In the following days, the black wolf watched Alice leave her cage. Cautious at first, bewildered whenever she wasn't beneath him and panting to his rhythm. Uncertain of how to live without constraint.

Slowly, she understood his silences held no expectations, and slowly, she did things without glancing his way for approval. She moved the old radio from the kitchen, hiding it and her phone in the mudroom's cabinet. Bottles of red wine and some of the suitcases were locked in the trunk of the car. Once, he caught her hesitating over one of the books on the shelves flanking the fireplace, fingers not quite touching the spine before she continued wiping them all clean with a cloth. It was as though she needed to erase the woman out of existence to fathom what her own needs might be.

For him, it was simple even beyond his basic drive to fight, fuck, or feed. The frustration of Alice loving someone else had eased with that one, soft question of whether she could leave with him when the time came. She felt something for him, something more than the instinctual relief of not being smothered. It gave him the clear head to offer her comfort when she needed it and space when she didn't.

Sometimes, he hunted in the forest, letting the rain wash off any mud or blood before returning to the warmth of a glowing hearth and bread rising in its bowl. Sometimes, he read to better remember how humans thought and what they did to make up for their pitiful teeth. How he had thought and lived, a very long time ago. And sometimes, he just watched her explore what she could do throughout a day.

Baking always brought peace to her movements. Her deft hands and an oven's heat turned slack dough into soft, fluffy loaves and rolls that were nothing like the bitter slabs of roots pulped with barley he remembered eating in his youth. She soon lost her surprise at the amount of bread he could devour in one sitting.

Unless she was aware of attention, rest didn't come easy to her. She took more comfort in a task like dusting than in the chance to relax, even when the grey drizzle outside and the crackling flames inside started to lull her movements. An afternoon nap seemed entirely alien to her, but one afternoon he coaxed her to join him on the couch.

The moment she realized he was happy to stay stretched out with her on top of him without it turning into sex, she grew unsure. "You don't mind sleeping during the day?"

"No." He squeezed one hip, recognizing the caution behind those words. He was about to hear something that had once been said to her, something that had been used as a way to control.

"But isn't it... lazy?"

"She say that?" By now, they both knew who he meant.

Alice shook her head. "My father has always believed a slow life is a wasted life. I grew up used to juggling school with extracurriculars like volunteer work, dance, and soccer, and then eventually a part-time job. I followed a schedule from when I woke up to when I went to bed. Otherwise, I couldn't fit it all in."

Her father, a figure she hadn't mentioned since the brief explanation of her isolation from her family. The black wolf studied her and then brushed her mouth with a gentle thumb, trying to stop her from biting her lip.

It worked. Her shoulders relaxed a little and stayed that way as he said, "Did you like doing all that?"

"It helped me become well-rounded."

Evasive. She probably didn't, then. "What if you ignored the schedule?"

"I never did."

A simple response, spoken without pain, but it revealed she had been raised to live without questions. Maybe her father had been kinder than the woman. Maybe not. Interesting that he had cut off contact when Alice picked a lover he didn't like. No sane father would like the bitch, but that action was as cruel as anything the woman could have done. He'd taught Alice the miserable lesson that choosing what she wanted instead of remaining obedient only led to being abandoned by someone she loved.

The fucking idiot.

The black wolf hid his anger and ran a hand along Alice's back, soothing her into relaxing fully against him. As he breathed in the sweet scent of her hair, she murmured, "It does seem peaceful to doze off to the rain."

"It is."

"Is that worth the wasted time?" She still sounded pensive, as though she needed his permission before letting herself drift off.

He wouldn't give it. He wouldn't let his words become a new sacred text for her to live by. "Animals think so."

She laughed and moved enough to use the hollow of his throat as a pillow. He didn't sleep with her, instead enjoying the soft rise and fall of her breath.

After that, Alice grew bolder in seeking what she wanted. Sometimes, she'd run fingers through his hair while he read. It drove him crazy in the best way possible, and so did the pleasure in her scent over touching him. Coffee became more than her caffeine in the morning; it also grew into an afternoon ritual of warming her hands with the mug until it cooled enough to drink, smiling while she watched the rain.

He noticed but said nothing when she began using the dregs to paint on scrap paper. Aware that she might shy from his attention, he didn't ask to see the results but always looked later. They were delicate paintings, soft despite the harsh color of the coffee, and hinted at the playfulness she rarely showed. The coffee cup, the kitchen pots hanging from their hooks, the old cypresses outside... Whatever caught her eye, she painted, brushstrokes shifting from precise lines to bold spatters.

Then, on a morning when he looked out at the woods and realized he didn't feel any pull toward them, Alice painted him. The caution in her movements kept him still for a few minutes longer than he would've otherwise. Once he moved from the window, her fingers quickly pushed the paper beneath some magazines, but later, she painted him again. He stayed quiet, aware she was too nervous for his attention.

The third time, her scent completely lost its usual knots of fear and uncertainty. Rare sunlight streamed into the cabin and tinted the air gold. He lounged in the warmth, eyes closed while listening to squirrels in the nearby redwoods, claws scratching the thick bark while they scrambled in a fight. Their chatter nearly overwhelmed the soft slide of a brush against paper—nearly.

It seemed right to break his silence. "Am I hard to paint?"

He hadn't opened his eyes but knew she blushed from the way the honey-rich smell of her skin warmed. Would she shrink away or, as he'd hoped, accept his attention?

Her voice held a shyness that made him ache. "A little. I can never get your eyes right.

Then he did glance at her, feeling his mouth ease into a smile despite being so used to baring teeth instead. "I'm never looking at you."

It was amusing to sit for her brush. To watch her hesitation smooth into confidence. In those moments, there was a look on her face that convinced him she could become a hunter that terrified others. She had to find her bite first, though. And before that, she had to refuse the collar and leash.

The next evening, he searched through the bookshelves for the book she had hesitated over. A second, fainter scent had bled into its cover, the same scent that still slightly marked Alice. He read the title and author, unsurprised by what they revealed. The Chrysalis by Magdalene Bishop.

It read like expected, stylish words obsessed with themselves. Some predators could be clever at using what they said to hide what they did, and this one spun her speech like a spider, setting good snares for catching interest, sympathy, and trust. Invisible unless one had the experience to look at the right angle and catch the shimmer of deceit. The black wolf held no doubt that she felt deeply—but only for herself. It meant she didn't care about destroying a girl she fed on, only that she might regret losing the taste of power over her prey.

He really wanted to kill the bitch.

The thought remained in the back of his mind until he heard Alice approach, steps light and cautious. Her gaze darted from his face to the book in his hands, but she didn't say anything.

He did. "You don't like me reading this."

"It's all right. I'm just... curious." She inched closer. "What do you think about it?"

"Not finished yet."

She picked up on his teasing and made a face in return before he added, "And you?"

"It's too smart for me. Magdalene likes to be clever, and when she is, I can't always understand what she's saying. All I understand about The Chrysalis is that she's put herself into the story."

A trace of relief had appeared in her voice, and a flick of his fingers was all it took to convince her to close the distance between them. As she straddled him, her gaze remained on the book until he said, "Does she put you in these stories, too?"

"No. When we started dating, I told her how sick it'd make me if she used my family problems for her books. I don't want those memories taken apart and sewn back together into entertainment. Writing might be her therapy, but it's not mine. Whether she took me seriously or not, it was a non-issue in the end. I'll never inspire anything of hers."

"You're very sure of that," he replied, wanting to hear more. There had been a trace of teeth in her answer. The black wolf sensed that, despite all the shit the woman put her through, Alice might still bite back if ever pushed too far.

Her fingers picked at the buttons on his flannel until he caught them with his free hand. A small touch, but it was the last bit of reassurance she needed to go boneless against him. Her heart beat against his at a faster pace. Bitterness filled her scent, acid-bright and just as stinging. "Magdalene had a girlfriend back in high school. They lived in a small, conservative town, so it had to be kept secret. The other girl's name was Liberty, but Magdalene called her Indigo because she had deep, blue eyes. I once saw a photo of her. Daisies woven into wild, red hair, freckles all over her face. And those eyes. She looked like a woodland fairy. No wonder Magdalene obsessed over her."

"What happened?"

"While they saw each other on the side, Indigo pretended to date some clean-cut boy with a bright future. He took her to prom but she never came back that night. The boy was drunk, and on the way home the car rolled over and landed in a ditch. Neither of them made it."

Then Alice moved enough to look at him. "It devastated Magdalene. She still hasn't gotten over it."

"She's with you, isn't she?"

"Well, Indigo's dead." She refocused on the book and added, "Every sentence in that novel, every word, is about Indigo or the boy that took her away, even if it doesn't seem like it. Her earlier work, too."

A heartbeat of silence passed before she shivered. "Do you believe in ghosts? Magdalene used to say that Indigo came to her. Sometimes in dreams. Or things would be moved around her room. I always thought she wanted to see what I was gullible enough to believe, but now that I've met you, I wonder... Magdalene hasn't seen Indigo since finishing The Chrysalis. Maybe there's just nothing left to say about it all, but she doesn't like hearing that. To her, she's lost Indigo twice. Once in real life and once as a muse."

Alice sounded discouraged more than defensive. He decided to push a little. "And that makes up for being a complete cunt?"

She winced. "I think it explains some things."

"Everyone's got problems."

"She can't deal with hers."

When her gaze dropped from his, he knew she'd defend the woman if he said anything more. The time at the cabin hadn't shaken her loyalty. She still believed herself to be the imperfect half of a relationship, a flawed replacement for some long-dead girl. She could never be perfect, and so any cruel treatment was her own fault. It gutted him to realize she would return to her old life when the roads reopened.

His instincts surged. Why try these useless huffs of breath when he could rip open a throat to solve the problem? Humans were easier than hares to kill. But he was still enough of a man to understand death wouldn't release Alice from her devotion. She would mourn and refuse to slip the leash, collared by her guilt over a gravestone. To be free, Alice had to leave on her own. He couldn't decide for her.

Her mouth pressed against his jaw in a soft nuzzle; it was how she asked for a hard fuck. He laughed, as much at his own stupidity for getting himself in this situation as in relief that tonight, at least, he still had her, and caught her by the neck to pull her into a rough kiss. Then he ripped at her clothes, too angry to temper his aggression.

Her expression grew feral in return, and she arched her throat without fear. Even in the heat of their lust, he heard her murmur, "I'm sorry."

He just bit her neck hard enough to bruise, refusing to trust anything he felt to words, and felt her gasp. Then her hand jumped to the back of his head—not to push him away, but to keep him close.

Later, though, while she drifted to sleep, he gently brushed hair back from her face, hoping she would remember and maybe even believe what he was about to say. "You're not stupid. Just got too used to her bullshit to be glamored."