"Be ready in an hour." I don't turn around. The petals are mid-grind and if I stop now the consistency goes off and I'll have to start over. Also I don't owe him a startled jump every time he fills my doorway. "Be ready for what?" Silence. I turn around. He's already walking away. Massive shoulders, that walk. Doorway empty. "Keer—be ready for what?" Nothing. I stand there with the mortar in one hand and the pestle in the other. Staring at the spot where he was. He just—walked out. Issued a directive and left. Didn't even look back. Be ready for what, exactly? A meeting? A trip? A casual walk to my doom? Should I be packing a bag, wearing different shoes, mentally pr eparing for— This is fine. Hours alone with him. In the woods. Again. I set the jar down. Carefully. With great control. Footst eps. Different ones. Kestria fills the doorway—must be a family thing. "So." She leans against the frame. "I hear you're going flower picking." "I'm going what?" "Mm-hmm." "He didn't tell me—he said be ready in an hour, he didn't say flower —HE'S TAKING ME TO THE FIELD?" "That's the rumor." "Why didn't he just SAY that? Why is it a riddle? Why do I have to hear it from you?" "Because he's Keer." "Rrrrgh." I shake both fists at the ceiling. "That was almost a growl." "It was a HUMAN sound." "Mm-hm." I'm already moving. Baskets. I need baskets—at least three, four if it's a big field. Knife for cutting stems., gloves—where are the baskets? "Just the two of you? Alone?" "I guess? I have absolutely no idea. Keer really likes being the mysterious type."
"Mysterious?" "Mhm" "Mel." "Don't Mel me." "So it was the mystery that got you last time?" "That was—" My voice goes higher. "A one-time—adrenaline. Post-fight. Chemical response. Very well-documented. In science." "Which science?" "The—shut up." Kestria laughs, bright and warm and completely without mercy. She tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, gentle enough that I want to bite her hand. "You love me. Try not to fall off his back." "Ha, yeah I—wait, what?" But she's gone, and I'm standing with three baskets and a very bad feeling about what that means. The answer is worse than I imagined. Keer is waiting at the tree line. My baskets are strapped across my back because I couldn't figure out how else to carry them, and I look ridiculous, and he looks at the baskets, looks at me, says nothing. "I brought supplies." Unnecessarily. Oh god, the animals. Did I tell Dara about the evening feed? The male chews the fence if he's bored and he's always bored—and Keer Jr. needs locking up before dark or he goes after anyone who walks past the coop, talons first, no warning. And the spotted female kicks during milking if you approach from the left, always the right, I told Henna but did Henna tell— "It's faster if I shift." "If you—" "You'll ride." Him. His back. Between my thighs. For hours. "I can walk. Walking is fine. I have excellent stamina. Very strong legs." "It's half a day on foot." "Strong. Legs." He reaches for his shirt. And here's the thing—the awful, terrible thing I can't tell Kestria or anyone or even the privacy of my own skull without cringing—I know what's under that shirt. Not in the abstract way I knew at the cottage, when a glimpse of scarred chest was shocking and new and I could squeak about architecturally sound walls and pretend my reaction was curiosity. I know the specific weight of him. The texture of his skin under my palms. The scars I've traced—not on purpose, not deliberately, but with my hands pressed flat against his chest while bark bit into my back and his mouth— He pulls the shirt over his head and I know every line that appears. The long scar across his ribs. The thick one at his collarbone. His shoulders flex when he reaches for his waistband. I don't look away.
I know where the next one is before he turns. I know what his skin feels like under that one—rough at the center, smooth at the edges—and I know that because my hands were on it while bark scraped my spine and his mouth— So I look at the ground instead, which isn't the same as looking away. The ground is just convenient. "You can watch." Low. "Nope." "Melori." "Lots of leaves. Good decomposition. Healthy soil." The crack of bones reshaping cuts whatever he was going to say. Bodies don't do that. Joints don't bend that way. Bone doesn't reshape in— Yes it does. I've seen it. Moving on. And then there's a wolf where he was. Massive. Black fur eating the morning light. He lowers himself to the ground and the meaning is clear. Get on. "Right." My voice cracks. "I've never ridden anything. You know that. I mean—technically once. One of the goats. Before your pack ate them. Sorry, that's not—I'm not bringing it up to be passive aggressive, it's relevant, it's a goat-riding anecdote. The goat ran under my legs because a chicken pecked at it wrong, and then I was just—on the goat. Carried me halfway across the yard before it remembered I was there. So. Yeah. Goat. One time. Not a choice. Also your thigh, which doesn't count, that wasn't transportation, that was—we're not talking about that. We're not. I haven't said it. Forget I said it. I rode a goat one time and that's the entire list." He waits. Patient. Which is worse. His clothes are on the ground next to him. I scoop them up, stuff them in my basket without thinking. Habit. He'll need them later. I grab a handful of fur. Coarse on top. Underneath—dense and warm, warmth climbing through my fingers immediately. I swing a leg over, graceless, baskets shifting on my back, and settle. His spine between my thighs. The width of him forcing my legs apart. Heat radiating up through my core before I've even adjusted my weight. "Okay." Breathy. "Ready." He stands in one smooth motion and I grab tighter, thighs clenching around his ribs, fingers buried in the fur at his neck. The baskets dig into my shoulders. My weight tips forward and I'm pressed against him, chest to his back, my body wrapped around his. He starts moving. Fast. “OH SHIT—” The forest blurs. Trees become streaks and I'm holding on with everything—fingers cramping, thighs burning— Paste ratio. Pink chicken. Angry goat.
His stride rolls through me. Every st ep. Through my thighs, my hips, my core. Relentless. And my body is moving with it whether I want it to or not. Kestria getting stabbed. The rotten deer. He leaps over a fallen log and I gasp, grabbing harder, my hips pressing flush against his spine. Trees. Think about trees. That one's probably an oak—does it matter? It does not matter. Wind. Cold wind on my face. That's a good thing to notice. Wind and the blur of forest and the smell of pine and earth and—cedar, which is him, which is what I smelled with my face pressed against his throat while he— Gradually, my body stops fighting. I don't decide to relax. My muscles just give up the argument. My thighs stop clenching and move with him, my hips rolling with his stride. My grip loosens. And that's worse, not better, because without the effort there's nothing between me and the sensation. His muscles shifting under my thighs. My body rocking against his spine. The warmth spreading through me, steady. I press my forehead against the back of his neck. His fur is softer here, warm against my skin, and I can feel his pulse through it. My eyes close and I just—let it happen. The movement and the trust of it, sitting on something that could kill me, wrapped around something that chose to carry me instead. He stops at the edge of a clearing and the stillness hits harder than the movement. Everything is buzzing. My skin, my thighs, the places where we're touching—which is everywhere. I slide off his back. My legs buckle. I catch myself, press my hands against my thighs, stand there shaking. Muscles I don't normally use. Very normal. The field spreads ahead, moonbright carpeting the ground, blue- white flowers so thick they glow. Ridge to ridge, more than I've ever seen in one place. Bones cracking behind me. I stare at the flowers. De ep color, purple-tinged edges, those are the potent ones. I should start picking. Right now. While behind me, the sound of his body reshaping— I turn. Right there. Naked. And my hands don't even flinch. No shock, no scramble. Just—oh. You again. Alrighty then. "I have your clothes." Already digging through the basket. The bundle comes out warm—they were pressed against the moonbright crate, against the side of my body the whole way here. "I grabbed them. Before. When you—" I push them at his chest without looking up. "Habit. Reflex. I wasn't thinking. They were on the ground, I picked them up, that's just—a thing I did. With my hands. Apparently." Silence. I look up. He's staring at me. Clothes still in his hands, not putting them on. Just... looking at me. "You can—" I gesture vaguely at his entire situation. "Get dressed.
Or not. I'm picking flowers." I turn around fast. Pull on my gloves. Toss the spare pair at his feet without looking up. "Wear them. I'm not patching your hands again." I dig through the basket for my knife. "You can turn around." "I'm picking." "Melori." I turn around. Dressed. Oh, thank goodness. "Show me which ones." We fall into it. Something moves at the field's edge. Small, brown, twitching. Vole. No—shrew. Pointed nose, tiny black eyes, absolutely furious about something. "Shrew." Keer doesn't look up. "Shrews are always furious. I treated one once. Found it in a bramble near the cottage with a thorn through its foot, and it bit me six times during the extraction. Six. Drew blood on four of them. Worst patient I've ever had." His hands ke ep moving. Picking. Steady. "I let it go. It circled back and bit me a seventh time. Which I almost respected. Shrews have a metabolic rate so high they'll starve to death in hours if they stop eating—their entire existence is rage and hunger and the absolute refusal to hold still, which honestly—" "You stopped." I look down. My hand's frozen above the next flower. "Right. Flowers." I pick the flower. "Why are you doing this?" It’s out before I mean it to be. His hands don't stop. Neither do mine. "You treated half my pack." "That's my job." "You saved my sister." "Also my job." "You built things. Taught people. Fed them." His voice is quiet. "You brought chickens." My mouth curves. "The chickens were a practical decision." "You named the rooster after me."
"The resemblance is uncanny." He smiles. Small. Real. "You didn't have to do any of it." "Someone had to." "You chose to. That's different." I focus on the flower in my hand. Twist. Drop. Reach. "Others should learn to make the paste." I pick another. "I need to teach them. Properly. Not just the basics I started with Dara." "Why?" "Because if something happens to me, the knowledge dies with me." I ke ep picking. Ke ep my voice level. "The paste is the only thing standing between your pack and a weapon designed to kill them. I told Kestria—it's me. Right now, it's just me. That just doesn’t feel right, you know?" "You'll be here." "You don't know that." "Melori—" "Keer. A human woman living with wolves during a war between humans and wolves." He’s quiet. "I can't promise you'll be safe. No." "Then let me make sure the knowledge survives even if I don't." I reach for the next stem. After a moment, he does too. Our hands move in the same rhythm. Mine small and quick. His slow and careful. The baskets are full by the time the sun starts dipping. My knees ache from kneeling. My back screams when I stand. His hands match mine. Same stain to the wrist. "Take it all." "That's a lot of weight." "I'm carrying you." His eye drops to the baskets. "The baskets don't matter." No reason for my pulse to react. This is logistics. Weight distribution. Very reasonable. He reaches for his shirt buttons. My throat tightens. My hands go still. I already know what's under that shirt. I know where every scar is. Not the seeing. The already-knowing. "I'll just—count petals from this angle." I turn. "You've seen me shift." I hear the smile in his voice. "And every time the petals get more fascinating." "Mel—" "Shh. I'm counting."
Behind me—air through his nose. Close enough to a laugh. The late sun catches the field behind us, all that blue-white stretching ridge to ridge, and the wind carries the smell of crushed petals and warm earth. Then the rustle of fabric. Movement behind me. His hand appears over my shoulder, clothes folded against his palm. I take them, my head starting to turn—nope—stuff them into the basket on top of the moonbright. Bones cracking. A nose against my hand. I turn around and he's already lowered. Watching me. The return is faster. Or it feels faster. My body already knows the rhythm, hips rolling with his stride without deciding to, and every shift of his muscles moves through me with nothing in the way. No clenching. No fighting. Just his body and mine and the heat building slow between them. I press my forehead against the back of his neck and let my eyes close. His heartbeat through the fur. Earth and forest filling my lungs. Evening light filters through the canopy when we reach the territory. He stops at the tree line, lowers himself, and I slide off. My legs hold this time. Barely. Bones cracking. The rustle of him standing. Movement behind me, close. I dig through the basket, find his clothes, hold them up over my shoulder. Wave them in the general direction of his existence. Nothing. I wave again. Higher. "Take them." A pause. Then his hand. Fingers brushing mine as he takes the bundle. I yank my hand back into the basket and rearrange flowers that don't need rearranging. Pack members have noticed. Stares. Murmuring. The Alpha and the human, returning together, her on his back, smelling of moonbright and forest. The animal fence has a new hole. Eyes forward. Don't look at Kestria, whose grin is visible from across the clearing even without direct eye contact. I head straight for my work area, baskets heavy on my back, chin held high. I don't turn around. The teaching session draws a crowd. Dara. Henna. Kor—a quiet wolf who's been hovering at the edges of my work area for weeks. Three wolves ready to learn everything I know about ke eping their pack alive. "The water pr eparation is the foundation." I set the bowl in front of them. "Everything starts here." "How do you tell the difference of potency in the field?"
"Color and smell. De ep color, strong smell—those are your potent flowers. Pale and odorless, useless. Leave them." "Useless feels harsh," Henna says. "Plants don't have feelings. Crush gentler, Dara—you want to release the oils, not murder them. Circular motion. Slow." "What about storage?" Kor asks. "Cool and dark. Sealed jars—clean jars. Any contamination and it goes rancid within a week. You'll know because the smell goes wrong and the color turns muddy." I take over the bowl. "See how this catches the light? That sheen. That's what you want." "What if it's gritty?" "More water. You can always add. Much harder to take away." They practice. Dara's wrist angle is wrong—I adjust it physically, move her hand, show her. Henna's crush is too fast. Kor's water measurement is off. I correct everything. Show everything. My hands move automatically while my mouth runs through every shortcut, every mistake I've made so they don't have to. "What about—" Dara hesitates. "Could they make it airborne? Like, instead of dipping arrows. If they ground the petals into powder, threw it as a cloud. Could it be inhaled?" My hands stop. I look at her. She looks back. Bright-eyed. Still holding the pestle. "Inhaled." "Yeah." "I don't—" My brain does a thing. A stuttering thing. "I haven't thought about that. I've never seen it. Topical, ingested, blood contact— those I know. Those I've treated. But airborne—" I'm still staring at her. Mortar forgotten. "If you breathed it in, the paste couldn't reach the tissue. Can't smear paste on the inside of someone's lungs. The dilution would have to be different. The delivery would have to be different. You'd have to—" Hands moving again, but not on the paste. Air in front of me. Gesturing at nothing. "You'd have to get the compound INTO the lungs somehow, not just at the surface, and the ratio would change because gut absorption and lung absorption aren't the same speed, and the alveoli are—where is this coming from, Dara?" "There's been rumors." "What rumors?" "From the runners. Something one overheard the humans say.
About powder. About what they were testing." "Testing." "That's the word that got passed." I'm staring at her. "Why am I just hearing about this now?" "You're hearing about it now." "Dara." "I'm telling you now, Mel." I exhale. Slowly. She's right. "Okay." Hands back to the cloth. Wiping. "Okay. I have to think about this. I have to actually think about this. Not now—I can't lose the paste batch—but tonight. Tomorrow. I need to—" My brain is already three st eps ahead. "If they did weaponize it that way, the treatment would have to be something I can get into the lungs. Something inhaled to counter something inhaled—" "Mel." "What." "The paste." I look down. The petals are over-crushed. Going to be too thin. "Shit." I scrape the mortar out. "Start over. And next time the runners say something useful, you tell me before you let me grind petals for an hour." "Noted."