“Short for Prudence.” She shrugged. “Gotta call her something.”
“So you chose Prudence?”
Of all the names to choose for a wolf, that would not have been one of them. Then again, the kitten appeared to be named Grenade.
Reggie woofed, low, a bit startled.
“Deer,” Becca said, but she was staring at the dog and not the road.
Owen followed Reggie’s gaze and hit the brakes as a deer bolted in front of the truck.
He hated it when Becca did stuff like that. Sometimes he swore she was psychic, would have believed it too, if he were the sort to believe in things like that.
“Do you need to check on Pru?”
“No.” Becca peered out the passenger window. “The anesthesia should make her dopey enough to knock her out for the rest of the night.”
“And in the morning?”
“In the morning, we’ll see.”
“What about your sister?”
“Which one?”
He didn’t answer. She knew which one.
Instead of taking Carstairs Avenue through town, Owen skirted Three Harbors altogether. Lights blazed in the tavern; the scent of food made his stomach rumble. When was the last time he’d eaten?
He parked in front of his cottage and handed Becca his key. “You go in. I’ll get us some dinner.” He contemplated the kitten. “What about her?”
“Order me a chicken sandwich. She can have some of that.”
“Any other requests?”
“Wine,” she said. “Bring the bottle.”
*
I juggled Grenade as I opened the door. At least she wouldn’t explode if I dropped her.
Reggie pushed past me and I let him. If anyone or anything waited within that shouldn’t, he’d know about it.
Something creaked. I flicked on the light. Reggie stood on the bed. He twirled once and lay down. I deposited his kitten next to him, and she crawled between his paws. Within seconds the two of them had crashed.
I wished I could. When was the last time I’d slept? Would I be able to sleep tonight with all that swirled in my head?
My parents weren’t my parents. My brothers weren’t my brothers. My sister wasn’t my sister. My name wasn’t my name. I should be more upset about that than I was.
I’d always known I didn’t belong. Having it confirmed made me kind of Zen for the first time in a lifetime.
Eventually I’d have to decide what to do, what to say, if anything, to the rest of the world. For now, I had to let it all settle in.
A fire had been laid in the fireplace. The idea of sitting on the faux-fur rug, staring into the dancing flames with Owen, had me striking a match. I went in search of wine glasses, had to settle for juice glasses instead. By the time he returned with the food and that wine, I was dozing. The sound of the door, the rush of cool air brought me back.
I accepted the bag of food and the bottle of wine. We didn’t even have to search for a corkscrew. Kyle, or whoever was working tonight, had already done the honors. He’d also provided a litter box and litter.
“Cat lover?” I asked.
“He said he had all sorts of things that people had left behind.”
Owen joined me on the rug, held the glasses so I could pour. “This is homey.” We tapped rims, drank.
He smelled like chill wind and the fresh outdoors. I scooted closer so I could lean my head on his shoulder. We stared into the fire and sipped. Grenade purred a contented serenade. I wanted to stay here forever. With him.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“You want to talk about it?”
I wasn’t sure which “it” he meant. Didn’t matter.
“No.” I drained my wine.
“More?”
I set my glass on the end table, turned back, took his, and set it aside too. “Yes.” I pulled off my shirt.
His gaze went to my breasts. “Becca,” he began.
“Shh,” I said, and kissed him.
He tasted like red wine and winter wind. I sucked on his lip. His hands, still cold from outside, felt glorious in contrast to the heat pouring from the fireplace.
I lifted my mouth just long enough to yank off his shirt. Then I traced the patterns the flames made across his chest with my tongue and my teeth.
He pulled the band from the end of my braid, worked his fingers through my hair. The drift of the strands on my shoulders made me shiver. Or maybe it was the flick of his thumbs on my nipples. The heat had softened them; his touch changed that. I puckered, pebbled, and he pulled me into his lap, guiding my legs on either side of his hips.
“Wait.” I reached for my zipper.
He stayed my hand. “Not yet.”
Then he took my breast into his mouth, suckling, teasing, tormenting—first one, then the other—as he hardened against me. I had to steady myself with my hands on his shoulders, then I became fascinated by the play of muscles beneath my palms, the spike of his collarbone beneath my thumbs.
His hands tightened on my hips, pulling me against him. Through several layers of clothing I felt his heat, the beat of his pulse, or maybe that was mine.