Beau is the wolf.

Everything is hazy pain, blurred edges, but that much is clear. Beau is the wolf. My head throbs as Beau—naked Beau—lifts me from the rough ground. As the sun fades, the air grows cold and smells of damp earth. I can't make sense of where we're going, but it's dark. And I'm warm against Beau's chest.

I tell myself I must have a concussion, or something, because it's hard to focus on anything other than the incredible sense of calm that uncurls in my chest. The strength of his arms around me, the smell of sunshine and pine, Beau's humming. Or purring, maybe? It's loud. I know that I should still taste acrid fear, flinch away from this... monster? I don't know what the right word is. Werewolf? I've clearly lost my mind. But it's like the circuitry I need to feel fear, to feel upset, is suddenly turned off.

Beau carries me down the mountainside. I catch fleeting glimpses of concern etched on his face, intermittently cast in evening shadows. Despite the steep descent, the extra weight he's carrying, the lack of shoes... Beau isn't winded. I wonder if he should be. He was injured wasn't he? I can't feel concern or worry, even though I know I should. I try to feel it. I know I'm supposed to feel something.

He adjusts me in his arms, murmurs my name. The moment the humming stops, a flood of fear and anger and pain threatens to rise, but is swiftly swept away the moment Beau starts humming again. I think someone tries to help him carry me, but Beau growls for the briefest moment before returning to the hypnotic rumble that seems to be keeping me in stasis. I close my eyes. The warmth, his nearness, the dark, his purring... it's all very nice, I decide.

I don't know how long it takes to hike down the twisting trail, but when I open my eyes, we're in the back of a truck. Someone else is driving, because Beau still has me in his arms. His purring is louder than the roar of the engine. I blink. And then Beau's carrying me into his house by the lake. Stripping my dirty clothes off, holding me under lukewarm water in the shower. He washes away the dirt and blood, humming throughout. When I'm clean and warm and dry, arranged carefully in his lap and tucked into blankets that smell like sunshine and pine, the purring stops.

The world crashes on me. Acid creeps up my throat. My heart abandons its gentle rhythm for something much more turbulent. Its hammering cadence against my ribs nearly sends me running, fleeing. The only thing anchoring me is the fact that Beau has yet to release me from his touch. Because, even if he is a wolf, I can't find it in myself to be afraid of him, not really.

"Rhea," Beau's voice is quiet, a touch hoarse, "can you hear me?"

I nod slowly, wondering if that humming sound he made hurt his throat. I wonder how the wound on his leg, where the other wolf had bit him, has already healed. I wonder if this is what a mental break is. Psychosis.

He presses his lips to my head, where it was bleeding. I shiver as I feel his tongue against my skin there.

"Are you—" I search for the right word, though I'm too tired to feel anything but raw, "licking me?"

His voice softens into something almost sheepish. "Sorry." He pauses and puts a fraction of space between us. "Instinct."

For the first time, the silence between us isn't easy. There are too many unanswered questions, too many things I want to say, I need to know. A bubble of hysteria rises in my chest: I should have more questions about him turning into a wolf, but really I just want to know why he's been so hot and cold, why I'm so addicted to his touch, why he had to give me such an amazing day only to fall off the face of the earth the moment I let my guard down.

"And I'm sorry for not being there sooner," he murmurs. I can only see the edge of his jaw, the way he has me curled against him, but the words feel sincere. "Rhea, why did you go alone?"

I swallow thickly, a bitter taste in my mouth. I suppose the truth is foul-tasting. "I don't need you, Beau. I don't need anyone."

There's a sharp pull from behind my breastbone. It aches. Beau shifts so that we're sitting facing one another on his bed, our knees touching. He traces the fading bruises on my wrist, the ones on my neck. His gray eyes are dark with regret, with anger.

"I—I couldn't be there." His voice is low, heavy. "I wanted to. When I felt that—it's just that I'm not in control—I tried—"

I don't let him finish. My eyes are stinging with tears that I'm too proud to let fall. I feel like a stupid teenager, a character in a soap opera. It's ridiculous to care this much about someone I barely know, but it doesn't change that I do. I care about Beau. And he hurt me. My whisper is harsh. "I trusted you."

Beau's face, the hard lines and angles, soften with sorrow, with understanding. He lets me pull away, though it makes the ache in my chest hurt more. I wrap my arms around myself to try to keep the pieces of myself together as it threatens to turn into a void.

"I know," he says softly. "I didn't mean to hurt that trust. I've just never had to explain this before. I'm fucking it up."

As he runs a hand through his hair, I realize that he's talking about the wolf-thing. It's too much for me to process internally. I don't have enough of the pieces to put the picture together. "I'm not talking about the—the wolf, Beau. I haven't decided if that actually happened. I'm talking about you dangling affection like a lure for me and then ripping it away. Inviting me to your cute little family cookout? Letting me sleep in your bed? Showing up when I'm scared and acting the gentleman? Why? Why make me—"

Why make me want you? Why make me hopeful again?

"It's connected, Rhea," he says when I can't articulate what I want to say. His voice is taut, current with vulnerability and the truth I'm not sure I'm ready to hear. "I promise."

"Then explain it," I demand, pulled the blankets tighter around me.

Beau swallows. His hands flex, relax. His breath is measured, precise. "The wolf... it happened. That was real. All of us out here, we're not just homesteaders and luddites. We're—" he hesitates, his words catching. "I guess it sounds crazy, but we're werewolves. Not like horror movie, fantasy novel werewolves—at least not entirely. There's a wild, uncontrollable part of us that awakens with the moon. And sometimes, when it's too strong, other times too."

I blink, watching the way Beau continues to curl and uncurl his fists. And then it hits me. "Owen's seizure?"

He nods. "He was overstimulated. He's young and doesn't have great control of his wolf. He's constantly shifting when he doesn't mean to." There's a sad edge to the smile Beau gives me. "I was too eager to share you with the pack. I didn't think through all the consequences."

The meat in the fridge, the musty, earthy smell all over Marcus' house, the way Beau's eyes flashed with the same gold of his wolf by the lake when he was... overstimulated, the licking.

"Why—" I start, not sure I'm ready for the answer "did you want to share me with the pack?"

Beau must hear the fear in my voice, because his smile is gentle, easy. And a touch melancholy. "I really like you, Rhea. I think I've made that pretty clear."

"Okay," I breathe, trying to ignore the hopeful flutter of my battered heart. It has no place between us anymore. I promised myself I wouldn't do this again. I hold onto the pain, focus on the anger to keep myself from crawling into his arms. "So where were you? You said it yourself, it's impossible be off the grid these days. Why didn't you text me or answer your phone or—"

"I was in my wolf form," he says, like it's obvious. I suppose it is. "I was tracking that black wolf. He's been sniffing around our territory since you visited the first time, and his pack was getting too close for comfort. I thought he was making a play for our females. We're not a big pack, not like the Yellowstone pack and—"

"There are more of you?"

Beau swallows. "Not as many as there used to be, but some of the wolf conservation efforts are making it easier for us to exist again."

A pause settles between us. I don't know if Beau's trying to let me process, because my brain is having trouble understanding. Werewolves. Throughout the country.

"So the black wolf isn't a part of your... pack?" I try.

He shakes his head. "No. As far as we can tell, he's from one of the Alaska packs. Old school werewolves. The type that lives in isolation, avoids contact with humans."

"And you don't live in isolation?"

"We're pretty modern, as far as werewolves go. Public school for the kids. Social security numbers. Internet."

Right.

Modern werewolves.

Beau seems to take my hysterical whimper of laughter as encouragement to continue. "I didn't realize that he was leading me away as a distraction. He wasn't targeting our unmated females, he was targeting you."

"Why would a wolf—" And then I picture the man from the coffee shop. The dark hair, the preternatural stillness. Cold fear prickles my spine. "I think he's been following me for awhile," I whisper.

"What do you mean?"

"I noticed him—a man—at a coffee shop a little after the town hall. He was just watching me."

A shudder courses through Beau, the air grows charged before he shakes it off. His voice is little more than a rasping growl. "I didn't realize that he was working with his pack to hunt you, Rhea. I know there were other wolves when they tailed you that night driving home, but I assumed they were just following your scent out of curiosity."

"He attacked me," I murmur. "I think he's been following me."

Beau's jaw tightens. The thunderstorm gray of his eye flashes with gold. His hands are curled into fists so tight that his knuckles are blanched. "Would it be okay if I touched you?" He keeps his eyes cast down, focused on the marks on my neck. "I'm having a hard time assuring my wolf that you're okay."

For all my resistance, I take his hand. Because he asked. The tension bleeds out of Beau, bleeds out of me. It's like sinking into a bath, or taking a shot of brandy: an immediate warmth that coaxes your muscles into letting go. Beau's thumb rubs the back of my hand. The tug, the gravity between us, vibrates comfortably, happily even.

With my touch, the gold disappears from his eyes, but the anger and regret is still here within the stormy gaze. "I'm—I'm usually very good at resisting my wolf's impulses, at keeping him under control, but none of us can resist the full moon. And my wolf, he couldn't resist the hunt. The black wolf and some of his pack led halfway us out to Granite Peak when the full moon rose. When you called, when you needed us, it still took too long to get back."

I don't interrupt him. I don't know if I can. Beyond the feel of his calloused hand against my skin, everything feels intangible.

"I failed you," he says. There's no melodrama, no self pity. Beau is simply speaking a painful, unarguable truth. "I should have trusted my instincts. I should have never left you unguarded."

A silence settles between us again, a touch less heavy, but still full of questions. Questions I don't know how to ask. My thoughts are still playing catch up with this surreal world: werewolves, hidden packs, shifting under the full moon. Being hunted.

"Why me?" I ask quietly. "Why would this pack—the black wolf—why would he hunt me?"

Beau meets my face with fierceness and affection. And something more. There's a worried slant to the corner of his mouth. His hand tightens around mine.

"Because you're something unheard of, Rhea." His voice is so soft that I almost lean forward to hear it. "A dormant wolf. Being a werewolf, it's genetic. Kids go through their first shifts during puberty. We've never heard of a wolf not shifting. A wolf living among humans."

I stare at him. Rugged, handsome Beau. A werewolf. It makes some sort of sense. If you can squint your eyes and pretend that any of this makes sense. But there's no world where me being one of them does.

"That's not possible," I say, but the words don't sound confident. Goosebumps erupt on my arms.

"You called the pack," Beau says quietly, slowly, as if he's trying to convince a scared animal not to bolt. "The night you were attacked. I wasn't one hundred percent sure until then."

I remember the hand at my throat, crushing and painful. I remember the smothered cry I forced out. And the pieces start to fall into place. The way Beau smells like impossible things, the animal attraction to him, the strange heat and restlessness that threatened to tear from my skin... that dark, primal thrum in my chest. With my freedom hand, I rub at the spot. As if I can physically keep the thing from ripping out of me.

"I can't be a wolf." My mouth is like sandpaper. The words come out scratchy, wobbly. "You said it's genetic. My mom wasn't a wolf."

Beau doesn't speak, just waits. And that puzzle piece seems to fit too: my unknown father. I pull away from Beau, shed the blankets he'd wrapped around me. I grit my teeth as pain shoots through my thigh, but I don't stop. I need to move. I need to do something with my hands. Being still isn't working. Maybe if I move, I'll wake up or snap back to reality. Maybe the world will make sense again.

He watches me for a moment, then stands so that he can kneel and pull a pine chest from underneath his bed. Through my pacing, I realize that Beau is talking.

"I was pulled to you in the town hall. So pulled. But you didn't seem to know I was a wolf. I realized that you didn't know we existed, didn't know what you are." He pulls a thick blanket form the chest, a number of pillows, setting them on the edge of the bed.

"God, and then you showed up that day smelling like desire and wildflowers in a rainstorm. So I—I started hoping you might feel the same." He swallows, placing another pillow on the pile. "But I didn't want to force you into this world, Rhea."

"What are you doing?" I snap, too quickly, too harshly. I don't know why, but my voice is tight again, shaking.

Beau smiles, a little sadly, running his hand across one of the fluffier blankets. "I wanted to help you through your heat when I realized you were nesting. Nothing would have made me happier."

I blink at him, pausing. My brain is lost, caught somewhere between heat and nesting, but the words somehow make sense. I hate that they make sense. My leg is throbbing again. My hands are twitching. I watch Beau lay out a blanket, stack some of the pillows.

My lips move without thought. "You're doing it wrong."

"Yeah?" He asks, throwing another pillow onto the pile.

That dark force inside of me—the one I'm refusing to call a wolf—wants to growl at him. I can feel the annoyance. It's irrational. If anything, I should be trying to figure out if I'm insane, but all I can focus on is the undeniable fact that Beau is ruining the bed.

Beau glances up at me, brows lifting like he can hear the silent growl echoing from my chest. He doesn't say anything at first, just crouches beside the mound of pillows.

"Alright," he says carefully. "Show me how it's supposed to be done."

I don't want to move. Don't want to crave the comfort he's offering. I want to hold tight to the normal, human reality that doesn't involve this inexplicably need to fix the fucking pillows. Because that's what soothed me through the restlessness, wasn't it? The sleeplessness, the manic energy, the heat...

My fingers curl around the nearest pillow—it has a cross-stitched forest on it—and start rearranging before I realize what I'm doing.

Beau backs away without a word, just watches me in silence.

The rhythm of it settles me. Stack, smooth, fold. I layer one of the heavier blankets on the bottom, make a divot in the center, surround it bolsters, toss a lighter blanket over the edge in a lazy sort of canopy. I toss one of the pillows out of the pile because it smells like dust and moth balls. One of the blankets is rejected because it's too scratchy. Beau occasionally hands me another pillow, another blanket, until the pine chest is empty. When I finish, I stand back, chest rising and falling a little too fast. My leg's a mess of agony. I'm sweating.

The chaos inside of me has gone quiet.

Beau steps forward again, slowly. His voice his so low and calm and soft and tender, I wish I could add it to the stupid nest I've made. "That's better," he says.

I sink onto the bed without meaning to. It's like gravity pulls me there, into the center of the pile. Beau sits at the edge, he whispers, "I should have been there. I should have recognized it sooner."

"You keep saying that," I murmur. "That you should have been there. That you wanted to be there."

"I did. I do." His voice roughens. "But you deserved the choice."

"You assumed I wouldn't choose you."

I don't mean to be cruel. But even with my sleepy voice, it comes out that way.

Beau winces, but nods. Through my heavy eyelashes, he looks very handsome in the lamplight. A somber sort of angel, all golden and sorrowful. He doesn't look like a monster.

"How was I supposed to choose if I didn't know?" I ask softly. And then, before he can answer. "Not that I believe this is real. Not really."

"I know," he says. And then, as if he isn't certain if he should, Beau rests his hand a millimeter from mine. "Do you want me to go?"

I stare into his thunderstorm eyes. My voice is small as I close my eyes. "I don't know."

But my finger twitches, closing the tiny space between us. The presence in my chest stretches like a cat, satisfied. Before I can decide how I feel about it, Beau starts making that vibrating sound again. It's softer, not as insistent as in the forest, the truck, the shower. I'm not forced into a cage of contentment, but everything's muted, softer. Gentle enough to sleep.

For a little while.