Page 8

Some would exist without ever knowing the pull, and there would be no punishment or failure in that, as we were complete without the other.

There may come one whose scent your body knows.

One whom the land places in your keeping and places you in theirs.

If they come, solitude ends.

There is no slow awakening as I feel the bond taking hold. It closes around me with such a force that one hand catches against a cedar tree beside me.

He’s smaller than me—much smaller, though humans always are. Taller than some of his kind, but lean and strong. His body carries the balance of someone who knows uneven ground, made of walking muscle and human strain.

When he lifts his face toward the den, I see his eyes.

Moss colored. Beautiful.

The word comes reluctantly because human language often weakens what I mean. They use beautiful for flowers, polished stone, painted walls, and sunsets. Humans throw it around everywhere.

My mate.

My beautiful small thing. Mine to know, mine to guard, mine to answer. And I am his in the same ancient way, though that part of the instinct feels odd after so many years of belonging only to myself.

I have watched humans pair themselves for generations. I have watched them touch mouths, share dens, raise offspring, and mourn each other. Their bonds always looked fragile to me. They made promises, then broke them. Loved, then left. Reached for one another, and then chose distance.

I never understood why they continued trying. Now I stare at one human and understand why they risk everything.

He stands beside the vehicle and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. Copper-red hair has escaped his hat, curling faintly near his ears and damp with the day’s sweat.

Pale skin, short copper hair on his face—a beard, as humans call it. Small marks scatter across his nose and cheeks. Sun marks. He carries the sun in pieces across his skin.

I want to put my mouth there. Not to bite, but to… count? No, counting is human. To learn, then? To press scent into them, to trace them with my tongue. To know each one belongs under my gaze.

The urge confuses me.

He has spent the day among humans; their scents cling faintly to him. Coffee, paper, dust, another male who stood close enough to touch his shoulder. The smell means nothing once I find my mate underneath it.

River.

Pine.

Smoke.

Earth.

And sorrow.

That last scent draws something violent to life inside me.

Human pain is so strange because so much of it has no body. His hurt is not injury; I know the difference. No blood runs beneath his clothes, and no sickness lives in him. This is the strange kind of wound humans carry inside of themselves, one their body reveals when they insist they are well.

My mate carries a split in him.

The pain sits under his skin and changes the rhythm of his breathing when he pauses beside the vehicle.

I find myself wanting to know who caused this. More than that, I want to understand what must be removed so the scent of grief stops living in him.

From here, I watch him cross the open space and see his hand shake a little as he reaches for the door. Then he stops suddenly and turns his head directly toward me.

I go completely and utterly still.