My breath catches. Is he... is he asking me?
Slowly, my fingers move again. I trace the raised, ropy ridges of old scars. So many. His entire back is a map of pain. A geography of a life I cannot imagine. This is what the elves did.
I find the other one, the wound on his shoulder from the other raider.
"You saved us," I whisper, my throat thick. "You saved me. In the hovel, you... I've never... you were terrifying. You were... a monster. But you were my monster."
The words hang in the dark. My monster.
He rumbles, a deep, soft, possessive sound. Yes.
I talk for hours. I tell him about Christmas. I tell him about the wooden star, how it's a promise. A promise of light. Hegrunts when I use the word "Christmas," as if he remembers it. I tell him about my mother's lullaby. I even hum it, my voice a thin, reedy, shaking sound in the overwhelming dark.
And he listens.
He answers with grunts and rumbles. He growls when he hears the fear in my voice. He rumbles when he hears the hope.
I am not alone in this cave.
The human part of me, the part that needs connection, is no longer afraid of the monster. It is bonding with him.
My voice grows thick with sleep. My eyelids are heavy. The screaming of the wind is a lullaby. Threk's body is a fortress. His heat is a blanket. The deep, slow bellows of his breathing is the only rhythm in the world.
I am safer here, pressed against a ten-foot killing machine, than I have ever been in my life.
I drift. I fall asleep in the dark, my hand still pressed against his scarred, warm back.
12
BETTY
Iwake to silence.
The thought is so jarring, so wrong, that my eyes snap open.
The screaming is gone. The wind is no longer a monster wailing at our door; it is a low, weary moan.
The darkness is no longer absolute. A faint, watery, gray light seeps through the cracks around Threk’s body, a body that is still wedged, a living wall, in the cave’s entrance.
It’s day. We’re alive.
My entire body is a map of aches. I’m stiff, my muscles frozen in the curled position I fell asleep in. But I am warm.
I am still pressed against Threk’s massive back. My face is pillowed on his hide, my arm thrown over his waist. And his arm...
His massive arm is still wrapped around me. His clawed hand is still resting on my hip, pinning me against him. The sheer possessiveness of the gesture, done in his sleep, sends a strange, hot, flicker of something through my cold limbs.
I am aware of everything. The heavy, musky, animal scent of him, which is no longer frightening—it is just his. The leathery,scarred texture of his skin beneath my cheek. The slow, deep, powerful rhythm of his breathing.
I am a mouse, sleeping in the den of a lion, and I have never felt safer.
He stirs.
A low grunt rumbles in his chest, the sound vibrating straight through me. His red eyes open. He does not jolt; he is simply awake.
His hand, the one on my hip, clenches. His claws, those black, dagger-like things, press gently into my side through my thick cloak. It’s a testing, a reassurance. You are still here.
My breath catches. I don't move. I don't breathe.
