“I’m sure you were,” I say. I stoke the fire higher, keeping my back to her so she can pretend she’s not shaking herself apart.
Behind me, something clatters. I turn and catch her tearing open a bag of pastel marshmallows.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting snacks,” she says through chattering teeth. Her hands are shaking so badly a few mint green and petal pinkmallows escape, bouncing across the floor. She scoops them up and shoves a handful into her mouth.
“Why?”
She blinks like it’s obvious, chews, swallows. “Because I’m still not entirely sure I’m going to survive the night,” she says finally. “And if I don’t, I’d at least like to go out with a bang.”
I rub a hand down my face. “A bang?”
Her lips twitch. She lifts a pink frosted cookie from the tin. “A sugary bang.”
I exhale through my nose. “You’re not dying tonight.”
“Most people who go missing in blizzards don’t think they’re going to die either,” she says, voice wobbling as she shivers. “But I’ve listened to enough murder podcasts to know this is how the cold open starts.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you that’ll end up on a podcast.”
She tilts her head. “So, you’re saying I’m not getting murdered. Great. Which means my other option is to go back out there and become a popsicle. Unless…” Her eyes brighten. “Please tell me you have one of those satellite phone things.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
That gets me a look of disbelief wrapped in a shiver. “Wow. I knew you were older, but I didn’t think you were that old.”
My jaw tightens.
She takes another bite of cookie as she shrugs out of the blanket. Her fingers fumble with the edge of her coat, trying to peel it open. I cross the space in two strides and tug it off her shoulders. It’s soaked straight through, heavy and freezing. Her sweater underneath isn’t much better—clinging, wet fabric plastered to her skin.
“You need to get out of those clothes before your core temp drops any lower,” I say, reaching for another dry blanket from the couch. “Like I said, you’re not dying tonight.”
Her lips part like she’s about to toss back something sarcastic, but whatever it is freezes on her tongue. Instead, her teeth chatter, and she just nods. “Wh-where’s the bathroom? So I can take my clothes off.”
I glance toward the window and jerk my chin.
She blinks. “Outside? What is this, the eighteen hundreds?”
I frown. “It’s a cabin, not a hotel.”
She looks around, as if finally taking in the space. It’s one open room with a king-sized bed tucked into the far corner, wood stove and small kitchen on one side, the fireplace dominating the other. It’s practical, simple. Built for solitude, not guests. Definitely not hypothermic sugar-scented foxes.
When she sways, I step forward, catch her elbow. “Come on,” I murmur. “I won’t look.”
“Because you’re such a gentleman?” she teases weakly.
“Something like that,” I say, and lift the blanket like a makeshift curtain.
I fix my gaze on the floorboards, every muscle strung taut as I listen to the soft rustle of wet fabric, the dull thud of boots, the faint sound of her breath hitching as air hits bare skin.
Her scent shifts—less frost now, more warm skin, cinnamon and sugar. It curls through the air like smoke, sweet and spicy at the same time. The wolf in me stirs, hungry, restless, prowling under my ribs.
My fingers flex on the blanket.
Stop.I command, pushing down the hot pulse of instinct.
I force my attention back to the floor, pick a knot in the wood and focus on it. I breathe in slowly through my nose, out through clenched teeth. The wolf is awake, pacing, tail flicking, nose full of her. It’s been years since he’s stirred like this. Too many. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to keep him at bay, to hear his voice, to let him run free.
