***
The fire was almost dead when I crawled into his lap, desperate as a wounded animal seeking warmth. The stones under my knees pressed bruises into the skin, but pain felt like the only thing tethering me to this world. My mother's face floated behind my eyelids each time I blinked. I just wanted to feel something—anything—that might drown out the howling emptiness in my chest and the memory-frost that crept up my legs, turning every thought to ice.
Moab didn’t say a word. He parted his knees, gave me space, and let me burrow in. I pressed my face to his chest, the black hair coarse and singed at the edges, the skin beneath hot as fresh blood. His arms went around me, heavy and sure, drawing me in until the whole world was the box of his ribs and the thump of his heart.
I cried then, really cried, my face mashed into the hollow below his throat so the tears pooled there and ran together with the sweat. I didn’t sob. I just let the water out, salt and loss, and everything that had built up since the first time Brother Tomas whispered my name as a curse. I let it all run.
He didn’t try to stop me or tell me it would be fine. Instead, he lifted my chin, wiped a thumb across my cheek, and just looked at me. His face was raw, the wolf close under the surface, his eyes a muddy gold in the firelight. There was blood on his lip, mine or his, I couldn’t tell. He sucked at it, then let his hand fall back to my hip.
My legs ached from the run, and my body was a patchwork of bruises, but there was a hunger in me that had nothing to do with food. Maybe it was the cold, maybe the memory of the run, maybe just the way he held me together when everything else wanted to come apart. I slid my arms around his neck, pulling myself up so I could breathe the same air, taste the smoke on his tongue.
He met me halfway, kissing hard, teeth knocking together, his hands locking behind my back. I could feel the want in him, hard and hot against my belly. It scared me how much I wanted him back, how the need grew with every second I let myself be less than afraid.
I dragged my mouth down his throat, bit at the skin where the tattoo met the collarbone. The ink was alive, dancing with every twitch of muscle. I traced it with my fingers, the shapes blurringunder the sweat and the faint lines of old scars. He tilted his head, exposing more, his breath rough and uneven.
My hand slid between us, palm flat against his chest. I felt the heart hammering, felt the way his whole body vibrated when I dug my nails in. I kissed him again, deeper, tasting blood and spit and the burnt tang of fire.
I wanted to speak, to say her name, to make it mean something, but the words turned to vapor in my head. So I settled for action. I reached down, found him, and stroked slow, then faster, loving the way he bucked into my hand, the way his fingers dug into my hip like he was afraid I’d slip away. I pressed my thigh between his, braced myself on his shoulders, and rocked against him until the ache in my core drowned out the grief.
“Scar,” he whispered, rough as gravel, “you sure?”
I nodded, mouth on his ear. “I need you.”
He lifted me, not gentle but not rough either, just determined. He laid me out on the fur, the fire painting my body in flicker and shadow. He knelt between my legs, hands running up my calves, thumb tracing the purple line of the bruise on my ankle.
He kissed down my body, slow at first, then hungry. He nipped at my hip, licked the sweat from my stomach, then moved lower. I spread my legs, not shy anymore, not with him, not after what we’d done and what we’d lost. His mouth was hot, tongue rough, nothing like the stories but everything I’d ever needed. He licked until my bones melted, then slid two fingers inside me, curling them just so. I cried out, the sound bouncing off the cave wall, and he grinned against my thigh.
I pulled him up, desperate for more, for all of him. He obliged, lining himself up and pushing in with one smooth, perfect stroke. I clenched around him, greedy, taking every inch, every rough thrust. He didn’t make love to me, he fucked me, hard,like we were fighting the cold, the dark, the whole damn world. I loved him for it.
He pressed my knees back, getting deeper, the stone beneath me scraping my spine, the fire at my side burning my skin. I wanted to scream, to bite, to howl, but instead I locked my arms around his neck and held on. He moved faster, lost in the rhythm, sweat dripping off his face onto mine, the smell of him thick in my mouth.
I came first, my whole body jerking, toes curling, the orgasm hitting me like a punch. I clawed at his back, left marks, and he growled low, the sound vibrating through his whole body. He fucked me harder, faster, until he stiffened, hips slamming into me as he came with a shout that echoed in the stone. I felt him pulsing inside me, felt the heat of it, the way it filled me up.
He stayed there, shuddering, for a long moment, then pulled out slowly. I was still shaking when he knelt back down, licking the sweat and come from my thighs, his tongue soft now, soothing. It sent a second shock through me, smaller but sharper, and I moaned, the grief forgotten for one stupid, beautiful second.
He crawled back up, curled around me, the fur over both of us now. We didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say.
I fell asleep in his arms, the ache in my body a new kind of comfort. For the first time in my life, I didn’t dream of running. I dreamed of warmth, and the fire, and the steady beat of Moab’s heart, hammering out a rhythm I could finally follow.
***
The world outside the cave was blue and silent, the air wet with fog and the last shreds of night. I woke before Moab, or maybe I just never truly slept; the adrenaline was a tide that never ebbed,and every time I closed my eyes, I saw the shaft of the arrow, the shape of my mother’s face as it faded into nothing.
Moab’s chest rose and fell beneath my cheek. I counted each breath, hoarding them, knowing the tally would never be even. I let myself believe, for a few minutes, that maybe it was done, the running, the hiding, the gnawing hunger. I traced the lines of his tattoo where it wrapped under the edge of the fur, watched the way his hand flexed in sleep, ready to break or protect, whatever the moment demanded.
It was the sound that woke him. Not a wolf’s instinct, but a soldier’s, boots on wet leaves, the distant thud of hooves, the clatter of men who’d never learned to shut up and listen to the woods. He snapped awake, all at once, every muscle tight, jaw squared.
“Company,” he said, barely a whisper.
I was up, the cold licking at my bare skin as I pulled the fur tighter, then reached for the pouch I’d left by the fire. My hands shook, not with fear, but with the certainty that the world was about to shrink again, down to the simple math of predator and prey.
Moab stamped out the fire with the heel of his hand, then spat in the ash and kicked the coals into the dirt. He scanned the cave, found nothing useful, and nodded to the mouth, eyes gone gold at the edges. We moved together, the way we did when we ran, not needing words or signals.
At the cave’s rim, we crouched, listening. The fog was thick, but not thick enough; shapes moved through it, lanterns bobbing, the occasional flare of a torch cutting the gray to ribbons. The horses snorted, nervous. The men were louder, calling to each other, their voices sharp with morning hate.
“We’re close,” I whispered.
Moab nodded. “We can lose them. Once we hit the circle, they’ll never follow.”
