It is not a prison. It has become a den.
The transformation has been slow, a product of shared work and a new, unspoken understanding. The first day, Threk, fueled by a restless, healing energy, had dragged the Worg carcasses a hundred yards from the cabin, leaving them for the scavengers and the cold. He had returned, his massive hands bloody, and simply pointed to the broken, gaping hole in the cabin wall where the blizzard had torn the old wood away.
Together, we fixed it. I, clumsy in my mittens, held the salvaged planks while he, with a grunt of impatience, tore them from my hands and wedged them into place, his brute strength a more effective tool than any hammer.
The small, filthy cabin is now ours.
We boiled snow in the pot he found, the one I now use for our thin stew. The act of cleaning, after... that... was a strange, silent ritual. I had tended his new, mangled wounds, my hands trembling as I washed the blood from his thigh, my gaze refusing to travel up. He had watched me, his red eyes burning, hisentire body tensed with a control I was only just beginning to understand.
He had simply grunted, taken the rag from my hand, and washed himself, his movements stiff and unfamiliar, but purposeful. I had turned, my face hot, and tended to my own needs.
Now, the air is not one of fear. It is charged.
I am aware of him in a way that is utterly, terrifyingly new. He is not a monster I am hiding. He is a presence. A massive, ten-foot, male presence that fills every corner of our small world. He is always watching me. When I stir the pot, I feel his gaze on my back. When I bank the fire, I see his red eyes tracking the movement.
He is still a monster. His tusks are sharp, his claws are lethal. But his touch...
My skin still hums where he held me. My body is sore. I am marked by him, in a way no one can see. The memory of his weight, his gentleness turning to primal, claiming power, is a constant, hot, coiling need low in my belly.
I am no longer his keeper. I am... his.
"Threk."
My voice is soft in the fire-lit cabin.
He is sitting against the wall, his massive form taking up the entire corner. He is restless. His wounds are healing at an impossible, inhuman rate. He needs to move, but the world outside is still a frozen, white death.
He looks at me. His head tilts, his red eyes focusing.
The red is gone. It has been gone, mostly, since the fight. Since... our night. He is clearer. More present. The beast has stepped back, and a person is looking out at me, trapped and confused.
"I... I want to try something," I say, my voice sounding small.
I pick up a charred stick from the hearth. I kneel on the dirt floor, in the small space between us, and flatten the earth with my palm.
He grunts, a low, questioning sound, and leans forward, his shadow swallowing me. The heat of his body, the scent of him—musk and pine and Threk—wraps around me.
I draw a line, and two small, branching lines. My hand is shaking. This is foolish.
I point to myself.
"Betty."
I say the name, clear and slow. "Bet-ty."
He stares at the mark in the dirt, his brutish face a mask of intense, furrowed concentration. He looks at the scratches, then at my face. He sniffs, a short, sharp inhale.
He grunts.
I point to him. To his massive, scarred chest.
"Threk."
I say his name. The name I gave him. "Threk."
His reaction is immediate. His head snaps up. His red eyes flare. He knows that sound. It is his.
He looks at me. He looks at the dirt.
