My bed. That's the first thing. Warm blanket, soft mattress, the morning light through the thin curtain. I did not go to sle ep in my bed. I sit up. The shirt is still around me—heavy linen, smelling like him. Nugget is asle ep in her basket by the door. The fire is low. Everything tucked in for the night. By him. I watched him fold the shirt and set it on the bench before he shifted. The smell confirms it before anything else does. He shifted back. Carried me home. Put me to bed. And left. Nope. Nugget opens one eye. Tilts her head at me. "Don't," I tell her. She clucks. Sharp. Her version of a raised eyebrow. "I said don't." I pull the shirt tighter around my shoulders because the morning is cold and the fire's banked low and it's a practical decision. I'll return it later. I get up. Scoop Nugget out of her basket, tuck her under my arm, and push through the door into the morning. Everything is brown. Breakfast is done—Liara handled it, stirred the grain without burning it, served bowls without looking at me for permission, and I should feel good about that. Days of this and her hands finally know what to do without mine. My hands are empty. Nothing needs me for the next hour and my hands need to be doing something or I'm going to think about last night. And the night before that. Both nights. Both problems. Don't think about any of them. Think about brown. Gray stone. Brown wood and beige fabric. Mud. The structures blend into the trees that blend into the dirt which blend into the people all wearing the same drab colors as the ground. Even the smoke from the fire pits is gray. A wolf pup tumbles past my feet—brown fur, obviously—crashes into another pup. Also brown.
The only color in this entire territory is me—pink streaks in white hair, pink stains on my collar from the dye disaster—and Nugget, aggressively pink near my feet, pecking at the dirt. "This is d epressing." Nugget clucks at my feet. How did I not see this before? Too busy. But now that I've run out of emergencies to throw myself at, all I can see is beige. The whole pack ground. Drained of everything bright, and nobody's done anything about it because apparently aesthetics aren't a survival priority, which is wrong. Beauty is a survival priority. You cannot live in a place this colorless and expect people to thrive. They're existing. Eating better now, fine. Wounds cleaned properly, great. But existing in a world the color of nothing, and nobody seems to think that's a problem worth solving. I fixed the food. I can fix this too. Dye. I know how to make dye—I've been doing it for years. Crushed flower petals, water, patience. The cottage had pink things. Pale blue things. My spare shirt was almost purple before it faded. I saw wildflowers on the walk in—near the stream, that clearing before the last ridge. If I leave now I can be back before anyone needs the healing area. Dara can handle things. She's been handling Tarek's follow-up on her own for days now. Oh—Hella. I still need to talk to her about the wrapping technique. One-on-one. Not in front of people. I mentioned it to Keer— The stream. When he stood in the water and said no one's sending you away and the ground tilted. When he said stop acting like you're leaving and my hands went still. The rough underneath of his voice when he changed his mind about Dara mid-sentence. And then he knelt. He knelt. In the mud. On one knee so we'd be level—because I was crouched at the bank and he's six-and-a-half feet of Alpha and he got down in the MUD so I wouldn't have to look up at him. Who does that. Alphas don't do that. Alphas do not kneel. His hand on my face. Thumb on my cheek. And then last night he was a wolf and— His shirt. Which I'm still wearing. Ugh, it's totally fine. It's a shirt. People wear shirts. This one happens to smell like cedar and be four sizes too big and belong to a man who—not relevant. The point is I'm cold and it's warm and I need to go find flowers
before I analyze why I'm still wearing it, because I am not analyzing that, because the answer is temperature and nothing else. Blue flowers. Near water. That’s my plan. What should I dye first? Not bandages—impractical, nobody wants pink bandages. Though imagine Tovar's face if I wrapped his next wound in bright cheerful yellow. Actually, that alone might be—no. Start practical. The scrap cloth I use for herb-drying. Nobody cares what color it is and if I ruin a batch I can make more. Then maybe a curtain for my doorway. Do I have a curtain? I should have a curtain. I saw extra fabric rolled behind Dara's supply bench. Should I ask? Is curtain fabric communal property? What are the property laws of a werewolf pack? Nobody's explained this to me. Nobody's explained most things. I just ke ep doing things until someone growls. Nugget pecks my ankle. "I'm thinking. Give me a second." She pecks harder. "Fine. We're going." Need a pot I can ruin. Need somewhere to hang drying fabric. Right. Go. I walk fast, faster than I need to, mist still sitting in the low places and the pack sounds already behind me. The morning is cool and I hum because when I stop the shirt collar slides off my shoulder and I think about why it's so much bigger than mine and then I'm back in the dark with his fur under my hands and I can't be back there right now, I have flowers to find. Not long. Just the stream and back. I'll be home before the pot's even cool. It's been quiet. No humans seen anywhere near the pack. I'm barely outside the territory—basically still inside, if you squint. If you squint from a very permissive angle. See, I can follow orders. The forest swallows me. Trees crowding close, pack sounds fading. My feet find the path without thinking. "Blues first," I tell the trees. "Purple if I can find it. Back before anyone notices I'm gone and does something dramatic." The trees don't respond. Rude. The shirt catches, the hem snagging on low branches in a way mine doesn't. I fold the sleeves back again. They slide down again. I fold them again. Wildflowers. I'm looking for wildflowers. I find the first patch twenty minutes in. Blues. Pale purple-blue clustered low to the ground. I drop to my knees and cut stems. Don't crush the petals until you're ready. This shade would dye beautifully—subtle, present.
Anything is better than beige. More flowers de eper in. Yellows, bright, already staining my fingertips. The r epetition helps. Hands busy, brain quieter. Almost. The soil is dark and damp under my knees and the smell of crushed stems is sharp and green and good and if I just ke ep picking, just ke ep moving— Purple. Actual purple, growing near a fallen log, petals dark and soft. "AHH! PERFECT." The basket's half-full. Enough for several batches. I should head back. I've been gone longer than I meant to. Still need to talk to Hella. Dara might— A whistle. "What's a girl doing out here alone?" I freeze. Two men st epping out from behind trees. Rough clothes. Armed— one short sword, one club. The one who spoke has a scar across his chin and he's smiling at me—gross. "Getting flowers." High. Squeaky. Every shred of dignity, gone. "For dye. Not looking for trouble." "Flowers." He looks at his companion and laughs. "She's picking flowers in wolf territory." "Sort of. It's complicated." I'm already backing up, basket against my chest. The knife is in my pocket. Herb knife. Not enough. Tree behind me—good, nothing at my back. Two of them, one knife, ten feet to the thicker brush if I run. "I should actually get back. My—my husband's expecting me." They don't know I'm out here. I didn't tell anyone. Idiot. Stupid, stupid— "Husband." The scarred one spits the word. "No husband's sending a woman alone this far out." "I'm not alone. I said—" "What are you doing out here?" The second man moves around to flank me. "Really." "Gathering herbs. For home." "For home." He laughs. Not kind. "Try again." I run. Maybe ten feet. Someone grabs my arm and wrenches me backward. The basket goes flying—flowers scattering, all those colors hitting dirt—and I fight. Teeth into the hand holding me. Copper flooding my mouth. He's yelling. Knee up toward his groin—miss, catch his thigh— The knife. My fingers close around the handle. I slash at the arm gripping me. He screams. Blood welling through his sleeve—de ep, that's de ep, good— and I twist free and put the tree at my back. "Little bitch cut me—" The second one comes from the side. I swing wild, catch his forearm—not de ep enough—and his fist connects with my cheek. My head snaps back, skull cracking against bark.
Stars. Actual— Ground under my hands. Blood in my mouth from biting my tongue. Hands grabbing at my arms. I kick out—connect, bone maybe— "Hold her still—" Scrambling back. Knife still in my grip but my hand won't stop shaking. The one I cut is holding his arm, red between his fingers. Should've gone de eper. Should've aimed for the throat. Branches snapping behind me. Something tearing through the trees. Faster than any man. Then silence exc ept for my own breathing. Keer. Naked. Covered in blood that isn't his. Chest heaving, scars standing white against flushed skin. His sharp gaze finds me against the tree, back to bark, knife in my shaking hand. For half a second, his face cracks open. Then it's gone. "What the fuck were you thinking?" I flinch. Hate that I flinch. My cheek throbs and he's standing there furious at me, blood drying brown on his chest, and I can see his scars up close for the first time—the long one across his ribs, the thick one at his collarbone—and that one healed wrong, someone pulled the edges too tight, and he's yelling at me— "I was getting flowers." "Flowers?" He's closing the distance, so big, so angry, and I'm still holding a crushed stem in my other hand. Purple petals. Ruined. "You left the territory. Alone. Without telling anyone. For fucking flowers." "Well, for dye, actually. Everything here is brown. The whole village is beige and gray and d epressing and—" "You almost died." "I was fine until—" "You were NOT fine." Right in front of me now. Close enough that I can see the blood drying in the hollow of his throat. I am not looking at his throat. "You were pinned down. If I hadn't caught your scent—if I'd been five minutes later—" "But you weren't! You showed up and—" "And what if I hadn't?" His voice cracks. Raw underneath. Shaking underneath. "What then? What happens when you wander off and there's no one coming?" "I don't need saving!" "You JUST did! Thirty seconds ago!" "That's not—I mean—I had a knife—" "A knife." He laughs, no humor in it, and runs a hand through his hair. Gets blood in it. "A tiny knife against two armed men." "It's better than nothing!" My cheek hurts. My hand hurts. He's got blood smeared across his shoulder and I'm still holding this stupid flower stem. "I cut one of them! I was fighting back!" "And losing! You were losing, Melori!" "So what? So I should stay inside forever? Ask permission every time I want to—" "YES." "That's INSANE." "That's SURVIVAL."
"That's a CAGE!" "It's a cage that ke eps you ALIVE!" "I don't WANT to be k ept alive like some fragile thing you have to —" "You ARE fragile!" He gestures at me, wild, blood flicking from his hands. "You're human! You can't fight them off when they grab you!" "Don't call me fragile." "You ARE. Look at you." His breath ragged. Blood everywhere. Flowers crushed between us. "They almost had you. You almost died because you wanted to make things pretty." "I wanted to make things BETTER!" My tongue catches on the word, still raw where I bit it, and I shout anyway, voice going so high it hurts my own ears. "That's what I DO! I see problems and I fix them! The food was a problem—fixed it. The supplies were a disaster—fixed. Everything looking like mud IS a problem—" "So you get yourself killed? That's your solution?" "Obviously I wasn't TRYING to—" "You went into the forest ALONE!" "Because I didn't think I needed PERMISSION to pick FLOWERS!" "Two nights ago!" His voice breaks open on it, raw and wrecked. "I stood in a stream and told you to stop acting like you're leaving and you just —walked out here like none of it—" "This is the other direction! These were humans, not wolves—" "IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT DIRECTION!" He's shaking now. Not just anger— "You're human. You can't shift. You can't run fast enough—" "Then what am I supposed to DO?" My voice cracks. The flower stem drops. My hands need something to hold and there's nothing. "Sit in my dwelling all day? Stay inside the lines you've drawn?" "YES." "I won't LIVE like that!" "You won't live AT ALL if you—" "That's MY choice!" A laugh. Low. Not a good one. "No." He st eps closer. Tree at my back, his body blocking everything else, blood-slicked and furious and not wearing a single thing and my brain picks now—right now—to— "Not anymore." "You can't just DECIDE—" "Watch me." "I'm not one of your wolves! I don't follow orders because you're big and scary and—" He grabs my shoulders. Hands huge, pinning me against the bark. Every wolf in this territory is about to— My mouth ke eps going— "—you think you can just GRAB me whenever you—" "Shut up." "Don't tell me to shut—" His mouth on mine. Hard. Not tentative. Not asking. I freeze for one heartbeat. Just one. Then my hands are in his hair and I'm pulling him closer, not pushing him away, and everything in me that was still shaking from the fight redirects straight into his mouth.
His lips part mine. His tongue finds mine. A sound I don't recognize comes out of my throat and he swallows it, his hand sliding from my shoulder up to cup the back of my neck, holding me where he wants me. I let him. I'm shaking. Adrenaline and cold and something else. All of it pouring out of me into him and he's drinking it down like he's been waiting years for me to spill. "Keer—" "Don't." Against my mouth. His other hand finds my waist. "Not right now." "I'm not—" "Good." He kisses me again. Slower this time. De eper. His beard rough against my jaw, the coppery taste of blood between us—mine, his, I can't tell—and my body is melting into his, into the tree at my back, into the heat of him after all that cold. His hand at my waist slides lower. Finds the hem of his own shirt I'm still wearing. Slips underneath it. His palm on my bare ribs. "Oh." I don't mean to make the sound. "That's it." His mouth moves to my throat. Teeth scraping. "Make that sound again." Already making it. His hand traveling up, thumb skimming the underside of my breast, and my spine arches off the bark and pushes me into his palm. He breathes out rough against my neck. "I'm going to touch you now." It isn't a question. "Everywhere I've been thinking about. You're going to let me. You're going to stand here against this tree and you're going to take it. Do you understand?" "Keer—" "Do you understand, Melori." "Yes. Yes, I—" His hand closes fully over my breast. Squeezes. His thumb drags across my nipple through the thin fabric and my whole body jolts and my knees try to give. His thigh is between my legs before I drop. Hard muscle pressing up into me. Steady. Holding me up. "Ride it." "I don't—" "Yes you do. You've been thinking about me. I've smelled it on you. Ride it." I make a sound I'll have to disown later and my hips roll against his thigh and he groans against my neck, low and pleased. "Good." His teeth on my earlobe. "Ke ep going. I want to watch you do it." I can't stop if I wanted to. My hips moving, my hands pulling at his hair, his thigh flexing up to meet me, and he's talking the whole time— filthy against my ear. "This is what you needed. Isn't it. Somebody's hands on you. Someone telling you when to stop moving and when to ke ep going. You've been begging for it without knowing." "Keer, please—" "Please what?"
"I don't know I don't know please—" "I do." His hand leaves my breast and slides down my stomach and his fingers hook into the waistband of my trousers. "I'm going to put my hand on you now. Inside you. I'm going to make you come on my fingers against this tree and then I'm going to do it again. You're not leaving this forest until you've come on my hand at least twice. Nod if you understand." I nod so hard my head hits the bark. He shoves my trousers down my hips. His hand between my legs. His fingers find me wet and the sound he makes— "Fuck." He drops his forehead against mine and his eye closes for a beat, and when he opens it he looks at me like he's going to ruin me. "You're soaked, Melori. Look at that. All of that for me." "I—" "Don't be shy now. You're going to come apart on my hand in about thirty seconds and you want to pretend this isn't what you've been wanting." "It is—goodness, it is—" "I know it is." One finger slides into me and my whole body arches against him. Then two. His palm grinding against me, his thumb finding the spot that makes me sob. "That's my girl. Take it." "Keer—I can't—" "You will. You're going to. Right now." His fingers curl inside me. His mouth finds mine and swallows the noise I make when he hits something that undoes me. "Come on my hand, baby. Do it." I shatter. Crying out into his mouth, thighs clamping around his wrist, pulse after pulse while his fingers ke ep working, not slowing, dragging it out until I'm shaking so hard I can't stand. "Good girl." His mouth at my ear. His fingers still moving. Slower now but not stopping. "That's one. We're not done." "I can't—" " told you. Twice." "Keer—" "Hands off my hair. Down here. Around me." My hands drop from his hair without asking and wrap around him —hard and hot, already leaking at the tip. He makes a strangled sound against my throat. "That's it." Rough. Wrecked. "Just like that." I stroke him and his hips push into my grip and his fingers push de eper into me. I'm moving back toward the edge already, faster than should be possible, every nerve already wrecked from the first one. "Keer—" "Again." His mouth at my temple. "I told you. Make it again." "Please—"
"Say my name when you do it." He bites the spot where my neck meets my shoulder and his thumb circles and his fingers curl and— "KEER—" I shatter again. Harder. Everything white-hot and shaking and his name coming out of me again and again like a prayer I don't know how to stop. His hips jerk into my hand. His own voice cracking against my throat. "Mine." A growl. "You're mine. Say it." "Yours—" "Again." "I'm yours, Keer—Keer—" And that undoes him. He groans against my neck, a torn sound, and his hips stutter into my grip and warmth spills over my fingers and his whole body shudders against mine. His forehead drops to my shoulder. Breathing ragged and so close I can feel every exhale. Both of us shaking. My hand still wrapped around him. His fingers still inside me. Bark rough against my back. Blood cooling on his chest where it's pressed to mine. The forest quiet around us. Everything quiet. I turn my face into his neck. Breathe in cedar and copper and sweat and him. My lips move against his throat without asking permission. "I'm yours." He holds very still. Then he pulls back. Cold rushes in. He's st epping away and his face— Horror. Not at me. At himself. "Keer—" He won't look at me. Hand dragging down his face, jaw so tight the muscle jumps, and I'm still against the tree with bark in my hair and his taste in my mouth. "Keer, wait—" "Don't go out alone again." He turns. Starts walking. "Keer!" Doesn't turn. Doesn't slow. Naked and blood-covered, disappearing into the trees. "KEER!"