Savage by Nancy Holder

black curtain that divided the large room, she crossed to the table that he used for sculpting, and saw a new piece he was working on — emerging from the hunks of gray was a bust of her. Her long neck, her hair, her eyes, a smile — her throat tightened as she stared at it. She looked pretty. No, beautiful — more striking than she was. Idealized.
    He loved her.
    “Trick,” she whispered, touching the clay, running her fingers over his sculpting tools. Amazed that he was a boy just a little older than she, who could do art and speak Russian and make movies and move like a trained dancer, and drove recklessly and had gone out in the snow with a posse to track a killer.
    Who knew how to use a gun. How to take down something that had once been alive.
    We have that in common , she thought.
    She crossed to his bed and lay down on it, resting in the indentation his body had left, pulling the sheets up to her chin. It was as if he were lying on top of her. She rolled onto her side and buried her face in the pillow, imagining his chest against her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her lips.
    She didn’t know how long she lay in Trick’s bed. She didn’t want to leave, ever.
    But that was a luxury she couldn’t afford. How many times had the Fenners threatened to kill everyone she loved?
    As many as there had been paw prints in the snow.
    And she realized then and there that she loved her grandfather, even though she didn’t know if he had killed her father. Her life was a tangle; she was overwhelmed with the chaos of her own emotions and she lay still, while her mind and heart battled for dominance. And she could want Trick for the rest of her life. Nothing had to prevent her. She could be happy that she knew what it meant to love him, even if she couldn’t be with him.
    Even if Justin chose her for his mate?
    No , she thought, but the wolf in her howled with triumph.
    She flung herself out of Trick’s bed and went to the door. Then she got in her car and drove, tempted to pull to the side and compose herself, except that she knew no good ever came of stopping in the woods above Wolf Springs. It was cursed land, and it had cursed her. So she drove, wondering if she would ever see her grandfather or Trick again.

    It was dark by the time she made the last turn before the cabin. When she saw the porch light shining on her grandfather’s parked truck, she blinked hard, making sure it was really there. Then she pulled up behind it and scrambled out, charging up the stairs and, finding the front door locked, pounded on the door with both her fists. Her keys were in her hand, but she was too frantic to try and use them.
    “Grandpa! Grandpa!” she shouted.
    The door yanked open and he stood with his rifle to his shoulder. She screamed and he immediately lowered the weapon.
    “I thought—” he began, and she flung her arms around him. He staggered backwards, then righted himself and shut the door behind her.
    “I was so worried,” she said. “What happened? Where’s Trick? Is he all right?”
    He eased her away from himself, and she was shocked by his appearance. He seemed to have aged a decade since she’d last seen him. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark rings under his eyes. He looked like someone who had been locked up in a prison cell for years.
    “He’s okay. No one got hurt. The snow came and we hunkered down, waited for it to pass.”
    As she listened, she texted Trick. He didn’t reply. She punched in his name and put the phone to her ear. “Did you find anything?” she asked her grandfather.
    “No. I don’t know what we thought we would find, anyway,” he replied, sounding irritable and exhausted. “Bunch of damned fools. That’s what we are.”
    “I wish you’d called me,” she said. Trick didn’t answer. She figured he was out of cell reception range. “I’ve been so worried.” She hugged him again, and he cocked his head as he patted her shoulder a bit awkwardly in return. They