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NINE DAYS.

And underneath it, finishing one slow stroke at a time, comes the answer to the question it asked me two days ago.

YOU ARE HIS

Then it stops.

The letters sit there, finished and not finished, the mist holding one empty space where another word wants to go.

"Finish it," I say.

Sid's fur lifts along his spine.

Don't ask that glass for the rest of that sentence tonight. Not while you're bleeding and alone and it can smell both.

It's the most he’s ever put in my head at once. It's clean. It's a whole thought.

And underneath it, for the first time, he's afraid.

"Sid?"

Go back to bed, Maren.

He's never used my name before.

Behind him, in the fog, the last word begins to form.

13

GAGE

STILL NINE DAYS UNTIL HALLOWEEN

Ilast eleven minutes inside my own house.

That's how long it takes to lock the door she told me to lock, stand in my dark kitchen, and understand that I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight, or sit down, or do anything useful.

Ours, my wolf says. Out there. Alone.

I go back.

Her porch light is off. I take the bottom step and stay on it, elbows on my knees, close enough to hear her deadbolt and far enough that she can pretend she doesn't see me. I start patrolling around the house a few minutes later to make sure everything is secure.

One thing about shifters is that we have exceptional senses. Which is why I can hear noises clearly coming from her room. I walk around the house quietly until I'm right below her window.

I can smell her, warm and sweet and unmistakably aroused. And I’m pretty sure she’s thinking about me, because she says my name. And, not quietly, either.

I stand and listen. I can hear the soft sounds of her and the incredible smell of her makes me want to just go and claim her now.

My imagination fills in everything else. Her breathing gets faster. I press harder against the wall of the house, like I can somehow get closer to her through it.

I can hear the little catch in her breath, and gasping like she’s teasing herself. I imagine her fingers rolling and pinching and pulling her nipples, making herself squirm. I've thought about doing that to her so many times. My hands on her breasts, my teeth grazing, my tongue circling until she arches off the bed.

Then the sounds change. I hear the sounds get slower and wetter. She must be touching her pussy now, sliding her fingers through the slick heat, and I can practically feel it.

I can’t help myself and I unzip my jeans and wrap my hand around my cock, matching her rhythm.

I can hear her moan, low and frustrated, and I know she's found her clit. Her breathing turns ragged. I stroke myself harder, imagining her fingers sliding inside, curling, fucking herself.