Chapter 18
We don’t speak at all until we’re back in the tent. My skin is still tingling from the hot spring, and when Fox’s hand accidentally brushes mine as we duck through the tent flap, electricity shoots up my arm.
My thoughts are racing just as fast as my heartbeat.
There’s nothing wrong with a purely physical relationship if we’re both fine with that, I just don’t know if I am. I’m not sure yet if I’m able to keep my feelings separated, and I’m never going to put myself in a position to beg for attention.
On the other hand, there’s no question for me that if we get in that bed together right now, we’re going to have sex—and I’m struggling to remember all my carefully constructed reasons why we shouldn’t.
It would be easier to disentangle my feelings if we weren’t trapped here together.
I wish I could go anywhere else to be away from Fox for a while, but of course, there’s nowhere to go.
Fox clears his throat. “Are you hungry?”
“No,” I say, though my stomach feels hollow.
“I am,” he says flatly. “I’ll bring something back for you if you want it later.”
He doesn’t wait for me to say anything back, just ducks out of the tent again, the flap falling closed behind him with a soft thud. Obviously, I’m not the only one who needed a moment alone.
Eugene is still exploring the forest, so I’m left with only my own thoughts as I weave my damp hair into a braid and change into fresh clothing.
It’s still early, but I climb into bed. I want to be asleep by the time Fox gets back.
I burrow under the weight of the furs and the handmade quilt, pulling them up to my chin. I close my eyes, willing myself to relax, but a moment later, my eyes pop open again. I keep trying, but it’s as if my eyelids suddenly have a mind of their own and have forgotten how to do their job.
My thoughts keep racing, circling. I roll over, unable to get comfortable. With a huff of frustration, I shove the quilt down until my feet escape, dangling exposed in the cool night air.
For a moment, I think I’ve finally managed to find a comfortable position. Then, my stomach growls loudly and I press a hand to it. I should have gone to dinner.
I just didn’t want to go and sit on Fox’s lap staring at each other for several hours while the entire camp of wolves watched to make sure we look “mated” enough.
Ironically, tonight probably would have been my most convincing performance yet, because all I can think about is how I want him to touch me again.
I’ve gotten too used to regular orgasms every time I feel restless, and going without it makes my skin hot and my pulse erratic.
My hand is still flat on my stomach beneath the blankets, and suddenly my fingers seem to have a mind of their own.
Tentatively, I trail my fingers down my stomach, past the waistband of my underwear.
I run a light finger over the sensitive spot between my legs, just barely touching.
My hips jerk upward, unbidden. My toes curl against the fur bedding, as I bite down on my lower lip to keep from making a sound.
I need to remember that the wolves can hear me. But then again, if they’re all at dinner…
My breath catches as I resume my soft stroking, teasing myself until a delicious tension pulls at my lower belly. I rub harder, and rock my hips for several minutes, trying to tip over the edge, but it’s not enough.
Reaching around with my other hand, I slide a finger inside myself, then another finger, stretching my inner walls as I keep massaging circles over my swollen clit. Gods, that’s better.
My hips buck against my palm as sparks race up my spine, my teeth clenching around a whimper that threatens to escape.
I close my eyes, trying not to picture Fox doing this to me, but his face appears anyway.
I bite back a moan and turn over, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle any sound, my body tensing and then finally releasing in waves that leave me trembling.
When it’s over, I lie on my back breathing heavily. I feel better, at least physically. Emotionally, I have no idea what I feel, but at least I’m tired enough that I don’t have to think about it anymore as I drift off to sleep.
What feels like sometime later, I wake up to the soft rustle of the tent flap.
I know it’s Fox without opening my eyes—something in the cadence of his breathing, the weight of his footsteps.
I drift on the edge of waking as I listen to him walk across the tent, then the gentle clink as he sets something down on the table—my dinner, probably—followed by the whisper of fabric as he moves around the tent, trying not to disturb me.
When his movements turn toward the bed, I keep my eyes shut, my breathing measured and deep.
The weight of his gaze settles on me like a physical touch.
He sucks in a deep breath, then sighs—a sound so quiet I feel it more than hear it—before the mattress dips beneath his weight, holding his body tight to maintain a careful distance away from mine.
Even with my eyes closed, I sense him watching me in the darkness, and it’s a long time before either of us falls back to sleep.
Iwake for the second time in the early hours of the morning and find Fox’s arm draped heavily across my waist, his breath warm against my neck.
I can tell he’s asleep from the slow rhythm of his breath fluttering my hair, but there’s nothing sleepy about the firm, unmistakable bulge nudging against my lower back. My muscles freeze mid-breath, a flush of heat spreading to the tips of my fingers and toes.
I should move away, but I don’t. Instead, I lie perfectly still, counting his breaths.
It doesn’t take long before the pattern of Fox’s breathing shifts and his arm tenses around me. He waits a moment, then gingerly eases his arm off my waist. The bed shifts as he sits up.
I peer through half-closed eyes as he stands up and walks over to where his boots are lying on their sides by the tent entrance. He doesn’t bother to put them on, just grabs them in one large hand and ducks out of the tent. I wait another thirty seconds then sit up.
I wonder where he went so early? A tiny thrill runs through me at the thought that he’s somewhere taking care of that unmistakable hardness I felt pressed against me. I’d like to think I’m not the only one struggling to handle our forced proximity.
I get out of bed and get dressed. Today I’m hoping to actually do something—like the training Fox mentioned yesterday—so I put on leggings, a corset top, and my heavy boots. I’m braiding my hair when I hear the tittering of a squirrel. I look up and see Eugene sitting on the desk.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” I say irritably. He makes big eyes at me, and I sigh. “Fine, you’re forgiven. I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you right now.”
He makes a tittering sound and swishes his tail angrily.
“Quite right,” I agree. “I don’t care either.”
Not talking to Fox is one thing because it would give away our bond, but not talking to Eugene is just torture.
I’m starving from missing dinner last night.
Fox did bring me something to eat—soup, bread and cheese—but the soup is cold now.
I pick at the bread, but what I really want is something fresh and hot.
I place Eugene on my shoulder and step outside the tent, heading toward the center of camp where the scent of cooking porridge and some kind of roast meat hangs in the air.
It’s still early, so the clearing around the enormous bonfire isn’t crowded. I don’t see Fox anywhere, but there are a few wolves hanging around eating and talking silently. Their suspicious eyes track me as I walk over to the fire, but I pretend not to notice.
Just like yesterday, there are three wolves whose job it seems to be to serve the food.
They’re different faces than yesterday, so I can only assume this is a chore that rotates between the entire camp.
Today, there’s a bearded, heavyset man stirring a large caldron of porridge, a smaller man carving large slices off an enormous roast bird, and a tall red-haired woman piling wooden bowls and utensils into teetering stacks along a rough-hewn wooden table.
All three of them shoot me sidelong glances as I approach, their expressions unreadable.
“Morning.” I flash a smile and reach for one of the wooden bowls. “Would you mind if I just…”
I don’t have a chance to finish before the larger man grins widely, grabs a bowl, ladles some porridge into it, and tries to shove it into my hands.
It all happens in a few seconds, and I just barely have time to remember that Fox told me not to take food from anyone.
I jump backward, and the bowl clatters on the ground, the porridge splattering across my boots.
I brace myself for a scolding about wasting food, but the woman laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Serves you right,” she says out loud, rolling her eyes at the man who tried to hand me the bowl. “Clean that up.”
The man’s cheeks redden as he comes around to clean up the mess. Meanwhile, the woman retrieves another bowl and ladles steaming porridge into it. Instead of handing it to me, she places the bowl down on the table. “You can take it now,” she mumbles.
Something in the woman’s eyes feels trustworthy, so I take the bowl with a quiet “thank you.”
She just nods in response, so I linger for a moment, hoping she might say something else. Besides Kai, she’s the only one who’s even bothered to speak to me. But the woman doesn’t look at me again as she resumes stacking the rest of the bowls.
I choose an empty log on the right side of the bonfire, as far away from the rest of the wolves as I can manage and dig into my breakfast. “At least the food here is good,” I mutter, offering a spoonful of cinnamon scented porridge to Eugene.
“Is that a squirrel?”