Chapter 11 #2
He worked without hurry. The cloth moved over my shoulders and down my back and along my arms, slow and thorough, and the heat of the water and the steadiness of his hands and the smell of the pine oil combined into something that made the muscles in my back surrender one by one, releasing a tension I’d been carrying for so long I’d stopped noticing it.
He worked his hands through my hair when he reached it, the heel of his palm pressing gently against the back of my skull where the headache from the tranquilizer was still sitting, and the pressure released something there too.
I realized my eyes had closed.
“I shifted into a wolf,” I said into the steam.
“You did.”
He rinsed my hair with water cupped in his hands, tipping my head back with the same careful pressure, and I kept my eyes closed and let the hot water run over my face.
“The FBI is going to be a problem,” I said.
“One problem at a time.”
“There’s a dead guard in that facility. Probably several, actually. They’re going to—”
“Katie.” His hands stilled in my hair. “Tonight, there is no FBI. There is no investigation. There is nothing you are required to solve.” His thumb pressed once at the base of my skull.
He rinsed my hair a final time and sat back. The water had gone from steaming to warm, the temperature of a bath that has been everything a bath should be and is now ready to be over. He reached past me to pull the plug, then held out a towel.
I stood, dripping and heat-flushed, and he wrapped it around me, tucking the corner in above my chest. He worked through my hair with a second, smaller towel with the same efficiency.
He re-dressed the gash, his touch on the tape steady and light.
“Does it need stitches?” I asked, mostly to say something.
“No.”
“Are you sure, because it feels pretty—”
“It’s already nearly closed.” He smoothed the tape. “Your body knows what it’s doing. Now come to bed.” He picked up the dressing and replaced it in the kit.
The bedroom was at the end of the hall, and it sported the same pine floors, the same stone, and a window that looked east toward where the ridge broke into open sky.
The bed was large, solid, and covered in wool blankets the color of deep winter.
He turned the cover back and I sat on the edge, then swung my legs in and lay down, and the mattress and the pillow and the weight of the blankets settling over me were so perfect that I stopped trying to finish even one more thought.
He came around to the other side, and the mattress dipped with his weight. Then he was there beside me, his arm pulling me against his chest, his hand flat and warm over my ribs.
The fire was still going. I could hear it from here, its crackling moving through the quiet of the cabin, and outside the wind was whipping through the ponderosas.
“Silas.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I just need to say one thing.”
He paused. “Say it.”
“I’m not going to keep running.” The words came out quieter than I’d intended but more certain than anything I’d said in weeks.
He said nothing for long enough that I thought that was the end of it. Then his arm tightened, pulling me more firmly against his chest.
“Good girl,” he said.
The fire cracked, and I drifted off.
* * *
I woke to harsh sunlight streaming through the window and groaned as I rolled over. Silas obviously didn’t believe in blackout curtains, and I was going to need to do something about that as soon as possible, but at least my body felt rested in a way it hadn’t in weeks.
After a quick stretch, I twisted my torso to get a look at my side where I’d been clawed.
The gauze Silas had taped there last night was still in place, clean and secure.
Peeling it back, I saw only a faint scar that looked like it was weeks old.
It was barely even tender anymore, and the soreness in my joints and muscles from my fight with the skinwalker was completely gone.
I felt like I could run a marathon, climb a 14’er, and then ride my mate’s cock at the summit.
But it was only the latter of those on my mind right now.
I turned my head to glance at the spot beside me. I was alone in the bed.
I sat up, letting the blanket pool at my waist, and listened. No movement from the kitchen. No sound of water running or wood being split outside.
Climbing out of bed, I found clothes laid out on the chair by the window. A pair of Silas’ sweatpants with the drawstring pulled tight, a soft T-shirt, and some socks. I dressed and padded barefoot down the hall.
The main room was empty. The fire had burned down to coals. I checked the kitchen. The espresso machine sat dormant on the counter. A note was propped against it in handwriting that was blocky and utilitarian: Hunting. Back soon.
I picked up the note and read it twice, then set it down and crossed to the front door.
The porch was empty. Beyond it, the clearing stretched toward the tree line, and I could see where the grass had been flattened by paws. The trail led north, disappearing into the forest.
Why was he always out doing wolfy things?
Would I be like that too, now that I could shift?
He’d probably gone to make sure the skinwalker was really dead.
That had to be it. He’d said he’d torn its head off, but maybe there was more to do.
Maybe shifters had rituals for this kind of thing, some way of confirming for themselves that an ancient enemy like this was no longer a threat.
I stood on the porch and felt the restlessness build in my chest like pressure.
My wolf wanted him.
Desperately so, with a pull that started low in my belly and radiated outward until my fingers itched and my feet tried to move on their own.
I could go back inside. I could make coffee and wait like a good girl for him to return.
Or…
I looked down at my borrowed clothes, then at the tree line where his trail disappeared.
Yeah, fuck it. It was she-wolf time.
But how did I get this party started, exactly? Did I just need to think wolfy thoughts? Howl at the moon and hope for the best?
The restlessness continued to build, until it turned into frustration.
At Silas for leaving when I needed him to be here this morning.
At myself for not knowing how to access my new features.
I pressed my thighs together. I was just about to go back to bed and take care of my own needs when the shift came without warning.
One second I stood upright, contemplating the speed at which could deliver a vibrator to an isolated cabin, the next, I found myself on all fours.
The world grew vibrant and intense. Scents surged around me, forming an intricate map of fragrances.
The fresh scent of ponderosa, the earthy aroma of granite, the faint residue of last night’s flames, and beneath it all, him.
The path emerged vividly, his essence entwined in the very fibers of the grass and soil, hanging heavy in the air.
I bounded off the porch.
Running on four legs was still disorienting, but less catastrophically than the first time. My brain was learning to interpret the signals my eyes sent while in wolf form, and while I still misjudged distances, I didn’t actively collide with anything right away. That felt like progress.
The trail led through the clearing and into the forest. I followed it at a loping pace that felt natural, my paws finding purchase on ground that would have been treacherous for human feet. The morning air was cool against my fur and I could smell everything.
Especially my mate.
The scent of him led me deeper into his territory, and I found him in a meadow half a mile from the cabin.
He was in wolf form, massive and dark-furred, his attention focused on something at the far edge of the clearing.
As I approached, he turned his head and those amber eyes fixed on me with an expression that was somehow impressed and annoyed both at once.
I slowed to a trot, then stopped about ten feet from him. My tail, which I was still learning to operate, gave its best attempt at a wag.
He stared at me.
I stared back.
Then he turned deliberately away and resumed whatever he’d been doing, which appeared to be investigating a patch of disturbed ground where something had dug or scratched at the dirt.
I padded closer. The scent hit me before I saw it—the faint, residual chemical stink of the skinwalker, fading but still detectable. This must have been part of its territory, or a place it had marked or something.
I circled the patch once, nose to the ground, then looked at Silas.
He was watching me again, his ears forward.
I felt my wolf grin. I didn’t know wolves could grin, but apparently they could, because my mouth was definitely doing it.
I nipped at his shoulder.
Not hard. Playful, testing, the way puppies did when they wanted attention.
I needed attention too, but of a very different kind.
Silas went very still.
Then he turned his head and gave me a look that would be best described as scolding.
I nipped him again.
He spun faster than something his size should have been able to spin and caught me by the scruff. He held me there for a split second, his eyes boring into mine, making a point.
Then he released me and turned away again.
I was not deterred.
I bounded around him in a wide circle, kicking up dirt, then darted in and nipped at his rear leg before dancing back out of range.
His ears flattened.
My tail was wagging now, fully committed. The meadow was mine, the morning was mine, and this enormous grumpy wolf was also mine, and I wasn’t going to be ignored.
I feinted left, then right, then lunged forward and caught his tail in my teeth.
That did it.
He whirled and hit me broadside with his shoulder, knocking me completely off my feet. I tumbled into the grass and he was on me before I could scramble up, one massive paw planted on my chest, his weight pressing me flat against the ground.
He held me there, amber eyes inches from mine, his breath hot against my muzzle.