Page 72 of Curses and Casualties
She snorts softly. “Why does that not surprise me.”
“One day,” I go on, “they got a call about an orphaned wolf cub. We rode out with the rescue team—me, Owen, this grizzled old vet named Hal, and two volunteers for the reserve. Honestly, we were both scared shitless. There’s a huge difference between helping injured birds and facing a wild animal, even a baby.” I smile at the memory, the way youthful bravado and real fear had mingled in the pit of my stomach. “We find the den, and there she is, this little ball of fur, all ribs and hunger, eyes too big for her head. Hal tells us to be quiet and to avoid any sudden movements, but the second he turns away, Owen pokes his finger in the air like he’s commanding orchestra. The cub launches herself right into my lap and pisses all over me.”
Georgia lets out a snort loud enough to startle the orbs of light crowding the tent poles. “You were peed on by a wolf before you ever became one.”
“Destiny,” I say, and she laughs so hard she splashes water onto the tent floor.
“Did you keep her?” she asks when she can breathe again.
“For about two weeks,” I say. “She was sick, so we nursed her around the clock—bottle feeding, hand-warming her at night, all that. I wanted to keep her forever but the rescue said she neededto be wild. So we took her to a wolf sanctuary, watched her run for the tree line, never looked back.”
“Did you cry?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But don’t tell Owen.”
“I’m telling everyone,” Georgia says, then pulls herself tighter into my chest, silent for a while except for the soft sound of her breath as she rests her cheek over my heart.
“Do you think he and Honey will be happy?” I ask suddenly, causing Georgia to lift her head up so she can meet my eyes.
“I think they’ll be disgustingly happy. Probably have a dozen kids and name them all after medical conditions.”
I smirk at that. “Little Bronchitis and Pneumonia running around.”
“Don’t forget twins Measles and Mumps.”
We dissolve into ridiculous name suggestions, each worse than the last, until we’re both laughing so hard the water threatens to overflow. It feels good. Normal. Like we’re just a couple taking a bath together, not preparing for a ritual that might kill us.
Eventually the laughter fades. Georgia shifts so she’s straddling me and we’re face to face. Her hands cup my jaw.
“Ryan...”
“I know,” I say softly. Because I do. I can feel everything she’s not saying through our bond. The fear. The love. The desperate hope that we’ll have thousands more moments like this.
She kisses me, slow and deep, like she’s trying to memorize the taste of me. I respond in kind, pouring everything I feel into the connection between us. When we finally break apart, we’re both a little breathless.
“We should probably bathe,” she says against my lips. “Or they’ll know we didn’t follow instructions.”
“Fuck their instructions,” I growl, but I reach for the soap anyway.
We wash each other with careful hands, memorizing skin and scars. The soap smells of lavender and something earthy—more blessed herbs, probably. Georgia traces the marks on my neck where Kane first entered me, her touch feather-light.
“Does this still hurt?” she asks quietly.
“Not anymore. Before our bond started to change me, it was like a burning from the inside out, always there.” I smooth soap along her shoulders. “What about your leg?”
“It hurts a little. Just a dull, constant ache,” she admits. “But it’s part of me now. Like Luna.”
I wash her hair, taking my time, massaging her scalp until she’s practically purring. She returns the favor, her nails scratching lightly, and I have to remind myself about the rules. No funny business. Save it for the ceremony.
By the time we’re clean, the water has cooled and the light filtering through the tent has taken on the golden quality of late afternoon. Soon. Too soon.
“Ready?” she asks, but neither of us moves.
“Georgia...” I start, then stop. What is there to say that our bond doesn’t already communicate?
“I know,” she echoes my earlier words. “Me too.”
We help each other out of the tub, using the soft towels that smell like they’ve been dried in sunshine. The ceremonial robes hang on wooden stands—white silk for her, dark gray for me. The fabric shimmers with delicate silver threadwork that seems to shift and move in the light, forming patterns of moons and wolves and intertwining vines.
