Chapter 7: The Storm

I got him as far as the hearth before my knees gave out and we went down together on the rug.

He was shaking, and his skin burned through his wet shirt.

"The barn," he said. "I'll go back. Your rule."

"You'll drown in it. Hold still."

I dragged the shirt over his head and threw it into the corner.

Across his chest, over his heart, lay a raw red line the length of my hand.

It was the cut, and it had never closed.

I looked down and saw its twin, a red line under my own ribs where my dress had slipped, and it throbbed.

"Two names," I said stupidly. "It was meant to be clean."

"My wolf wouldn't let go," Corwin said through his teeth. "I think he's been bleeding for six days."

I set my palm flat on the mark.

We both made a noise.

The relief went through me from scalp to heel.

His ragged breath steadied, and so did mine, and neither of us moved.

"It's the sickness," I said. "That's all it is."

"Is that what it is?"

His hand came up and covered mine against his chest.

His fingers were hot, and they shook.

"I know you hate me," he said. "I earned it. Tell me to stop and I'll crawl back to the barn."

"Be quiet."

"Tilda."

"This is once," I said. "Once, and it changes nothing, and it doesn't mean I forgive you."

"Understood."

"I'm not asking you."

"Understood."

I pulled my dress over my head and let it fall.

His eyes went over me slowly and came back to my face, wide and dark and hungry.

The fire cracked.

I knelt over his hips and took his wrists in my hands and pinned them against the rug on either side of his head.

"Don't move them," I said.

He swallowed.

"No."

I kissed him then, hard enough to hurt.

His mouth opened under mine at once, and he made a sound I had not heard in three years.

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