”

  I hesitated momentarily. "I don't exactly have experience brushing... Pradavarians."

  "Oh please," she scoffed, looking over her shoulder at me. "You must have brushed one of your… pet dogs at some point in your life, yes?"

  She waved the dog treats at me as if to illustrate her point. The package had a picture of a golden retriever with a wide grin, its tongue hanging out playfully. The bright red background of the package featured bold, white lettering advertising "All-Natural Ingredients" and "Tail-Wagging Flavor!"

  "Well, yes, but—"

  "Same principle," she interrupted, throwing the treats into her mouth and crunching. "Mmm. These are pretty good. N’ways, I'll tell you if it hurts, so it'll be even easier."

  "Mkay.” I examined the pet brush, noting soft bristles on one side and metal teeth on the other.

  "Just start at the ends and work your way up," she instructed. "Like you would with human hair. And use the soft side for now.”

  I began brushing her.

  "Mmm, that's nice," she hummed after a few strokes. "Go a little harder, s’ all good."

  I applied more pressure, working methodically through the tangles in her fur. It was oddly relaxing, this simple, repetitive motion. The brush slid through the smoother patches with a satisfying swish, catching only occasionally on the knots that had formed during her days of escaping abominations.

  "So," I began, "in your world, what's the etiquette around this sort of thing? I mean, is brushing someone's fur as casual as you're making it seem, or...?"

  Nessy made a contemplative sound. "Depends on the relationship. Family members, sure. Close friends, absolutely. Packmates, definitely. Strangers? Not so much." She tilted her head, considering. "It's intimate, but not necessarily romantic, if that's what you're asking."

  "I wasn't—" I let out.

  "It's okay," she laughed. "I'm just teasing. You're fun to fluster."

  "I'm not flustered," I muttered unconvincingly, focusing on a particularly stubborn tangle near her shoulder.

  "Yeah, sure. Your scent says otherwise," she replied smugly, her tail swatting at me. “You can’t hide stuff from me. I know you too well and you don’t know my weaknesses yet.”

  “You have weaknesses?” I asked.

  "Everyone has weaknesses," Nessy replied with a shrug that rippled through the fur I was brushing.

  "Like what?" I prompted, genuinely curious. "Belly rubs? Tennis balls? Squirrels?"

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Seriously?”

  “I’d die for a good belly rub. Ball chasing is super fun and reinforces the pack coordination and the squirrel prad working the UPS counter at Ferguson drives me up the wall.”

  “What a stereotypical doggo,” I commented.

  "Uh-huh. Plus, I'm overly loyal to a fault. Too trusting sometimes. Really bad at letting go of things." She glanced back at me meaningfully. "Obviously."

  "Obviously," I agreed dryly.

  "I'm also terrible at cooking," she continued. "Like, spectacularly bad. Once I set my apartment on fire trying to make pasta."

  "How do you set pasta on fire?" I asked, returning to my brushing task.

  "Step one: forget you're making pasta. Step two: leave the kitchen to work on a motorcycle engine downstairs. Step three: remember you were cooking when the smoke alarm goes off."

  I chortled.