Wild Sign

CHAPTER 14

Da slipped off the light waterproof jacket he’d been wearing and covered Leah’s limp body with it. He scooped her out of the mud and stood up, hesitating for a moment as if contemplating what to do next. He looked as though he hadn’t slept for a week—though nowhere near as worn down as Leah was.

“You take Tag and her back home,” Charles suggested as Brother Wolf shut down the hunting song, because it didn’t appear that his da was going to do that, and it wasn’t doing it on its own. Tag was out of danger; the pack bonds were sufficient to keep him on this side of death now. Da gave Charles a sharp look, but didn’t interrupt when Charles kept talking. “Anna and I can clean up the leftover mess here. It might take us a couple of days. More if you want Anna and me to deal with the storage unit.”

Da shook his head. “I can’t spare you. I’ll get the pack in Bend to send down a team to clear it out. Do you want everything sent home?”

Charles nodded. “Yes.”

“I will make it so,” Da said. He looked at the sword.

Anna strode over and picked it up gingerly. It had been buried in ash and slime. She did the best she could to clean it off in a clump of wet grass, but the results were mixed. It had been scorched and blackened when they’d found it in Jonesy’s body. It had been hit by lightning twice today—and it still looked scorched and blackened, now with an added coat of slime and ash. Anna used the bottom of her shirt to clean off the cool blue cabochon stone in the pommel. It looked odd in the framework of the filthy sword, but it seemed to satisfy her.

When she reached them, they all started hiking toward Wild Sign, where the helicopter waited. Charles picked Tag up along the way. Like Leah, Tag was skin and bones—healing that much damage took energy. They walked the whole way in silence; Charles figured that his da had a lot to think about. Anna was just exhausted.

There were blankets at the helicopter as well as water and some emergency high-protein bars. They roused both Leah and Tag enough to eat and drink. Charles helped the pilot get Tag wrapped in a blanket and strapped in. Da did the same for Leah, who batted at his hands like a very tired toddler.

He gathered her bloodstained hands in his and said, “Stop.”

She let him buckle her in then, but she didn’t look at him.

A week ago, Charles would never have imagined himself feeling protective of his stepmother.

She saved us all, at great personal cost, Brother Wolf said.

“Do you mind if we keep the sword and bring it back when we’re finished?” Anna asked. “I want Charles to look at the . . . the people of Wild Sign.”

“You found them alive?” Da’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I don’t know,” Anna said; she sounded every bit as tired as she looked. Charles had managed to get a couple of protein bars down her, too. “They smelled dead, looked like mummies—and they were breathing.”

Da’s eyebrows shot up.

“I just . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“I’ll go with you to check things out,” Charles said. The caves would need to be cleaned out in any case. He didn’t want to be explaining bodies found on Leah’s land to some law officer fifty years in the future. That would be a task for later. And if it had been up to him, he would get a good night’s sleep and return. It might come to that, depending upon what they found. But it wouldn’t hurt to look at things now. To his da he said, “If Leah . . . if you need a rundown on today’s events, we can talk later.”

“Can I take the sword?” Anna asked again.

Bran nodded. Charles had the distinct impression that Anna could have said, “I want to throw it in the ocean,” or “I want to give it to the owner of the local gas station,” and she would have gotten the same response. Da wasn’t thinking about the sword just now.

“You should go,” Charles said.

Bran nodded. “I will see you when you get back.” He lifted a hand in good-bye and started to walk around the helicopter to take the copilot’s seat.

“You should talk to her,” Charles said, and saw his da’s steps falter. He did not say, You should have talked to her a long time ago. She was hurt and you did not see it. You should have seen it. But he had no doubt that his father heard those words, too.

“Yes,” Da said, without looking around. “We will need to talk.”

Anna tucked herself under Charles’s arm and leaned her cheek against his chest. “Do you think they’ll be okay?” she asked. He knew she assumed that the sounds of the helicopter powering up would hide her voice.

He was pretty sure that wasn’t the case, but he told her the truth anyway, because his da should hear it. “I don’t know.”

THEY WERE VERY nearly stymied at the mouth of the cave because he’d forgotten that they would need light to travel inside.

“There was one left,” Anna said.

“There are flashlights in the Suburban,” Charles said. “Or we could come back tomorrow.”

“No,” Anna said stubbornly, but there was a wobble to her voice.

It surprised him—and he took another good hard look at his mate. They were all exhausted, in need of food and sleep. She didn’t look as bad as Leah, or Da after he’d kept Tag from dying. But that was just a matter of degree.

We need to get her home, Brother Wolf said, and he didn’t mean the hotel. Her jaw was set and she had her lower lip caught between her teeth to keep it from trembling. Charles could tell she knew she was being irrational.

But she was tired, worn to the bone mentally and physically, and he wasn’t going to argue with her when she was in that state. Briefly he worried that they were going to have to go into the cave system in the dark.

Happily, before that happened, Anna spotted a flashlight that had rolled into some shrubs. She wiped the blood off it and headed into the cave.

They came to a place where three tunnels met, and Anna stopped. She pointed to a pile of ash. “I think that’s Zander,” she said.

“Good” was probably the wrong thing to say, Charles thought. She’d liked Zander, loved his photography—though perhaps she didn’t like him as much since he’d kidnapped her so she could carry Cthulhu’s child.

“Good,” he said anyway.

She put her forehead against his biceps and gave a laugh that was nearly a sob. “Good,” she agreed huskily.

Her flashlight fell upon a Glock pistol. Charles picked it up, took out the clip, and checked the chamber, which was clear. He put the clip in one pocket and tucked the gun in the back of his jeans. He couldn’t leave a loaded gun lying around for anyone to find.

The cavern of the dead was not far away.

Anna’s flashlight found the face of the first body just as the gem in the pommel of Jonesy’s sword flared with light. He didn’t blame it. Magic was so thick in here that he could barely breathe.

The Singer had been feeding on these people, had set up some sort of construct that pulled . . . something from them. Charles wasn’t sure what it was, only that he could barely perceive it. But with the Singer dead, the cave was filled with power.

Anna had been right. It had been important for them to come here now.

Anna’s description of the people of Wild Sign was right on target. As they stood in the entryway, every body he could see in the cool light of the gemstone sucked in a breath and let it out again. And she was right about what it smelled like, too.

“Are they dead?” Anna asked in a small voice.

He wished he could tell her yes. He knelt beside the closest one and put his hand on her forehead, then on the skin over her heart.

“No,” he said. “But there is no going back for them, either.”

She lifted the sword in question, shifting her grip as she did, so that she held it properly.

He held out his hand for the sword, and Brother Wolf spoke aloud. “Please.”

Because Brother Wolf was as tired as Charles, he reverted to speaking through their bond. Let us do this terrible, necessary thing.

“I can do it,” she said, raising her chin.

“I know,” Charles said. “But it will cost me less to give these poor souls the coup de grâce”—he saw her draw in an indignant breath and completed his sentence—“than it will cost me to watch you do it.”

She closed her mouth and gave him a disgruntled look. “That is so sexist it leaves me speechless.”

But she had heard the truth in his statement.

“I know,” he said apologetically, which made her sputter.

“And manipulative,” she said.

He bowed shallowly in acknowledgment. “I am my father’s son.”

She looked around the room and then held the sword out to him. Her eyes glistened wetly in the blue light.

He took the sword, then kissed her. “Thank you.”

It took some time. Charles wasn’t sure that Jonesy’s sword had been necessary to break the spell that held the bodies to a semblance of life, but there was no question that it accomplished the task.

When they found no more bodies, Anna said a quiet prayer.

Then she said, “Do you think they are at peace?”

He didn’t know how to answer that. Their bodies were dead, but he had no idea what the Singer had been doing to them.

Anna had her back to him—and a motion caught his eye. He looked over to see a narrow-faced, sharp-nosed coyote. Coyote.

Bless Mercy, he thought. She’d managed it.

“Yes,” he told Anna. “They are safe now.”

COYOTE WATCHED THEM go. He had not paid much attention to the Marrok’s son, his daughter’s foster brother. He was more interesting than Coyote had thought.

But they were not why he was here.

He trotted into a damp cavern that held a clear, cold pool in its center. He nosed around until he found what he’d been looking for. A small squid-like creature, no bigger than his toenail.

Immortal things were truly difficult to kill.

It tasted like eel.

WHEN ANNA AND Charles emerged from the cave, the rain had stopped, though the chill that lingered in the air had an edge of winter in it. The next rainstorm in these mountains was going to carry snow, Charles thought.

He smelled the witches before they came upon them.

“Is something wrong?” Anna asked.

“Witches,” he told her quietly. “Black. Over by the amphitheater. The lake.”

Neither of them slowed—or sped up, either.

He pulled the Glock out of his waistband and loaded the clip. Their best weapon against the witches was likely to be the sword. He wanted Anna to have it, but he hadn’t taught her swordplay yet. If his da was going to continue to break out swords from his store of weapons, Anna needed to learn. But for now, it meant that he kept the sword.

“You still have your gun?” he asked, keeping his voice soft.

She nodded. “Six bullets.”

Brother Wolf thought there were fewer than six witches waiting for them. Charles handed the Glock to Anna, too.

“This is a Glock 21. It’s a .45 caliber. Thirteen shots—there is not one in the chamber right now. You’ve shot this gun before.” She hadn’t liked it. It hadn’t fit her hand as well as her Sig did.

We could just kill them, observed Brother Wolf. There are three of them.

Anna checked the Glock herself, then tucked it next to her carry gun in the small of her back. “We don’t want to start a war,” she told Brother Wolf. “They don’t have anything to gain by our deaths—and a lot to lose.” She looked up at Charles. “They’ll know the Singer is dead, right?”

“Probably,” Charles said. “If it was feeding them power, that would have stopped the moment it died.”

They quit talking. Charles wanted to get this encounter finished as quickly as possible. He was tired and so was Anna.

He was, under the circumstances, unsurprised to find three witches standing next to the lake. He hadn’t expected that they would be standing in the ashes left by the Singer’s tentacle, and didn’t quite know why he found that disconcerting. He suspected they did not realize what they were standing in, and he had no intention of telling them. Who knew what mischief they could brew up with the ashes of the Singer?

One of the witches was the pregnant Ms. Hardesty, which he thought had been a mistake on their part. Her pregnancy gave them something they wanted to protect.

Brother Wolf snarled in his mind; he did not like witches. Especially when he and Charles were so tired. It made Brother Wolf worry that they could not protect Anna.

“This is private property,” Anna said. “You are trespassing.” It was better if Anna talked, because Brother Wolf might say something they would regret later.

Ms. Hardesty, her lips white, strode up to them while the others hung back. Either she was in charge, or she was rash. Since she was here, he was betting on the latter.

“You killed him,” she said, her voice low with rage. “You will regret that.”

“We told you our intentions,” Anna said. “Why are you surprised? The Singer was unfinished business that belonged to my family. Ours to deal with. You have no claim.”

“He was mine,” the witch snarled, one hand wrapped around her belly.

For some reason, Brother Wolf thought it was important to make Anna’s case. To show that they had justice on their side. So Charles said, “No.”

Charles couldn’t see justice making any inroads on the intentions of the pair of older witches who were chanting—softly, as if they thought that he, a werewolf, wouldn’t notice them gathering power. Perhaps they didn’t care what Charles knew.

“He was mine,” Cathy Hardesty’s voice was raw. “He was the father of the child I carry.”

“That did not make the Singer yours,” Charles said, despite the knowledge that Anna would be a better intermediary. Brother Wolf was adamant. “You belong—belonged—to it, not the other way around. It was on our lands. Its walker carried my Alpha’s mate’s blood and was accountable for his crimes to my family. This land has been in my family’s name for two centuries. His death was spoken for long ago by my family.”

The magic the witches were conjuring increased in strength, and Charles had just about decided he needed to do something about that when it died as if it had been a candle flame smothered by a snuffer. One of the witches stifled a cry of pain.

A man strode out of the trees—and Charles was sure that there had not been a man anywhere near this place. This man smelled quite human and he moved that way, though obviously he was at home in the woods.

This is why you needed me to speak, Charles said. Why didn’t you tell me the Sasquatch was here?

Brother Wolf was smug.

“Felt a disturbance,” said Ford. “And under the circumstances, I thought I should come check.” He looked at the ground the pair of older witches were standing on, and then away. He knew what the wet ashes were.

Sasquatches were the guardians of the forest. Tag had been worried about their physical strength, Charles knew. But when they were acting for justice in their territory, they had other power that was much more impressive. They could, for instance, make it impossible for these witches to work their magic.

Normally, Sasquatches would not concern themselves in a fight between witches and werewolves—unless possibly they considered one or the other as part of their territory. He didn’t know why Ford was doing so now.

We killed the Singer, Brother Wolf said. He owes us a debt.

Indeed, Charles and Anna had just rid the forest of a disruptive force—he paused and thought about the events surrounding the death of the Singer and had an interesting idea.

“I believe,” Charles told the witches softly, “you were told that you were trespassing. If I were you, I would leave—and not come back.”

“Who are you to say so?” asked Cathy Hardesty, though she’d felt the magic die as well, Charles thought. He could hear it in the wariness of her voice.

One of the witches approached Ms. Hardesty and took her arm. That one kept a sharp eye on Ford, though she took time to give Charles a foul look.

“Come, daughter,” she murmured. “This is unproductive.”

Ms. Hardesty jerked her arm free. “Where is Zander?” she demanded harshly. “What have you done with him?”

Charles did not reply—and was glad that Anna did not, either.

“Go now,” said Ford. His voice was not ungentle, but there was force behind it.

“Come,” said the older witch. “We cannot win this battle on this ground.”

Ford gave her an affable smile. “Common sense is a rare commodity.”

They stalked off in the direction of Wild Sign, and after a moment Charles heard the sounds of dirt bikes revving up.

Ford shook his head. “They came through the wilderness area on those. We’ll see that doesn’t happen again.”

“Thank you,” said Anna. “We would not have been happy to have another fight today.”

Ford slanted an amused look at Charles. At Brother Wolf, maybe, because he said, “I’m not sure that is entirely true.” He glanced in the direction the witches had taken and said, “You have made yourself enemies there.”

“We have always been enemies,” said Charles mildly. “Water is wet. Black witches are our enemies.”

Ford nodded. “Fair enough.” He took a deep breath, then said, “We owe you thanks. This one has long been a foulness in our home.”

“Team effort,” Charles said.

Ford smiled. “This is your land, Charles and Anna Cornick. This forest welcomes you here. But I think, today, you have accomplished all you set out to do.”

“Yes,” agreed Anna.

“We found a couple of vehicles a few miles away.” He jerked his chin in the general direction of where the two cars had been left. “One of my nieces said that she knew the owner of one of them, who might be surprised to find it where it was. She has taken it back where it belongs. She is something of a tinkerer.” This was said with a look of pride. “She fixed what was wrong with the other rig—the one that brought you to the Trading Post. Good as new, she said.”

Charles, surprised, said, “Thank you. I believe a card was left with a phone number, and if the owner of the Land Rover would use it, we’ll see that they are compensated for the use of their vehicle.”

Ford smiled and nodded. “Good. Good.” He tilted his head at Charles. “You and your lady, when you come back here, you should stop in for more pie.”

“We’ll do that,” Charles said.

WHEN THEY FINALLY made it back to the hotel, they showered and went to bed. Charles slept for a couple of hours but woke with the sun in his eyes. He was still tired, but he’d have to wait for nightfall to get more rest.

Anna was deeply asleep. She’d curled away from him at some point, though she had a foot pressed against his calf to make sure she knew where he was. He took a moment, while she couldn’t see him, to watch her, to convince himself that she was safe.

She was going to wake up if he got out of bed. He stayed for a few minutes more before acknowledging that he wasn’t going to be able to lie still—and so would wake her up anyway.

He slid out of bed and dressed. Anna rolled over and half opened her eyes.

“Shh,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

She looked at him with wolf-blue eyes for a full second. Then she rolled over to his side of the bed, grabbed his pillow, and went back to sleep.

He made sure the door was locked behind him. He stopped by the room next to them and pressed a hand against the window. He felt nothing. His wards around the grimoires were still holding.

Driven by restless thoughts, he took the path down to the river and was somehow unsurprised to see Anna’s rock occupied by a compact man who had his back to Charles. The man was, however, wearing buckskins and had his black hair braided and hanging down to brush the rock he sat upon—so Charles had a fair idea of who he was.

“Coyote,” he said. “Better late than never.”

“Do you think so?” said Coyote, turning to look up into Charles’s face. He had been chewing on a stick, and he tossed it into the river without looking. “I think I came in exactly when I wanted.”

“Too late to help?” Charles said. He hadn’t quite kept the growl out of his voice.

Coyote laughed heartily and slapped his leg. “You sure are a happy camper, aren’t you?” He took in Charles’s expression and laughed some more. “You get it, right? We’re in Happy Camp, but you aren’t a happy camper. I have been waiting all day to say that.”

“Why,” Charles asked, “are you here now?”

Coyote held up a finger. “Wait a moment.” He looked expectantly up the trail.

And Anna came hurrying down the path, sleep-tossed and bleary-eyed. “Where were you—” Her eyes fell on Coyote and she quit talking. She stopped a little to the side of Charles, giving him room if he needed to defend them.

She is smart, said Brother Wolf.

“She is,” agreed Coyote.

Charles wasn’t sure how he felt knowing Coyote could hear Brother Wolf.

“Well,” said Coyote impatiently, “are you going to introduce us?”

Then, without waiting, he said, “I’m Coyote. You’re Anna.”

“You are he,” she agreed. “And I certainly am.”

“I could come,” Coyote said, “because you put right what was wrong here. And because I didn’t want to have to deal with the Singer. That is two ‘becauses.’ I will answer two questions. One for you.” He looked at Anna. “And one for you. You were here first. Ask your question.”

To his surprise, Charles did have something he wanted to know.

“Mercy is a walker,” Charles said.

“Ah, excellent question,” said Coyote, even though it hadn’t been a question at all. “Yes. We have children so they can go out and do our will. They walk in the world, messengers and . . . What’s that word? Ah, yes, henchmen. And henchwomen, of course. My walkers tend to be disobedient and more effective than other walkers.” He preened, then raised his eyebrows at Charles, inviting him to speak again.

Charles decided they might get further if he waited for Coyote to tell them what Coyote wanted to tell them.

“You talk like words cost money,” Coyote observed sourly when Charles didn’t speak. “Wolf is like that, too.”

“What happens to your children if one of you die?” asked Anna suddenly.

Coyote gave her a surprisingly sweet smile. “That’s the right question, even if it’s the one Charles is supposed to ask. My death would not kill my children.” He looked coy. “I’ve tried that. But the Singer had not yet Become. He wasn’t quite like me. He required Zander—or some other living man—to even get women pregnant. When he died, the life force in those children he fathered on mortal women died, too.”

“All of them?” Charles asked.

Coyote gave him a narrow look. “You are pushing the extent of your one question with all of your questions.”

Anna started to speak and Coyote waved a finger. “Uh-uh. Not yet. You have a different question you want to ask.” He looked at Charles and sighed. For the first time, Coyote looked truly serious. “I want you to know this, so it can still be part of your question. None of the children the witches bear will survive. Your Dr. Connors miscarried about an hour ago.”

Charles nodded slowly. He could not be sorry. He should not be sorry.

“Walkers reflect some of the aspects of their parentage,” Coyote said. “Wolf’s children are fierce—and not too bright, for instance.” He gave Charles a smile that showed his teeth. When Charles did not react, Coyote heaved a sigh. “You really are not any fun at all, are you? Fine. Zander reflected the Singer’s aspects—I cannot find it in me to feel bad that there will be no more of his walkers in our world.”

Anna nodded.

“You have a question?” Coyote asked.

“I’ve seen too many horror films,” she said. “Is the Singer dead?”

“Absolutely,” Coyote said. “And now that I have answered your question, I have a task for you.”

He leaned over until he could reach his back pocket and pulled out a silver necklace with a single moonstone in a very plain setting. “She said—and I quote—‘Tell them that I didn’t have the power to make the other one very strong, but you are welcome to try it. This one my great-grandmother made. I have no daughter to pass it on to. I would very much like Sissy Connors to have it. Her father worried about her so.’”

Charles took it gingerly. “From Carrie Green.”

“Yes,” Coyote said.

“I’ll see that she gets it,” Charles promised. He knew that Anna would want to check on Dr. Connors before they left for home anyway. This would be a good excuse.

“Why didn’t it protect Carrie?” Anna asked. “It’s protection from evil, right?”

Coyote gave her an exasperated huff. “Two questions. Two. We might as well sit down and have an entire conversation. Ah well, I don’t like rules very much anyway. The necklace is protection from black witches who want to steal your magic. That’s all.”

Anna nodded at him. “You spoke to her? To Carrie Green?” There was a wobble in her voice.

Charles put his hand on her shoulder.

Coyote nodded and gave Anna that sweet smile again. “They are all safe now.” He tipped his head up toward the sun, closing his eyes. “We’re done now. You go away. I think I will sit on this rock and digest my breakfast. Maybe dream a bit, who knows?”

Charles knew stories of Coyote. “Isn’t that dangerous?” he said.

Coyote smiled at Charles this time, his eyes laughing. “You do have a sense of humor. I knew it.” He turned his back on them both, wrapping his arms around his knees as he stared out over the river.

As they headed back to the hotel, Charles heard Coyote singing “We Will Rock You.” He decided he wasn’t going to think too hard about what that might mean.

THAT NIGHT, THE coyote easily hopped over the stone wall that encased the garden. He trotted over to the raised pool, looked at his reflection backlit by the moon for a moment, and drank. When he had drunk his fill, he hopped on the ledge—no longer a coyote, but Coyote in his human guise.

He hadn’t lied to Charles and Anna, but he had concealed this thing from them. All of the Singer’s children had not died. This one last child had survived.

“Heya,” he told the listening garden. “I am Coyote. I think we should talk.”

LEAH LEFT TAG sleeping in the guest bedroom. He would recover, though it would be a week or more before he was up and moving with anything like his old strength. She was distantly glad of it. The pack was safer with Tag in it.

For lack of other tasks, she wandered into her bedroom and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. She walked over and stared.

She’d showered and put on makeup. Like Tag, she had weight she needed to regain—though nowhere near the same amount. Outside of the gauntness and a hollowness in her eyes that might only be her imagination, she didn’t look any different than she ever had.

But now she remembered. The moment the Singer died, she had remembered everything. And yet that woman in the mirror was more of a stranger than she had ever been. She reached up and put her fingertips against her jawbone, just to make sure that it was really her.

Bran didn’t make any sound approaching her room, though like the good werewolf she was, she knew he was there. Of course she knew. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to find a center of normalcy. But she had killed her own son and used his heart to kill a god. She wasn’t sure where normal was in that.

“We need to talk,” her mate said.

And that quickly, she couldn’t breathe. She did not want to have this talk with him. With anyone. Her chest ached as she forced herself to calm.

She might be a stranger to herself, but she knew Bran. Her mate. He had violated his own rules when he had forced her to live through her Change and convinced her to be his mate. For two centuries both of them had ignored that. These last few days had shoved his sins down his throat. Now he would need to fix it. And that terrified her.

“I don’t want to talk now,” she told him truthfully. She looked down at her fingers and regretted painting her nails red. Like blood. It had seemed fitting at the time—but she regretted it now.

“Nevertheless,” he said.

She bowed her head and closed her eyes, but forced herself not to hug her chest, too. He would already know how unhappy and defensive she was, but she didn’t need to shove it in his face.

She inhaled to give herself strength and could have cursed because her breath hitched. Damn it.

She turned around.

He hadn’t come all the way into the room, but leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. He watched her with hooded eyes. Started to say something and clearly reconsidered.

“You have been greatly wronged,” he said finally. “Not just by me, but I did my part. And I don’t want to lose you.”

That first part she had expected, but not the second. She would have to be very stupid not to have understood that he did not particularly like her. He needed her—or someone in her place. Someone to balance his fierce and too-powerful wolf—and also someone to bear some of the burden of his various offices: Marrok, Alpha, guardian of the wildlings. She was useful.

She’d thought that he would take this opportunity to set her aside “for her own sake.” He had wronged her, forced her because she had not been in any condition to give consent, either to being Changed or to mating with him. She deserved better. She should go out in the real world and find better. And then he could find someone he’d be happier with.

Maybe she could convince him that she wanted things to stay as they were because she was ambitious. Any role she held after being the Marrok’s mate would be lowering her position. Both of those things were true.

She did not want to tell him the real reason she wanted things to stay as they were. She had loved, really loved, three people in her adult life. One of them had died before he had a chance to live. One of them had grown up into a monster that Leah had killed. The third was standing in her bedroom, and she was fairly sure he’d spent nearly two centuries hating her because she was not Blue Jay Woman.

“Leah,” he said when she’d been silent too long. “I don’t want to lose you.”

She gave him a sardonic smile. “Why the hell not?”

He tilted his head and she saw the shadow of his wolf pass through his eyes. Then he opened the mating bond—which had always been tightly shut, always—and showed her.