Chapter 8: Her Own Door

His room was above the Long Hall, at the top of a narrow stair.

I stood outside the door at midnight with my hand raised and did not knock.

Below me, a hundred wolves were settling into blankets on the hall floor.

Some of them were my pack, and some were his.

I could hear every one of their hearts.

I could hear his, through the door.

It was slow, and every fifth beat it came down hard.

He was awake.

I opened the door without knocking.

Torin was sitting on the edge of the bed in his shirtsleeves with a lamp lit, doing nothing.

He stood up when he saw me.

"Hedda."

"I'm still angry," I said.

"I know."

"I'm not forgiving you tonight."

"I know that too."

"I'm not under anybody's law tonight, either."

I shut the door behind me.

"Not Ridge Law, not my father's, not yours. I came because I want to."

His throat moved.

"Tell me what you want."

"You," I said. "Loud."

He crossed the room in three steps, and his mouth was on mine.

This kiss was not like the one in the rain.

It was slower, and it was worse, because he took his time.

His hands cupped my face and then slid down to my coat.

He pushed it off my shoulders and let it drop.

I pulled his shirt up over his head.

He was broad and warm and scarred along one rib.

I put my palms flat on his chest and felt his heart slam against them.

"Your hands are cold," he said.

"Warm them."

He laughed against my mouth, a low unsteady sound, and walked me back until my knees hit the bed.

I sat.

He knelt in front of me and pulled my nightshirt up and over my head.

For a moment he only looked.

"Say something," I said.

"I'm trying to remember how words work."

I grabbed his beard and dragged him up to kiss me again.

He put me on my back in the middle of the bed and followed me down.

His mouth went to my throat, my collarbone, my breast.

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