than he needed food. She made an extra sandwich, just in case, but ended up stashing it in the refrigerator, which was still cold inside despite the power outage.
The quiet in the cabin, which had been so relaxing the day before, now made her tense. She couldn’t concentrate on anything.
For no obvious reason, she kept thinking of the blood-soaked white rug in the bathroom. She took the garbage bag that contained it and Roy’s wrecked clothes and tossed it into a trash can outside. But getting rid of the thing itself didn’t put it out of her mind.
As the day turned to evening, she started a pot roast with more of the venison. If Roy wasn’t up by the time it was ready, she’d wake him up. But he sat up when she opened the oven to check it.
He peered at the darkened windows. “Did I sleep all day?”
“You got shot,” Laura reminded him. “Your werewolf healing thing probably takes a lot of energy.”
“I guess.” He stood up, a bit cautiously, and stretched. “Thanks for letting me sleep. I feel a lot better.”
He looked better, too: less pale, and he moved more easily. More like the wolf , Laura thought as he padded barefoot into the kitchen.
They ate dinner companionably, but Laura couldn’t regain the sense of ease she’d felt when they’d chatted in the living room. Roy might be feeling better, but he was clearly still tired. Both of them kept losing track of the conversation.
The one bed loomed large in Laura’s mind. The least awkward way to raise the subject of their sleeping arrangements would be to joke about it, but instead she found herself saying abruptly, “You can have the bed, if you like. If Dad was here, I’d be sleeping on the sofa anyway. It folds out.”
Roy met her gaze, his expression serious. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think we should share the bed.”
“Okay, but…”
He touched the gun in his belt. “If someone breaks in, I don’t want to have to run in from the other room. It’s not only the time that would waste. The sound of a gunshot will hurt—maybe enough to throw my aim for the next one. I might only be able to get off one good shot. I’d rather be close for it.”
Roy’s cool analysis was far more unnerving than if he’d sounded afraid.
“How likely do you think it is that the guy who shot you will come back?” Laura asked.
“Well, he knows I’m a werewolf, and he knows he missed my heart. He can probably guess I’m still alive. If he wants to make another try, now would be a good time, before I have time to recover more.”
Laura pushed her plate away, feeling nauseated. She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water over her face until the lurching in her stomach subsided, then put on pajamas and crawled into bed.
She closed her eyes, and immediately saw the blood-soaked rug, bright red on white. The rough fibers were wet and cold under her hand, yielding and squishy. The smell of copper. A bitter taste in her mouth, of chemical smoke, of fear and defeat. Her entire body prickling all over, then going numb. Red on white…
She didn’t move when she heard Roy’s footsteps enter the bedroom. His weight settled down on one end of the bed, tilting the mattress toward him. Laura resisted the urge to let gravity slide her toward him.
“Laura?” he said softly.
If she answered him, he might ask her if something was wrong. And then she’d have to lie to him, or half-lie and tell him she was afraid of the werewolf coming back. She said nothing, and hoped he’d think she was asleep. A quarter-lie, she supposed.
“Good night,” he whispered.
Only inches separated them, but it felt like miles. She lay still, listening to him breathe beside her, feeling utterly alone.
Chapter Eight: Roy
Pillow Talk
Roy lay awake, all his senses attuned to Laura. He listened to her breathing, not deep enough for sleep, and the too-fast thump of her heartbeat. Her lemon pie scent was sharper, more tart than tangy. He could feel the heat of
The quiet in the cabin, which had been so relaxing the day before, now made her tense. She couldn’t concentrate on anything.
For no obvious reason, she kept thinking of the blood-soaked white rug in the bathroom. She took the garbage bag that contained it and Roy’s wrecked clothes and tossed it into a trash can outside. But getting rid of the thing itself didn’t put it out of her mind.
As the day turned to evening, she started a pot roast with more of the venison. If Roy wasn’t up by the time it was ready, she’d wake him up. But he sat up when she opened the oven to check it.
He peered at the darkened windows. “Did I sleep all day?”
“You got shot,” Laura reminded him. “Your werewolf healing thing probably takes a lot of energy.”
“I guess.” He stood up, a bit cautiously, and stretched. “Thanks for letting me sleep. I feel a lot better.”
He looked better, too: less pale, and he moved more easily. More like the wolf , Laura thought as he padded barefoot into the kitchen.
They ate dinner companionably, but Laura couldn’t regain the sense of ease she’d felt when they’d chatted in the living room. Roy might be feeling better, but he was clearly still tired. Both of them kept losing track of the conversation.
The one bed loomed large in Laura’s mind. The least awkward way to raise the subject of their sleeping arrangements would be to joke about it, but instead she found herself saying abruptly, “You can have the bed, if you like. If Dad was here, I’d be sleeping on the sofa anyway. It folds out.”
Roy met her gaze, his expression serious. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think we should share the bed.”
“Okay, but…”
He touched the gun in his belt. “If someone breaks in, I don’t want to have to run in from the other room. It’s not only the time that would waste. The sound of a gunshot will hurt—maybe enough to throw my aim for the next one. I might only be able to get off one good shot. I’d rather be close for it.”
Roy’s cool analysis was far more unnerving than if he’d sounded afraid.
“How likely do you think it is that the guy who shot you will come back?” Laura asked.
“Well, he knows I’m a werewolf, and he knows he missed my heart. He can probably guess I’m still alive. If he wants to make another try, now would be a good time, before I have time to recover more.”
Laura pushed her plate away, feeling nauseated. She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water over her face until the lurching in her stomach subsided, then put on pajamas and crawled into bed.
She closed her eyes, and immediately saw the blood-soaked rug, bright red on white. The rough fibers were wet and cold under her hand, yielding and squishy. The smell of copper. A bitter taste in her mouth, of chemical smoke, of fear and defeat. Her entire body prickling all over, then going numb. Red on white…
She didn’t move when she heard Roy’s footsteps enter the bedroom. His weight settled down on one end of the bed, tilting the mattress toward him. Laura resisted the urge to let gravity slide her toward him.
“Laura?” he said softly.
If she answered him, he might ask her if something was wrong. And then she’d have to lie to him, or half-lie and tell him she was afraid of the werewolf coming back. She said nothing, and hoped he’d think she was asleep. A quarter-lie, she supposed.
“Good night,” he whispered.
Only inches separated them, but it felt like miles. She lay still, listening to him breathe beside her, feeling utterly alone.
Chapter Eight: Roy
Pillow Talk
Roy lay awake, all his senses attuned to Laura. He listened to her breathing, not deep enough for sleep, and the too-fast thump of her heartbeat. Her lemon pie scent was sharper, more tart than tangy. He could feel the heat of
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