I curl my hands into fists. I won’t take another human wife, who’ll slip through my fingers as the decades pass, and see my children turn old and gray and wither before my eyes.
Once Carys and the baby are rested, they have to leave.
Chapter Three
Carys
Finley cries and cries. The strange man is going to grow tired of our presence and throw us out, or kill us. I’m hyperaware of his huge body every time he’s near, towering over us. I feel him watching us out of the corner of my eye.
Watching me.
I’ve known the aggressive stares of men since I was fourteen years old and hated them for it. This man’s gaze doesn’t feel like that, though. It’s reluctant, like he’s so lonely he can’t help himself. I see the single plate and cup by the stove. The one cloak hanging on the back of the door. The signs of his solitary life are everywhere. Is this what I have to look forward to if I survive? My parents turned away from me, the girl who got pregnant and couldn’t name the father. The girl who wasn’t even their real daughter, but someone they took pity on and regret it now. The girl who everyone says is a witch. Tears fill my eyes as the pain of their rejection impales me over and over again.
As I sit in the cabin and nurse Finley, I wonder if this man chose to live alone, or if he was cast out, too.
He’s made a cradle for Finley out of a hollowed-out tree trunk, and now he’s fashioning something small and complicated, but I can’t tell what it is.
On our third evening, as Finley squirms in my arms and cries, he holds it up and smiles to himself. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile. He comes over to us, holds out the object to the baby, and shakes it. It’s a rattle, made from a cylinder of wood covered in stretched animal hide, with a dried pea or two inside. Finley stops crying and takes the rattle in his chubby fist. I hold my breath, praying Finley will quiet at last.
For the first time in what feels like forever, Finley closes his mouth and falls silent. I sigh in relief and look up at the man to thank him.
And find him staring back at me from three inches away. The words die in my throat. His strong features are striking, and I can’t help the way my eyes skitter over his full lower lip, but I wish he wouldn’t stand so close, or peer at me so intently.
“You don’t smell like the villagers,” he says in that deep voice. His eyes run over me, as if I’m some strange creature.
What’s that supposed to mean? Does he think I’m a witch, too? I get up and turn away. “Finley needs to sleep. I’ll try to put him down. Thank you for the rattle.”
That night, Finley screams and screams. I try everything I can to quiet him, but he won’t feed, and my singing is lost beneath his cries. My desperation mounting, I shake the rattle, but he ignores it. Every time the man shifts in his spot on the floor in the darkness, I cringe, certain he’s about to throw us out.
Finally, the man gets to his feet and stands over us. I start to sob, bent over my baby in exhaustion. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong. I can’t seem to make him happy no matter what I do.”
The man reaches down and takes the child out of my arms. Finley stops crying, and the relief is intense—for half a second.
Then I realize he’s taking my baby away from me.
The man swings a cloak around his shoulders and plunges through the door out into the night.
“No!” I get to my feet, grab my own cloak, and run after him.
The man hasn’t gone far. He has Finley against his shoulder and is walking slowly up and down in the snow. The baby’s pale head is just visible among the fur at the man’s shoulders. Finley’s still crying, but the crisp air and movements of the man’s body seem to be soothing him.
Murmuring softly, the man pulls the swaddling cloth up over the baby’s head and tucks it around him, and gently pats his back with an enormous hand. “He’s teething. Give me that.”
I realize I’m still clutching the rattle. I pass it over, and he holds it, handle first, out to Finley, who immediately puts the hand-smoothed wood into his mouth. He starts to chew tearfully.
The man pats his back and resumes pacing, murmuring softly to the baby. “It hurts, doesn’t it? I know. I know.”
Teething. I didn’t think of that. I sit down on the front step, shuddering in relief that someone else knows something about babies.
“I don’t know your name,” I whisper, as he passes.
“Balen.”
“Thank you, Balen. I’m so sorry for all this trouble.”
Balen shakes his head and keeps pacing. I sink back against the door, my cloak wrapped tightly around me. It’s cold, but the silence is heaven and I find my eyes fluttering closed and I doze in fits and starts.
I open my eyes some time later and see Balen holding Finley up and examining him in the moonlight. Balen’s back is to me. Finley’s eyes and pale skin are silvered and bright. Even brighter than the snow. I can hear Balen talking to himself, something deep and urgent. I open my mouth to call out and ask if there’s anything wrong, but Balen tucks the baby inside his cloak again and resumes pacing.
I must sleep some more, because the next thing I know, I feel myself lifted up in strong arms and held against a warm body.
Balen holds me so tightly I start to wonder if something really is wrong. He moves with me in his arms, his muscles rippling against me.
“Where have you been?” he asks in an urgent whisper.
I mumble sleepily that I haven’t been anywhere. I’ve been sitting right there, on his front step.
Balen lays me down on the bed. My eyes open and meet his, and he’s breathing hard like he’s been running. I look past him and see Finley asleep in the cradle a few feet away.
“What brought you to me? How did you know?” His voice is more growl than words.
“Know what?” I stare at him in silence for several minutes. His fingers clench on the sheets on either side of my body. Tension crackles between us. “What’s wrong? Did the wolves come back?”
“You don’t need to worry about the wolfskins. I’m not letting them have you.”
His lips graze my forehead in the darkness.
Wolfskins. I’ve never heard that word before. I wonder about this strange man living all alone. In all the fairy stories I was told, only monsters live in the woods.
Balen kisses down my temple to my cheek. I can barely see him in the darkness, but I can feel him. Warm and strong and inviting. His lips sear across my jaw. My mouth parts with a gasp as heat ripples up my body.
“You’re mine, kochanie. I’ve found you at last.”
Chapter Four
Balen
Carys arches against me and moans, as if she loves to hear me say mine. The white-hot fire that has erupted in my chest burns even hotter.
My mate.
My life.
The bear roars in triumph within me. He was right all along. My mouth crashes over hers and takes the kiss that I crave. Her lips open beneath mine, and my tongue plunges into her mouth, tasting the sweetness that calls out to my blood.
Her dress laces down the front, and I unthread it. I spread the fabric wide, exposing her breasts, full and heavy, the dusky tips reddened and sensitive. I kiss and nuzzle them gently, and then scoop them together with my hands, so I can run my tongue over them. Carys moans beneath me, her thighs squeezing one of my own.