It seems like a weird time to take a bath.

It's the middle of the day, there's either a killer, a murder-demon, or both on the loose, and we're all stuck here like the hapless characters of a slasher flick, but maybe Sam's never seen Nightmare on Elm Street before.

In addition, the bathtub is not made for two people.

Still, Sam insists, and if I've learned anything, it's that I have a hard time not giving him what he wants.

He's got me whipped, he knows it, and I don't care.

He sits with his back against my chest, which can't be all that comfortable, given that I don't quite fit the mold of hairless beauty, but he doesn't mind. In fact, he seems to enjoy rubbing his hands through the dense red fur on my arms and legs as we wash one another with faintly scented soap and a soft cloth.

Strangely, there's nothing sexual about it. Sensual, yes; sexual, no. We simply enjoy the feel of each other's body beneath our hands and take pleasure in showing one another this kind of love and care.

Sam uses his influence, too, though it's muted, dampened either by his lack of energy or his mood. Still, I feel it in his touch, the way it seeps through my skin and makes me feel loved.

"I wish I could make you feel this way," I say, trailing my fingers over the smooth skin of his shoulders and down his arms.

"What way?"

"The way you make me feel with your touch—with your influence."

He twists to look at me, his dark eyes wide with honest surprise. "But you do," he says. "That's why I... That's why I love you. What you're feeling is just... a reflection of what I feel. So, really, it's all you."

I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

Once we're clean and warmed through by the hot water, we lie on the bed, side by side, letting our bodies cool. After a few minutes, Sam rolls onto his side, watching me quietly.

"What do you need, babe?" I ask, shifting to face him. "I'm all yours. Anything you want."

He frowns a little, and I wonder at the strange mood he seems to be in. "Can we just...stay like this for a while?" he asks, wriggling a little closer to me. "I just want to be with you."

"Sure, kitten. Sure we can."

I pull him closer, so he can tuck his head beneath my chin, and slide one arm around his waist.

"You okay?" I ask after a few moments pass.

He nods and makes a small noise of assent. Then he pulls away from me far enough to meet my eyes. "Ian, what I have with you is something I've never had with anyone before. I don't want to lose it. I don't want to lose...you."

"Is that what this is about? The mark?"

"Sort of," he admits, biting his lower lip. "I'm afraid of losing you, and I'm afraid of going back to where and what I was before we met. You didn't just save me that day, Ian. You save me every day."

"Hey now," I object, feeling a little uncomfortable. "I think you've got it wrong." I sit up and he does the same, legs folded and tucked up beside him. "I'm not fit to save anyone, Sam. You know why I came here, right?"

"To look for bears," he answers quietly.

"That's right. To look for bears, because I wanted to understand if it was possible to be me and also be a good person. Since I met you, and since I got here, I've realized two things. First, being a bear doesn't mean shit. At least, not the way I thought it did. My Shape doesn't determine who I am. My choices do. And second, one of the best choices I ever made was to help you."

I brush the loose hair back behind his ears, mindful of the sudden brightness in his eyes. I'm not trying to make him cry; I'm just trying to make him understand.

"Sam, I didn't save you. You saved you. I just gave you a ride. And today, like you've been doing since the day we met, you saved me."

"But...then you had to rescue me from the rat in the basement," he says, and between the sparkle in his eyes and the twitch of his lips, I can't tell if he's about to burst into laughter or tears.

"We're ridiculous," I agree, smiling. "I guess we're just going to have to keep taking turns."

I kiss him, trying to convey through the softest touch that I love him, and that I'm happy I can call him mine. He kisses me back with the same tenderness, the same gentle care, his mouth caressing mine as though he sipped ambrosia from my lips.

When he finally draws back far enough for me to see his face again, he looks much more like the little demon I know.

We're both still unclothed, and from the way he's devouring me with his eyes, I can tell he's recovered sufficiently to want more than a sweet kiss.

"Sam...it's been almost an hour already," I say. "I don't think we have time for, uh..."

"I can make it quick," he says, pretty mouth twisted in a wicked little smirk. "Real quick. Promise."

He's not lying. Quick and intense, he sets my blood on fire with his mouth and tongue, and in no time at all my head falls back on my shoulders and I hope we're still the only ones in the lodge because the sounds he draws from me are not quiet. Then I'm catching my breath, looking down as he lifts his head from my lap, lips flushed and a satisfied look on his face. His eyes are pools of night, but his skin is gold.

"You're...too goddamned good at that," I complain, still gasping.

"Well, you know part of me has had centuries of practice," he says, stretching like a cat in a pool of sun, energy restored.

I don't like thinking about that. Even knowing that Samasa was basically a different person, I hate imagining Sam with other lovers—much less centuries worth.

"I'm not gonna pretend I'm near as skilled, but will you let me at least try to get you back?" I ask, unable to hide the shy note in my voice. How I can be shy after the things we've done together is a mystery I don't have time to solve right now.

"Knock yourself out," he laughs, flushing almost bronze.

I'd like to believe I deserve every shiver and quiet gasp, and how thoroughly and swiftly he's overcome, but I suspect it has more to do with him than with any special ability on my part.

When, mere moments later, he lies basking in salacious bliss, looking beautifully despoiled, I kiss his navel and then roll away and sit up, retreating to the bathroom for a washcloth and my clothes before he opens his eyes and sees how much I'm still turned on.

Those goddamn little sounds he makes get me every time, and we really need to stop messing around and rejoin the others.

"Ian, I changed my mind," he says when I re-emerge. He's lying on his stomach now with his hands cupping his chin. "I like the beard."

"You didn't before?" I ask, raising my brows.

"Well, it's kind of scratchy when you kiss me, but...in other places, I guess I like a little bit of rough."

"Demon," I cough into my sleeve, but I feel my face flush anyway and he laughs.

I might be older, and bigger, but there's no mistaking which one of us has the upper hand. Regaining control of my expression, I turn back to more serious matters.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," I say, "but we should head back to the Walkers' house. The tow-truck should be here soon, and then we're getting out of here—me and you. Well, me and you and Carlos and Toni," I amend. "I hope the tow-truck has enough seats."

He giggles happily as he pulls on his clothes, probably imagining some scenario in which he has to ride on my lap over miles of rough road, and then my phone rings—the insistent buzz and obnoxious jangle jolting me out of whatever fantasy that was about to become.

It's Dane Hunter's number, and I frown at my phone as I slide the green 'answer' bar. It seems far too soon for him to call me back.

I clear my throat, still awkward calling him by his first name, even though he asked me to. "Dane, uh... Hey. What's up?"

I wince, imagining I sound like a dweeb answering a call from his high-school hero.

"Ian, I found something," he says, cutting directly to the chase. "Are you still at that lodge place?"

"Yeah."

"You need to get the fuck out of there."

"I'm trying," I say. "Someone sabotaged the vehicles, but a tow-truck's on the way."

He pauses and I wait. When he doesn't go on, I give in and ask the obvious question. "What did you find?"

I hear him sigh. "I looked up Raven Wheeler, like you asked. It's not that common of a name, and only one fit the description you gave. I called up her last known address and I got lucky. A man answered—her boyfriend—and said she'd been missing for about two weeks. Apparently, she took off when she got a call 'inviting her home.'"

"Okay..." I shift my weight and switch the phone to my other hand. "Did he have a name for who 'invited' her?"

"He did," Dane says, sounding almost reluctant. "I had to press him a bit, but...Ian, it was the same person who invited you there. It was Inez Walker."