Page 53

Stop it, I tell her.

She merely smirks—and preens.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“Depends on what you expect me to do with that. I don’t do bunny sushi.”

He snorts and produces a small folding pan from his pack with the matter-of-fact efficiency of someone who has done this a hundred times and settles it over the fire. “Give me twenty minutes.”

I watch him cook, noting the sinewy muscle along his forearm as he handles the pan, and try to locate the professional detachment I arrived here with. It seems to have wandered off somewhere around mile four of yesterday’s run and hasn’t come back.

This is fine, I tell myself. You’re an adult. He’s a colleague. You’ve worked alongside attractive men before, without completely losing your mind.

My wolf makes a sound that is not agreement.

Twenty minutes later, the rabbit smells extraordinary. He’s done something to it; sprinkled it with herbs from I don’t know where. And the smell of it in the cold morning air is aggressively good.

“I have to admit I’m impressed,” I say.

He looks up.

“People don’t often cook for me.” I wrap both hands around my terrible instant coffee that’s still better than none at all. “I mean, Crow does sometimes. But that’s Crow. He force-feeds everyone, and you can’t stop him.” I pause. “The point is it’s a short list.”

Nash’s expression is warm. “I’ll consider it an honor.”

“Don't make it into something.”

“I’m not.” But the corner of his mouth does.

He hands me a plate—he brought a plate. Of course he did— and I take a piece of the rabbit and bite into it, and it’s so good that the sound I make is entirely involuntary, and also, I realize approximately half a second too late, sounds nothing like someone eating breakfast.

Nash stares at me intently from across the fire.

I keep my eyes on my plate as a flush creeps into my cheeks. “It’s good,” I say. Neutral. Informational. Or it would have been if I hadn’t completely undermined that neutrality by the previous three seconds.

I can’t remember the last time I blushed. Or was this unsure of myself. It’s excruciating.

“Thank you,” he says. His voice is extremely controlled.

I take another bite and am careful to remain mute through the process.

I chew and swallow, then ask, “You cook like this often?”

“When I’m in the field, yes.” A pause. His mouth tilts up. “I find it’s a good argument for bringing me along.”

“Consider it made.” I take another bite with significantly more composure. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He looks at me across the fire with an expression that’s somewhere between amused and something else entirely. “I want to be that for you, you know.”

“Be what for me?” I ask, startled.

“The guy who proves a man can want you without trying to own you.”

I don’t answer.

Is this what deer feel like when headlights paralyze them?

“You grew up surrounded by men who took and demanded and didn’t ask or apologize,” he says quietly. It’s not a question. Just a statement of something he’s observed. “I know that’s not all of it. But I know it’s part of why you keep everyone at arm’s length.”