Acknowledging that I wanted to know more about this wolf and that I couldn’t stand my own company and the ache it brought forth—nor the idea of returning to a home that was no longer—left me feeling more tangled in knots than that of my waist-length hair.

I swept my fingers through it to try to rid the tangles from the previous night but soon gave in when they snagged and shook. I dressed and undressed and dressed again, and though nettles pierced my chest and vinegar singed my eyes, I began to warp home.

I stopped before the shadows of time could envelop me, and on the edge of the unmade bed, I fell limp.

I sat and stared at nothing while trying to forget everything.

Birdsong crept in through the crack in the blurred glass of the kitchen window, turning my attention to the contents of this stranger’s home. To the books and the meagre belongings scattered throughout the shelves.

I wondered if it were fair to think of him as a stranger. If that were even possible after all the many ways our bodies had learned one another.

Looking at the copious spines, the filigree and the faded text, and the split covers, I wondered why it felt as if this male had never truly felt like a stranger at all.

The wolf returned before midday, his hair sweat-slicked. A glorious smile set his eye aglow and seized my heartbeat when he observed me eating crackers with a book in hand at his dining table.

I’d expected his giant collection to include texts pertaining mostly to battle or even politics. I’d been half wrong. As luck would have it, the novel I’d chosen was fictional and utterly engrossing. “I cannot remember why I stopped reading during the day,” I uttered aloud by way of greeting. “It’s so much more enjoyable, knowing there are more hours available to do so.”

I surmised the inclination had been snuffed when replaced with painting. A more acceptable daily pastime for someone like me.

Scythe hummed. After a moment of silence, of studying me so intently I felt my skin heat in patches from his gaze, he clipped out, “I like this.”

I refused to acknowledge that, nor the part of me that liked it too. Instead, I said, “You have no food. Just some nuts and dried meats and”—I lifted the jar with its few remaining crackers—“these.”

“I eat most of my meals at the Keep.” He grabbed the book, inspecting the title with raised brows. “One of my favorites.”

“I might have picked the one that told me so.”

“You’ve a good nose for someone who can’t shift.” Placing the book back in my hand, he crouched down before me and ordered gruffly, “Kiss me.”