Well, that's one less thing to worry about. She ain't a virgin anymore!

I shift my lower leg, roll the ankle, trying my best not to wake her. I put some distance between my neck and shoulder until there's a pop of relief. Then I try to go back to sleep, but I can't seem to clear my head to the same degree as before.

It's one less thing out of, like, a thousand, I remind myself. And I didn't use protection or any restraint with her. It throws another worry into the pot.

I'm the product of a careless, human-shifter affair, so it's something to be mindful of in the future.

It did cross my mind this time. Hard to believe, I know. Truth be told, it was a choice, one she didn't seem to disagree with. I wanted to make sure, beyond any reasonable doubt, that she is no longer compatible with the next phase of Ivy's process.

And, I figure, if Sam wants to stay with me on a broader scale, and we get through the next few days, we'll scratch off a few more worries. This new one won't be the most troublesome in the mix.

I can't believe I'm thinking about babies, and I'm not running to the nearest toilet.

What if those days never happen. . .

I don't want to disrupt my own peace, something that's taken my entire life to achieve, by jumping from one nightmarish scenario to another. If it all ends disastrously, I simply conclude that nine months won't ever come to be. It's sad—enough to make the pillow damp—but true.

Sam, unexpectedly, yawns and rolls over to face me. She weaves her bare legs through mine, runs a hand up my backside, and nuzzles her face into my chest. "Are you crying?" she asks between some very arousing mouth grazes.

"No," I answer, sniffling. With my eyes closed, I'm smiling a little, knowing I got snagged, and I'm just waiting for her to say something. I'm also happy we're finally here—where I always wanted to be. But I never had a direct path. It required isolation, neglect, doubt, suffering, running, murder, you name it . . . but still, we arrived, and it was everything I hoped it'd be. And now that I have her... "Yes," I correct myself. "I have more to lose, and it's just . . . haunting. I did sleep, for a little while, but now certain things won't let me."

"Me neither." Sam emits a long, thoughtful sigh that sets off alarm bells.

I roll to my back and tug her against me. "Are you all right? I didn't hurt you, did I? Is there anything I could do better next time? If there is a 'next time.' If I rushed you or took liberties I shouldn't have, I'm sorry. I mean, it's a good  thing, it's done, not just because I wanted it, and I hope you wanted it, too. It's just—"

"Whoa! Slow down there," she lifts her head to say. Then she settles into a position for long-term comfort—her head on my shoulder, her body cradled in my arm, her leg draped over mine. "I'm adjusting to this new reality, and I love it. I really do." She sets a hand on my stomach, and I feel the slight hand motions that accompany almost every word. "I have no regrets. Not really..."

Raindrops begin tapping against the window behind us. I was going to ask this anyway, "You have regrets?" At least now, I'm not as anxious about it. The rain, if it escalates, will buy us some time. The conditions aren't great for either tracking or traveling. We're light on supplies, unless we can dig some up in this house, and may as well stay here until Sam's clothes are finished drying.

"That's not what I meant." She shudders out a headshake, gives herself a pause for thought, and then sighs again. "I should just spell this out. Beating around the bush is never going to accomplish anything."

"Great," I say, and I hope I mean it. Whatever this is, it sounds serious.

"I don't know what our plans are, in light of recent events..." she kicks things off. "Trust me. I know how useless I am in the wild. What I don't know, I'm willing to learn, if you'd be willing to teach me. But still, for a while, I'd slow you down. I'd put us in more danger. And I'd rather not tell a guy who I've had sex with, once, that he's stuck with me. But, the truth is, I can't go home, especially in light of recent events."

"We could have sex twice, if that makes you feel any better."

"It figures." She nudges my leg with her knee. "That's what you heard out of all that."

"I was joking," I assure her, stroking her hair. I twirl the silky tips between my fingers and then start again, around her shoulder. "Because, most of those worries are unfounded. I'll be patient. You're doing fine already. I'm not going anywhere without you. And, I get it. Suspecting something was up, I said our next move was your choice, and I meant it. You don't want to go home, and that's that. A change of course is probably for the best anyway. I know you've tried to bring this up before. Maybe I wasn't ready to accept that. . ." I trail off, afraid of spooking her with direct terms. "And things have changed, in light of recent events and all. There's your stepfather. And the hints you've dropped..." I cut myself off, hoping she'll fill in a few of the blanks.

But she chuckles dryly in response. "Is there a question in there?"

"You're right. Sorry..." I'm not very good at subtlety, but you can't say I didn't try. "What I should have said is what's his deal? Is he good or evil? No amount of God could turn evil to good. And now we both have a good definition of what evil is. So, if you even hesitate, I know the answer."

It takes a small eternity for her to go on. "I'm almost jealous of what Ishmael and Rosemary have."

"That's certainly saying something," I banter back quickly, my aim being progress.

"It's messed up, too, I know, but it seems so much simpler and less damaging than what I endured. I don't know what else to say. I don't want to ruin the afterglow. If you agree that I'm not going home under any circumstances, it doesn't really matter."

"It does matter, though. Would you have dated someone like Ted if you had a good role model at home? And Ted brought you to my door..." And here comes the flood of guilt. I didn't start her downward spiral, but I will end it, and there's no guarantee it will be for the better.

"It's all going to work out in the end, though, right?" She meets me on the same wavelength, and I find some peace knowing she's looking to the bright side. "I have to believe that."

"I know." I start running through her hair with my fingers again. I'm amazed it's still silky after all we've been through. "I'm glad to hear that. It's just . . . if anything were to happen to me, I'd want to know that you have some place to go."

"I don't. So where does that leave us?"

"Where's your real father, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Dead," she informs me, and then prepares herself to explain with a deep breath. "He wasn't evil, as far as I can remember, but he got mixed up with the wrong people. I'm not even sure he was an addict, but we were always dirt poor, so maybe. It was always a struggle, but then all of a sudden it got worse. He was noticeably anxious, even to my young eyes. It led to an armed robbery. He ended up in prison, and he didn't last long. The theory is, whoever he pissed off on the outside was there with him on the inside. I lost him when I was eight twice—incarceration and then murder. And no one was ever held accountable."

"That sucks. I'm sorry. I wish I didn't know how some of that feels. My mom OD'd when I was thirteen. I was the one who found her. My father, I barely remember. He's either dead or wants nothing to do with me. There were other men in and out of my mother's life, and they were all some degree of 'no good' for anyone involved."

"You may not be fully human, but we have more in common than I would have thought," Sam points out. "I'm sorry, too. It sucks not knowing the whole story. Most of what I said is speculation based on what little I've been told."

"Same. My grandfather stepped in to finish raising me. When he did talk, he had nothing good to say, about anything, really. Especially my father, his only son. And he wasn't around for all that long, either. I was supposed to 'man up' when he died, but I wasn't even a legal adult by human standards. We were both in over our heads and then I lost his guidance and influence. How old were you when your mom remarried?"

Sam strokes her hand up my chest while she comes up with an answer. "I don't think it was even a full year later. So nine. We moved across the state with just suitcases first, and lost friends, family—anyone willing to help. And my mother, who had nothing more to offer than a pretty face and a heartful of regret, found her 'savior' at the third church we tried. Amos was the middle-class answer to all her prayers. His father, the former pastor, had just died, and he was the obvious replacement. He was fourteen years older than my mother, and divorced, and not of his choosing—something he harped on all the flipping time—and he had no kids of his own. There were red flags all over the place, I'm sure, and he did not approve of my mother's past—my father wasn't the only blemish on her report card, let's just say. Still, he 'forgave' her, until the next time it came up. And it didn't take long for my sister and I, and our discipline to become his favorite pastime, and my mother didn't just turn a blind eye. She actually seemed supportive. Less flak for her, I guess."

"Did he hurt your sister, too?" This is the first mention of a sibling, and my tone is incredulous—that this could happen to two of them for almost a decade.

"Not that I'm aware. Adolescence changes things, but Maisie did it the right way. She was the gold standard that I could never even hope to achieve. Sweet and devout. Neat and obedient and so, so smart. I was just the pretty one and it did me no favors, any of the male attention I got. It was hard to avoid—I was constantly paraded in front of everyone, like a little doll. But, instead of finding a 'good husband,' I just brought out the worst in the boys—and men—who were toxic already."

"It wasn't even your idea," I comment, feeling suddenly sick to my stomach.

"Not really. My mother bought my clothes for me. I suppose I was lucky I could stay in kids' clothes for as long as I did. Even so, it was hot in the summer and dresses aren't always made with church in mind. Amos, of course, reserved judgment until after the fact. It was some kind of test, one I would often fail, even more than my mother did, and she seemed to crave that sort of attention. Still, I was asking for it, and all that crap. Not every day, but things came up. He'd find some excuse..."

"To beat you or just yell at you?" I inquire when she pauses.

"He doesn't really yell," she explains. "He'd say hurtful things that only I could hear. Usually. But he also felt it was his obligation . . . to get rid of the devil inside me. Belts were his weapon of choice. He had like fifty—some at church, most of them in his office at home—and they served different purposes, more than just the obvious. I tried to appease him. I never openly challenged him. I'd tell him exactly what he wanted to hear, but I was never very good at it, or it never seemed genuine because of how he perceived me—a liar, a sneak, a Jezebel or whatever. So, I couldn't always avoid pain entirely. And he knew what he was doing—how to avoid marks where people could see them. The scars are only mental."

"Hmm," I offer while I think all that through.

"What?"

"He hates women."

"Yes," she agrees tentatively. "But it's complicated. I think he's attracted to them, maybe to a greater extent than other men in his profession. But, he's also angry that he has such refined taste and no socially acceptable outlet. Beauty rejects him or he has to reject it because of his warped sense of morality. Warped, because, well, violence is okay under certain circumstances, but sex is evil. But, when you're punishing an unrelated girl in your household behind a closed door, the lines get blurred. None of it is actually okay, but to him, there were things God would allegedly forgive. And some God wouldn't, like anything that might have consequences of the most unthinkable sort."

"Wow, Sam. . ." I knew it was bad, but it's so much worse than I thought. "I don't even know what to say." I'm no saint when it comes to the truly evil, so I'm envisioning fur and teeth, a pasty white neck, and a lot of blood.

"Neither did I," she admits. "I've never put it into words before. I never took the time to analyze him as an adult. I guess I needed some distance and some education to really see him for what he is."

"Another monster."

She shrugs, and then stretches up to kiss my cheek by the ear. "Sorry I didn't just come out and say it. It would have saved us a lot of trouble if we just went west in the first place."

"West?" I ask her, genuinely curious. It seems so specific. I wonder why it's never been discussed.

I would have always given her what she wanted. I didn't think it was me, and that's why I presented what I thought was a logical alternative. She only had to say home isn't a safe place, and I would have taken her word for it. I understand now that even that would have been hard for her to admit. I wouldn't have given her a hard time, but she would have expected the third degree and wasn't mentally prepared for it in those early hours. We had enough on our plate as it was. Heck, I'm not sure I could have handled any part of this truth with a shred of the composure that she's showing right now.   

"I've always wanted to see the Rocky Mountains." She embraces the subject change with a cheery tone of voice. "Seems like a decent place to hide, right? And, well, ever since I caught that first whiff of you. Do you remember that cabin in the woods I mentioned?"

The Impression potion. "How could I forget?"

I turn my head toward hers, and she places a hand on my cheek. She brushes her lips against mine in a way that's deeply intimate and frustratingly airy and brief. "Well, that was the dream," she tells me, her forehead drifting down to my lips, and there, I kiss her back. "Any moment of weakness, when I set aside the fear of getting hurt and let myself think about you, in that way."

"Mmmm," I groan. Is it wrong that I really want her again, like, right now? "What was I doing?"

"Oh, all sorts of things." Her hand wanders down my chest and I like where it lands. "Like, hunting, cutting firewood. Helping me with the dishes and laundry..."

"I like laundry." She is neither heavy nor resistant, and with just a little flip, she's on her back with me between her legs. "I hope to be doing it all the time." Especially if it means you're not wearing any clothes...

I kiss her. It deepens. I'm waiting for the brake-lights to come on and yet they never do. 

My body has other things in mind, but my actual head digs up the will to pull away. "Are you okay with this right now? Our talk had to open some old wounds, and if the mood isn't right, I'll give you all the time and space you need."

"I actually feel better." With her hand on the back of my head, she brings my lips back to hers. "You're officially my favorite distraction," she mumbles against them.

Same. I don't tell her; I show her. I take my time, getting her ready, kissing every spot that elicits a response. There are many, but she certainly has a favorite.

I'm all over the place, but she knows what she wants. When I pop up to sample the rest of her body, she grabs my erection and gives this tryst bold and immediate direction. She rubs it through the slick path my tongue just left.

We bring about the first moan and the first little spasm of pleasure. I shudder too, from the mix of hot and cold, the body heat and crisp cabin air, and the buildup of adrenaline and emotion—all the big ones, minus the anger.

"Your eyes," she notes.

"I'm sorry." They're freakishly off-putting, I'm sure. "I can close them, if that helps."

"No. I like it. It means I'm doing something right."

Her self-doubt is almost comical at this stage of my arousal. In the best way I can think of, she wipes the stupid grin off my face, dragging me lower. The tip sinks into that warm, inviting place without any conscious effort on my part. Then, she releases her grip on me, bracing both hands on my shoulder blades instead.

I ease myself inside of her, surpassing the initial pain, which she bears down on, and it feels incredible. With gentle thrusts, I attempt to massage my way through that tough spot and not get too ahead of myself. She gasps and relaxes after a short stint, and she encourages me onward with the slight dip of her fingertips into the skin of my back. Her lower abdominal muscles slowly unclench, allowing further passage, a little more force, and my own pleasure to build.

With a deep breath, I retreat and ease up, the goal being a little bit of stamina. My body is being so stubbornly over-indulgent right now. I feel like I've lost the control I've acquired over the years. With her, I'll have to relearn, like it's day one. I hope to get plenty of practice every day for the rest of our long lives.

I dip down for another round of oral sex to get her caught up. She bucks through a sharp rise, and I spring back up, making another attempt to push inside of her. I know it's probably a lot to receive, this being only her second time, and she's probably still sore from the first. Still, her body yields and seems to welcome me without a hitch. We find a stride and depth that works for us both and the excitement builds with every influx.     

I've never been with someone so beautiful that I connect with so well. I've never wanted to be with someone so deeply and eternally—any time, any place, any mood. It would always be a yes.

A cabin in the woods. A big, loving family. A cozy bed. A "goodnight" done right, every damn night. And a good morning to follow.

My favorite distraction, indeed.

There's nothing lurking in my mind that can overpower my fixation. My need for her. My drive to succeed and please. My love—it's all-consuming. No monster could even put a dent in it right now. Not from the inside, that is. They'd have to literally drag me away from her.

The thought. The timing. It's eerie how untimely it is. Her muscles are clenched, her eyes are pinched shut, her skin is flushed. I'm giving her my all, and it's about to come to a prolific conclusion for us both. But the sound of breaking glass tends to kill the moment. More than that, really. In this race for life or death, the crash marks the end.

And death wins...