Chapter 5: Cutter Ridge

Cutter Ridge road was a mile of wet gravel and spruce, and my little Subaru did not like it.

I drove it anyway, with the heater on and my hands tight on the wheel.

His house sat at the top, a long timber frame with a steep roof and one lit window.

Smoke came out of the chimney.

He was on the porch before I got the engine off.

"You came."

"I said I would."

"People say things."

"I'm a person who does them," I said, and climbed the steps.

He opened the door for me.

Inside, a fire burned in a stone hearth big enough to stand in.

The walls were rough pine, and the floor was covered in old wool rugs.

A shelf of books ran the whole length of the room, and I saw spines in six languages.

It smelled like him, and like wood smoke, and like a long time.

"You live in a library," I said.

"I live where I keep my books."

"That's what a library is."

He almost smiled.

I put my bag down and turned to face him.

"I'm not here to talk," I said.

He went very still.

"I said I wanted to talk."

"I lied."

His breath went out of him.

"I've been thinking about your mouth for a day and a half," I said. "I want the rest of you."

"The bite."

"You don't have to bite me, Gunnar."

"Wolves don't decide that."

"Then we'll find out what you decide," I said, and took his hand.

I led him down the hall to the bedroom.

The bed was big enough for him, with a thick gray quilt.

A lamp burned low on the table.

I turned to him.

"Undress me," I said.

He did it slowly.

My cardigan, my blouse, my skirt, folded onto a chair.

I stood in my plain underwear with the firelight from the hall on my shoulders.

He said my name in a voice I felt in my knees.

"Thora."

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