I can't hold my breath any longer.

Just as my lungs burst open, beyond my control, there's a specific sort of rumbling that everyone in the world today would immediately recognize.

"It's about damn time," Ivy answers the call, and then listens.

Her feet shuffle a bit. She paces in a new direction as the caller squawks on. Speaker phone isn't required for me to know who it is. She's talking to Prue. The tone of voice is unmistakable. Unfortunately, most of her words are lost.

"No, not yet," Ivy replies and then pauses, as some bad news sinks in. "What do you mean they're leaving?"

Prue goes on to explain. This is conjecture, but it probably goes something like this. . .

The Maleceks could only check their Rolexes and listen to excuses for so long. They've decided that they're unimpressed with the operation the Fowlers are running. They're embarrassed for them and are tired of waiting for them to get their shit together.

While this is all being relayed, Ivy treads toward the barn door. The voices fade, and the footsteps end abruptly. Sam and I are left in silence.

It's not a good idea to move, though. Is Ivy still convinced we're here somewhere? She could come back at any second and conduct a more thorough search. I'm almost positive she caught a glimpse of me outside the barn earlier, but, if she knew exactly where I went, this would be over already.

About ten minutes go by. Ivy doesn't return. Sam capitalizes on the opportunity, flipping back the sleeping bag, so we can at least breathe some fresh air.

I intended to hold out a little longer, breathing in just her and the dirt that surrounds us. I may not be perfectly comfortable—there's too much trash crammed next to my lower half—but I'm clinched in her grip, and I don't mind the scent. Of her, at least. She washed off most of Ishmael in the river. Hopefully, in every way that matters.

I am territorial, but I'm also reasonable and empathetic where it counts, and I'm already over it. I miss all of Sam's perfumy soaps, shampoos, and lotions, but the underlying scent of her skin is the same as it's always been. It's stronger, in fact. I can't seem to fear death when she's firing up every synapse, those hard-wired for creating life.

I've had a mate before, allegedly. At least that's what I was told. But, because of my human mother, I'm not sure that's biologically true. I can't claim I even believe in such a thing anymore. The mate-from-hell smelled adequate—the way a fertile female of my kind ought to—but that's where her appeal ended. Socially and politically, it was a disaster, and let me tell you, it ended worse with her than it did with Ivy, and that's saying something.

I was a loner for a while, avoiding any relationship. Many months went by, and I transitioned into a one-night-stand phase, the majority of which were with regular women. They sized me up by my appearance or what was in my wallet, and that seemed simpler and more successful than some of the supernatural ways I was judged—scent, species, pedigree, hierarchies, and so forth. My human preoccupation was, of course, frowned upon as well, but it got me through a very dark time. I never thought the scent-quality was as lacking as other wolf-shifters seemed to claim and then ignore. I'm certainly not the first to experiment.

Ivy was an anomaly. To some, she was considered a step up, and to others, a dip in the gutter. I'd call dating a witch an "acquired taste," but I got used to it and overindulged for a time, back when she was still trying to make me happy, too. 

Looking back, I didn't know what I really wanted or was meant to have—if anything—but now, as much as I'm capable, I think I do.

Sam's different. Special. She looks right, smells right.

If only she felt the same way...

I suppose it doesn't matter what she feels or has the potential to feel, for the first time or once more. They are too close. We may never be far enough away. The chemistry Sam and I once had won't necessarily reignite and simmer to a boil with the icy fear of death mixed in. 

More minutes pass. Sam and I take the next baby step forward—whispering, lip to ear.

"How did she miss us?" Sam asks me, her hand cupped around her mouth.

"We got lucky," I respond, in more ways than one. Her words tickle through me, and they bring about another wave of awareness—that I'm naked on top of her. "Tracking is not her forte, and we were saved by the interruption."

"Do you think we can stay here for a little while?"

The thought of Ivy certainly zaps any excitement from the scene. "That's a tough call. She could be nearby and may ask for help. The wolves, within a mile radius, would be able to locate us within minutes, and not all of them are on our side."

Sam nudges me off her a bit. "Why don't you get dressed, then, while there's still time."

With her eyes turned toward the passage out, she scoots backwards, into a sitting position, allowing me to get a knee down and a brace on the ground with my arms.

I roll myself out of the ditch. I'll have to figure out the rest from my stomach. There isn't much space overhead. "I'll rip through the clothes if we're not careful about it."

"All right? Well..." Sam shifts to her knees and resumes the task that must have been underway when I arrived. She doesn't offer me more than a glance and even so, she keeps things eye to eye. "We should at least finish getting organized. And hide this garbage somewhere where it isn't a literal pain in the . . . never mind."

There's just enough light down here to see her blush.

Any male with a sense of humor would be all over that, but I just let it go, hard as that may be. "What's left?" I offer instead.

Even with a few breaks to check for noise, we're packed and ready to move on within a few minutes. I'm just not sure we should. It's broad daylight, Ivy's relying on her eyes to find us, and at some point, we need to rest, or we'll be forced to rest. And we may not be able to improve upon our current circumstances. But, if Rollin is summoned to the area, Ishmael leaves his nest, or Ivy retraces her steps, our odds of being discovered only increase, the longer we stay here.    

It's a tough choice. Depending on where Ivy is right now, what she actually saw, and what she intends to do about it, we could be screwed either way.

***

I awake with a start.

Did I hear something, or was it just the fear of hearing something?

I hold my breath and hear nothing but Sam's tiny squeak of an exhale. She's sleeping on my chest and stirs because of my twitch, but she doesn't rouse.

We decided to wait it out and spend the day here. She convinced me to put some clothes on. And I talked her into laying on top of me. It would be warmer for her and would keep some of the vermin away.

Whether it was for me, or against that, I can't comment. It doesn't matter, I suppose. I won without an argument, and I'm happy with the results.

So, here we are, both in a trench beneath the barn floor, and underneath the sleeping bag, sprinkled with dirt, pebbles, and leaves. The backpacks are tucked by my ankles. The garbage is buried beneath a pile of leaves by the wall. We're in a better situation than we were when I came in, and as far as I'm aware, we never underwent the same level of scrutiny.

Sam offered to stay awake for the first shift, but I passed on that, insisting that the job was mine. With her head to my heart, she was calm and restful within minutes, and fell into a fitful sleep not long after.

I fully intended to stay awake, but the hours dragged on. I didn't have the heart to wake her for a turn on watch, and she never woke up on her own. I must have drifted off while I was waiting.

Peeking over the edge of the sleeping bag, the daylight is waning, but it's not yet gone, so I reclose my eyes. I check out again, with my hands on Sam's back. Only in my mind are they bold enough to roam.

When it's almost dark and we're both awake, we don't find ourselves in any hurry to move. It's snug and secure, almost like a coffin, but I try not dwell on that and consider the upside. Their search area will be expanding. On top of that, every muscle is sore, and I'm sure Sam's enduring something similar; she took quite a beating and hasn't been treated well for weeks. My lack of motivation also stems from our position. Sam is still on my stomach and in my arms, by choice, and doesn't seem to mind that I'm playing with the tips of her hair.

After a deep breath, she shifts up a few inches, and nuzzles her head a little closer to my ear. "You still have so much to tell me."

I'm looking through the holes above us, one in the floor and the other in the roof. Through them, I can see a few of the night's first stars. "I know," I dolefully answer.

"Care to put a dent in it?" she asks me, lightly prodding me onward with her words and the thrum of her fingers on my chest.

As always, she's hard to say no to. "What do you want to know?"

Her pause for thought drags on for many audible heartbeats. "I heard you have a mate and wolf-pups out there?"

I don't think I breathe until the full question comes out. "Sounds like Ivy did everything she could to turn you against me. It's no wonder, it worked."

"I had no other source to go by." Her head lifts to her hand. Her elbow leans into my shoulder. "I did try consuming it with that good old grain of salt, but I have to admit, it was still tough to swallow. Is there any truth to it?"

Dark as it may be down here, I can feel her eyes on me. "Not really. A lie based on a truth, I guess. I had a wolf-mate. Narcia," I spit out like the poison it is. "So, that part is technically true, but there was no love shared. She was manipulative, vindictive, power hungry, the whole bit, and she was cheating on me with Pavel..." Another name I don't say kindly. "He's her bastard first-cousin, who was raised as her brother. She tried to replace me with him by killing me, and quick and decisive is not her style. I got away before I knew the outcome of our very brief time together. If something came of it, I had no way of knowing if they were mine. If they were mine, she's about as evil as they come. I have trouble believing she would have let them live."

Sam takes that in, returning her head to my chest. "Did you ever tell Ivy any of this?"

"No. These things get around, though, and she gave it a slant that served her purpose. By the way, I'm sensing a pattern. Any story you've heard about me, please consider it from the angle where I'm not the asshole."

She pats my chest twice. "Got it."

"Does that satisfy you for now?" The question doesn't come out as light-hearted as I intended. There's a sharp edge to my voice that I'm sure she noticed.

It's not her fault, of course. She has every right to know. I'll just blame it on the content. It sucks. It always has, even before I knew I was a wolf. It was a mess I had no hope of fixing, despite my grandfather's expectations—to take my "deadbeat" father's place as alpha upon his death.

Truth be told, no one ever knew what happened to my father. Anyone I ever asked made it sound like he was a failure and a coward, in either world. Maybe the timing suggests that. We were barely getting by, and I was young and a challenge to raise, and there was a memorable clash between my parents right before he "disappeared." But, knowing what I now know, it could have just as likely been foul play.    

"Not exactly," Sam responds. "I figure, it's safe to assume that Ishmael was a shield against this Narcia-and-Pavel, power couple from hell, and now that it's gone, we'll have yet another clan of psychopaths hunting us down?"

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."

She doesn't even bother with sarcasm. Her response is a sigh, and a shift toward movement and therefore closure, on this subject and in general.

At that, I lift my chest and prop myself up on my elbows. "Do you understand, now, why I want to take you to your parents?"

She crawls off me, and from her stomach, she fishes out her backpack.

And she never answers me. I'm not the only one with a sad story to tell, one of many, really. And I'm sure that's mutual. She's dropped hints about her stepfather and homelife in the time I've known her, but she never came fully clean.

Maybe she's not ready. Maybe she doesn't think her human experience would compare. Or she's ashamed, for what she (thinks she) did or how she handled it. Maybe she's scared that I'll do something about it, and that's valid, if it's as bad as I suspect, and I live to see the day...

How does she react to all this? A subject change, and whether she does this intentionally or subconsciously, I couldn't say, but the outcome is the same. "Maybe we can head toward civilization and blend in that way," she states, back to business, as usual.

Where there was some warmth and affection rekindling, there's now a closed door covered in a sheet of ice.

If I keep chipping away at it, I think I'll eventually get through. My own honesty may be the only method of attack, though. I should take that into consideration when she asks about things I've never discussed, either.

"It's worth a try," I tell her, and I'm not just saying that to appease her. "It may throw them off, but we'll have to keep our heads low and guard up all the same. Ishmael's informants enjoy the comforts of modern living, or the grime and squalor of the streets, and we shouldn't get too cozy anywhere. The key is to keep moving." 

We're relatively well-rested and well-fed, and this remark brings our time here to a close. With Sam in front of me, we gather our things and crawl our way out. We brace ourselves for bad news as we push the beam loose and emerge into the night.

But, none comes. We're surprisingly in the clear. Even Ivy's scent is barely discernible. She didn't do a lot of searching outside or call in an army, and I'm left to wonder why.

I remain in human form, and with our dark hoods up, we scurry across the open field, low and fast.

"Where do you think she wandered off to?" Sam asks of Ivy once we duck beneath the canopy of trees alongside the road.

"She has a dark world to conquer and a new flame to fan, assuming he doesn't see her for what she really is and drop her, flat on the ass."

"Sounds like a story you'd enjoy telling, especially if it ends in her rejection."

She's right, and as we walk, I don't hold back. I bring her up to date on all things Malecek.

Sam has put a lot of the pieces together already, but this one pulls it into better focus for her. And she takes it like a woman I'd be proud to call mine—with poise and brass and a bias in my favor.