And when the wolf strolled into her room, she swallowed again.
“I guess that answers that. I’d offer to towel you off, but that just seems really strange. Stranger. Ah, Sawyer started a fire for you downstairs. He’s sweet that way, and thought of it.”
The wolf simply stood, watching her. Unnerving, Sasha thought, to look at the wolf—sleek and wet and fierce—and see Riley’s eyes. “You should try to get some sleep tonight—I don’t know if that’s how it works, but if you can, you should get some sleep. Doyle called for calisthenics at dawn.”
At this, the wolf growled low.
“Okay, you definitely understand me. It actually makes sense, as a whole. I’m going to do a household supply list, and task assignments. And we’re going to start the training—by skill set—tomorrow. The men are going to get together down in the kitchen, talk battle strategies.”
The growl came again, and now the wolf paced.
“Yeah, I had the same reaction, except you’re invited onto the war council.” When the wolf stopped pacing, Sasha nodded. “Right. We figured you had some experience where Annika and I don’t. But we will. We’re going to take tomorrow, seeing as you have to make it a short day, to start putting the training together. See, it makes sense.”
She wasn’t sure if the sound the wolf made was agreement or resignation, but it wasn’t quite a growl.
“You should go down, get warm and dry. You might not be able to add anything to the strategy session, but you can listen.”
The wolf walked to the door. Sasha followed, opened it.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
She closed the door quietly on what she decided was the strangest conversation she’d ever had.
Suddenly, it struck her. Could she sense Riley’s feelings—in wolf form? Feelings echoed thoughts. So if she could, there could be more of a conversation.
She’d ask Riley if she was open to trying it.
But for now, with the storm blowing out to sea, she got her supplies, and began creating a chart.
She did a draft, edited it, re-edited it. It took longer than she’d imagined. She finished it, perfected it, then wrote out a supply list with a lot less fuss.
Done, she forced herself to put in fifteen minutes with Riley’s bands, and tried some push-ups. She would get stronger.
Still alone, she slid into bed with her sketch pad.
And fell asleep with a half dozen sketches of the wolf on her page.
When Bran slipped in beside her, she sensed his warmth, turned to him.
“It’s late.” He brushed his lips over her brow. “Sleep.”
So she slept on, and dreamed of a room lined in gold and silver, studded with jewels, mirror-bright.
She dreamed of the god who sat on her golden throne, staring into those jewels, her beauty dark and unearthly.
The reflections, dozens and dozens, covered those walls, and were wizened, hideous, twisted.
On the god’s scream of rage, the jewels shattered.
And the walls ran with blood.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rising at dawn was one thing. Rising at dawn for some yoga stretching was actually rather pleasant. But following that rather pleasant stretching by being whipped into squats and lunges changed the entire complexion.
She kept up, well enough, but squats, lunges, jumping jacks with Annika smiling, even letting out an occasional laugh, as she herself struggled through them—without even a single hit of coffee—made Sasha want to try out her right jab on her friend’s beautiful face.
Then came the dreaded push-ups.
She was the only one of the six who couldn’t manage more than two. One and a half if she was honest. Even with her knees down in what Riley called (with a definite sneer) girl push-ups, she struggled.
She would get stronger.
Pull-ups—not even one. Crunches until her abs screamed. More stretching—thank God—then a jog down the cliff steps, along the beach, then back.
Where she just collapsed on the grass in a gasping heap.
“I hate you.” She could barely pant it out. “Especially Doyle, but all of you.”
“That’s a start. Who’s on breakfast detail?” Doyle asked.
“The chart’s in my room. Someone who can still walk should go get it.”
“I’ll get it.” Annika, barely winded, dashed off.
From her prone position, Sasha bared her teeth. “Maybe I hate her even more than Doyle.”
Moaning, she rolled over, made herself stand on wobbly, vibrating legs. Actively scowled when Annika bounced back with the chart.
“I cook with Sawyer today. I can make the coffee. I know how. It’s so pretty!” She turned the chart around for all to see.
Sasha had color-coded it, and since she’d been in a fine mood before this morning’s torture, had illustrated the chart.
Pretty little drawings of pots and pans, a lawn mower, a garden, pecking chickens, the pool, and so on—along with sketches of everyone beside their names.