THE CLAIMING (The Chosen Series #1)

THERAPY

"Ava, tell me more about the wolf. Describe its appearance and the emotions it stirs within you."

Since returning home, my Wolf has become a constant presence, not just in my dreams but also in fleeting glimpses that tease the edges of my sight. It's never fully tangible—more like a shadow, an elusive whisper. Sometimes I wonder if it's a trick my mind plays on me. Despite this uncertainty, the thought doesn't frighten me; it's been a source of comfort, a familiar echo.

Relaxing against the brown leather chaise in my therapist's office, I feel the sun streaming through the large windows warming my chilled body. "Do we have to talk about that?" I sigh.

"Ava," Angela coaxes, her voice smooth and patient, "you understand why exploring this is crucial. The wolf, or the partial wolf, is significant. It's likely connected to the dreams you've had since your parents' accident."

Angela, in her mid to late 40s, attractive with shoulder-length dark hair swept into a bun and red reading glasses perched on her nose, has been a constant support after my parents' accident.

"It's been three weeks, two since we started discussing it. The recurring dreams have a pattern. We need to unravel that," Angela persists.

She's right. Each time I've met with her, we've delved into the events of my time the cabin. Three days with the stranger, grappling with the internal conflict of my willing participation. But it's the appearance of my wolf—my stranger merging into each other—that haunts me each time I close my eyes. Accompanied by the grief of his absence, I'm a mess.

Shortly after my parents' crash, I began dreaming about a black wolf. Since my memories are still fragmented, Angela and I concluded that the wolf symbolized reassurance. If it didn't attack, it signified a guardian, a protector—implying I had the strength to move forward.

It's been years since those dreams. Now, watching my stranger meld with My Wolf makes Angela believe they're intertwined.

I take a deep breath and recount the dream from the previous night, where the stranger stood broken, almost lost, in the shadows, calling out with his yellow eyes and nothing more.

Angela hums thoughtfully. "You mentioned his eyes were yellow. Is that correct? How did that make you feel?"

I try to articulate the emotions—anger? No. Hatred? No.

"It's alright, Ava. Take your time," Angela's soothing voice takes over. "Visualize the dream. Picture him. Can you do that?"

I nod, and Angela holds my hand. "Good. Focus on his face. Squeeze my hand when you see it clearly, okay?"

A gentle squeeze follows. "Good. Now, look at his eyes. Are they angry? No? Scared? No? Sad?"

I squeeze, tears forming behind my closed lids.

"You're safe. Do you want to continue?" I squeeze. "Okay, let's explore your feelings. Why the guilt, Ava? Do you think it's your fault he's gone?"

I squeeze hard, tears streaming down as I sit up, Angela's hand now on my shoulder.

"It's my fault," I sob. "I killed him, I..."

"Ava, it wasn't intentional. But talking helps. What else do you feel?"

"I hate him. I hate him for making me miss him so much... I don't even know his name... But I miss him."

"What about him do you miss?" Angela probes.

Through sobs, I finally admit the buried feeling, "Home."

"He made me feel like I was home."

Wiping my tears, I pick up a tissue. "It's different, not like with my parents. There's been a void since they died, and he filled it. He felt like home, but not theirs."