A small sound escapes her—something between a squeak and a choke.
"Sorry. That was—I didn't mean to make a noise. My throat just—sometimes throats do noises. Independently. Without permission."
I'm still hard.
With her looking at me—blue eyes, blood on her hands, exhausted and soft—and my body doesn't care about any of it. Doesn't care that she's human, doesn't care that my sister is three feet away.
Her eyes go wide.
"You can look," I say.
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
"I was not." Her voice hits a pitch that shouldn't exist, indignation cutting through the exhaustion. "I was looking at the—at your—at nothing. I was looking at nothing. I was looking at the wall. The floor. The dust on the floor. There's a lot ofdust. I should sweep. Later. After you put pants on. Not that I'm rushing you, take your time, I'll just be over here NOT looking at—"
She stops.
"—the floor. I'll be looking at the floor."
"The wall behind me is very interesting."
"It's a nice wall."
"It's mud and sticks."
"I like mud and sticks. They're architecturally sound." She tilts her head. "Look at the grain of the wood above your shoulder. Really look. There's a whorl pattern that suggests stress during growth—probably a branch came off when the tree was younger. Fascinating. I could look at this wall for hours."
"You're looking at me."
"Fascinating wall."
The corner of my mouth pulls.
"I need clothes."
"Right." She stands, her knees popping. Nearly trips, catches herself on the worktable. "I have—some things. They won't fit well, you're—" She gestures at me again. "—a lot bigger than anything I own. In every sense. Not that I noticed—I noticed, obviously, there's no way not to notice, you're RIGHT THERE, but I'm not commenting on it, I'm just making clothing observations, which are relevant, because of the clothing. Situation. Which we're fixing. Right now."
She's rummaging through a chest, her back to me. Muttering.
"Kill me now. Do I ever fucking shut up? No. No I don't. You just keep going. Sexy mountain wolf.Sexy. Mountain. Wolf.Whosaysthat? Me, apparently. That's who. Fan-fucking-tastic."
Wolf hearing. She doesn't know.
"Here." She holds out fabric without turning around. "It's old. Probably too small. But it's better than the blanket."
I take it. Some kind of long shirt, rough-woven, meantfor someone shorter and narrower by a significant margin. I pull it on. It strains across my shoulders and barely reaches mid-thigh.
"You can turn around."
She does. Takes in my appearance.
She blinks. Once. Twice.
Her lips press together.
"Don't."
