The dog did appear obsessed. Or in love.

"He isn't going to be able to keep her." Owen couldn't imagine trying to smuggle a cat into Afghanistan. It would probably be easier to bring in some dope.

"You tell him," Becca said. "I don't have the heart."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay at your parents'?"

"I'm sure." She cast him a sideways glance. "I'd rather stay with you."

He'd rather she stayed with him too.

The crazies were still out there. A lot of them, his mom included. He hadn't been kidding when he said he didn't want to let Becca out of his sight.

Owen started the truck, drove up to the main road, paused. "Do you want to stop at your place first?"

"For pajamas?"

He snorted, and he could have sworn she blushed, but it was hard to tell in the blue-gray of approaching twilight. He pulled onto the road and drove toward town.

"What about the wolf?"

"Pru."

"Pru," he repeated, and Reggie sat up and looked out the window with interest. The kitten tumbled off Becca's lap and began to chew on the dog's foot. Reggie didn't seem to mind. "What does that mean?"

"Short for Prudence." She shrugged. "Gotta call her something."

"So you chose Prudence?"

Of all the names to choose for a wolf, that would not have been one of them. Then again, the kitten appeared to be named Grenade.

Reggie woofed, low, a bit startled.

"Deer," Becca said, but she was staring at the dog and not the road.

Owen followed Reggie's gaze and hit the brakes as a deer bolted in front of the truck.

He hated it when Becca did stuff like that. Sometimes he swore she was psychic, would have believed it too, if he were the sort to believe in things like that.

"Do you need to check on Pru?"

"No." Becca peered out the pa.s.senger window. "The anesthesia should make her dopey enough to knock her out for the rest of the night."

"And in the morning?"

"In the morning, we'll see."

"What about your sister?"

"Which one?"

He didn't answer. She knew which one.

Instead of taking Carstairs Avenue through town, Owen skirted Three Harbors altogether. Lights blazed in the tavern; the scent of food made his stomach rumble. When was the last time he'd eaten?

He parked in front of his cottage and handed Becca his key. "You go in. I'll get us some dinner." He contemplated the kitten. "What about her?"

"Order me a chicken sandwich. She can have some of that."

"Any other requests?"

"Wine," she said. "Bring the bottle."

I juggled Grenade as I opened the door. At least she wouldn't explode if I dropped her.

Reggie pushed past me and I let him. If anyone or anything waited within that shouldn't, he'd know about it.

Something creaked. I flicked on the light. Reggie stood on the bed. He twirled once and lay down. I deposited his kitten next to him, and she crawled between his paws. Within seconds the two of them had crashed.

I wished I could. When was the last time I'd slept? Would I be able to sleep tonight with all that swirled in my head?

My parents weren't my parents. My brothers weren't my brothers. My sister wasn't my sister. My name wasn't my name. I should be more upset about that than I was.

I'd always known I didn't belong. Having it confirmed made me kind of Zen for the first time in a lifetime.

Eventually I'd have to decide what to do, what to say, if anything, to the rest of the world. For now, I had to let it all settle in.

A fire had been laid in the fireplace. The idea of sitting on the faux-fur rug, staring into the dancing flames with Owen, had me striking a match. I went in search of wine gla.s.ses, had to settle for juice gla.s.ses instead. By the time he returned with the food and that wine, I was dozing. The sound of the door, the rush of cool air brought me back.

I accepted the bag of food and the bottle of wine. We didn't even have to search for a corkscrew. Kyle, or whoever was working tonight, had already done the honors. He'd also provided a litter box and litter.

"Cat lover?" I asked.

"He said he had all sorts of things that people had left behind."

Owen joined me on the rug, held the gla.s.ses so I could pour. "This is homey." We tapped rims, drank.

He smelled like chill wind and the fresh outdoors. I scooted closer so I could lean my head on his shoulder. We stared into the fire and sipped. Grenade purred a contented serenade. I wanted to stay here forever. With him.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Not really."

"You want to talk about it?"

I wasn't sure which "it" he meant. Didn't matter.

"No." I drained my wine.

"More?"

I set my gla.s.s on the end table, turned back, took his, and set it aside too. "Yes." I pulled off my shirt.

His gaze went to my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Becca," he began.

"Shh," I said, and kissed him.

He tasted like red wine and winter wind. I sucked on his lip. His hands, still cold from outside, felt glorious in contrast to the heat pouring from the fireplace.

I lifted my mouth just long enough to yank off his shirt. Then I traced the patterns the flames made across his chest with my tongue and my teeth.

He pulled the band from the end of my braid, worked his fingers through my hair. The drift of the strands on my shoulders made me shiver. Or maybe it was the flick of his thumbs on my nipples. The heat had softened them; his touch changed that. I puckered, pebbled, and he pulled me into his lap, guiding my legs on either side of his hips.

"Wait." I reached for my zipper.

He stayed my hand. "Not yet."

Then he took my breast into his mouth, suckling, teasing, tormenting-first one, then the other-as he hardened against me. I had to steady myself with my hands on his shoulders, then I became fascinated by the play of muscles beneath my palms, the spike of his collarbone beneath my thumbs.

His hands tightened on my hips, pulling me against him. Through several layers of clothing I felt his heat, the beat of his pulse, or maybe that was mine.

"Please," I whispered, dizzy with desire.

He lifted his head then became captivated by the flicker of flame too. His tongue chased the shadows across my neck, my collarbone, my shoulder. The dampness left by his mouth cooled despite the heat, and I shivered.

He scooped me into his arms, rose to his knees, tilted, and laid me on the fur. It was warm and soft. I shimmied against it, and he cursed, stood, and lost his pants.

"Wait." He was so beautiful-naked and rippling and d.a.m.n near perfect. Even the scar that marred his leg was smooth and sleek.

He clenched his hands, released them, and clenched them again. "You're killing me."

I beckoned, and he dropped to the ground and reached for my jeans. I'd forgotten I still had them on.

He drew them down my legs, removed my socks, then kissed and stroked his way back up. A peck on my toes, his thumbs against the arch of my foot, tongue behind each knee, teeth on the inside of my thigh.

His breath brushed my core, and my hips lifted from the fur. His mouth pushed me back down. With fingers and tongue he made me come, gasping, biting back the scream. I didn't want to wake the animals. Though the animal in me, in him, had awoken shrieking.

He slid into me while I was still quaking. Stroked once, twice, a third time-harder, deeper, better. I hadn't thought it was possible, but what the h.e.l.l? I came again.

I saw the storm in his eyes, felt the pulse radiating from him, through me. My fingers chased the firelight across his face. He turned his head and kissed my palm. My eyes p.r.i.c.kled. I tightened my lips so I wouldn't beg him not to go.

He kissed me until we were both shaking, spent, a little cold. He moved to the couch, s.n.a.t.c.hed up an afghan, strode back. Instead of covering us both, he draped it around my shoulders then added wood to the fire. I reached for my clothes.

"No," he said, not even turning around. "I'm not done."

I pulled the afghan tighter and enjoyed the play of muscles in his back as he fed the flames. The room brightened, warmed. He straightened, turned, and the wide, jagged scar running the length of his right thigh captured my gaze.

I rose onto my knees, ran my thumb down the mark. When I reached the middle, where the scar seemed the deepest, a spark sprang, so bright it looked like a shooting star in the night.

He hissed, took a step back, and rubbed the place I'd touched. "I think I'm done," he said, in direct contrast to his last sentence.

"I can wait."

He shoved the same hand through his hair. "Done in the service. I can't go back like this."

"You're getting better," I protested.

Why? I had no idea. I certainly didn't want him to leave.

"Not better enough. I can't run like I used to, like I need to. Can't jump out of a plane on my own, let alone with Reggie strapped to me. When I hit the ground on this leg, it'll give out and we'll both wind up dead."

"You jumped out of a plane with a seventy-pound dog strapped to you?"

"How else do you think we got on the ground?"

I hadn't thought. Hadn't wanted to. But I certainly wouldn't have imagined that.

"Reggie's almost full strength."

I curled my fingers in on themselves. Was that my fault? I hadn't meant to heal him; at the time I hadn't even known that I was. I couldn't take it back. I wouldn't. I shouldn't.

"I don't know what I'll do," he said. "All I've ever had was that."

"You had me."

Same argument, different year.

"Don't," he began.

"I love you," I said. "I never stopped."

"I hurt you."

"You didn't mean to."

"Of course I did. I had to make you forget me."

"Did you forget me?"

"No."

"Then how could you think I would ever forget you?" I laid my lips on his scar, and his hand fell to my hair. I licked the length of it, and he shuddered. "Did that hurt?"

"Yes. No." He rubbed it again. "It's better since I've been here."

Of course it was. If I touched him enough, he would heal, just like Reggie, like Pru, like my human mother, like any number of people and animals I'd made as good as new.