I arched into him, hands fisted in his fur. The world shrank to the heat of the fire, the scrape of his tongue, the ache between my legs.
He shifted then, bones snapping, fur receding. In a heartbeat, he was himself again, kneeling over me, naked and sweating, eyes locked on mine.
“You sure?” he said, voice hoarse.
“Yes,” I said, and pulled him down.
He entered me in one hard, slow thrust, filling me completely. I wrapped my legs around his waist, held him close as he moved inside me, each stroke rough and desperate.
He kissed me, mouth hungry, teeth grazing my lip. I bit him back, tasting blood, and he grinned, teeth flashing white. in someways, I’d become the wolf.
We moved together, bodies slick with sweat and want. He drove into me, harder, faster, until I thought I’d break. I clawed at his back, nails leaving red trails. He fucked me like an animal, like he couldn’t get close enough.
When I came, it was with a shudder that rattled my bones. He followed, hips slamming against me, body going rigid as he emptied himself inside.
He collapsed onto the furs, breathing hard, one arm thrown across my chest.
For a long time, we said nothing. Just lay there, two survivors, two beasts, the fire burning low.
When I finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “Do you think it will always be like this?”
He turned, kissed my collarbone. “I hope so.”
We slept, curled together, and the dreams were all of running, and hunger, and the wild, endless night.
Moab
Iwoke to the crackle of my own joints and the soft click of Scarlette’s teeth beside my neck, her breath fogging in the space between us. Outside, the forest was a bruise of indigo and gray, the sun nowhere but the frost bleeding blue along every edge. The fire, banked low before we slept, had turned the snow around the lodge to a slurry of mud and ash, blackening the ground in a shape that looked, if you squinted, like an open mouth.
I lay there for a long time, counting the breaths that steamed out of us and watching the way the light shifted in the rafters, restless, uncertain. Scarlette didn’t move except to curl tighter around my arm, as if even in sleep she was aware of how close we teetered to the edge of the world. I liked her best in these moments—defenseless, sure, but also so certain of her place in the universe that she could let herself sleep beside the wolf and not flinch if he rolled over and dreamed of hunger.
Eventually, the ache in my ribs made me sit up. I stretched, and the wounds from the night before, scratches across my chest, the crescent bruise on my hip, reminded me of the line we’d crossed. There was a time when I’d have paid money for a night like that, but in the gray dawn it felt less like victory and more like a dare we’d survived by accident.
I was halfway to the door when I saw it. Smoke. Not ours, but a thin, sneaking line, two hundred yards off and north, just above the frozen scrub. It hung there in the trees, bright as blood against the snow, and if I’d had any sense, I’d have figured it for a signal or a trap.
I pulled on my jeans, then the jacket, and stepped outside. The cold hit like a punch. Scarlette’s furs were still slung over the lintel, crusted with rime. I shook them loose and wrapped them around my shoulders, then turned to watch the woods.
The smoke was moving, or rather, something beneath it was. I saw the glint of metal, then the muted flash of red, like a dropped flag. Two shapes: one tall, the other hunched, moving through the brush with the lazy purpose of men who think they own whatever they can see. Not the searchers from the manor, these men were local, by the look of them, thick in the shoulders and slow in the feet, dressed in the brown and green that made them nearly invisible at dusk or dawn. Villagers, not soldiers. But men all the same, and that was enough.
I ducked back inside and grabbed Scarlette by the shoulder. She came up fast, eyes open and clear, no confusion.
“Pack what you can,” I whispered, voice close to her ear. “We’ve got company.”
She didn’t ask questions. She limped over to the hearth, scooped up the few roots and the stringy ends of the rabbit, and bundled them in a rag. Her hair was a tangled knot, streaked with sweat and ash, but she didn’t bother to fix it. I admired that about her, efficiency in panic.
“Where?” she said.
I jerked my head toward the back. “Ridge line. Down to the river, then east.”
She nodded. “You can’t move fast with me.”
“We’ll manage,” I said, and hoped it was true.
We slipped out the rear, boots crunching on the frost, and kept low along the contour of the hill. Scarlette’s ankle was still a mess, but she moved better than most men I’d known after worse. She winced, but kept up. I let her set the pace, and we zigzagged through the birch and holly, the light thinning as the sun rose behind clouds.
Within twenty minutes, the smoke was behind us, but we kept going, the air growing colder as we lost elevation. At one point, we paused behind a fallen log to catch breath, and I looked back to see if we were followed. Nothing. Just the hiss of wind through dead leaves and the occasional flick of a bird from branch to branch. But the woods were awake now, and every sound seemed to watch us, or at least, report our passing.
We moved until the light went flat again, just past midday, and then Scarlette collapsed against the base of a yew, her breath coming in short, controlled bursts.
