All told, my assault (I'd hardly call it a kiss) probably lasts all of half a second. But the results are instantaneous, and explosive. Fenris's markings blink out abruptly as he rolls off of me, swearing. I roll in the opposite direction and scramble along the wall for the light switch. The incandescent bulbs in the fan overhead flood the room with yellowish light, banishing the ominous shadows from their corners. I brace my back against the wooden dresser and slide back to the floor, inhaling and exhaling with a new appreciation. Only after I have pushed my hair out of my face with a shaking hand (several times) do I dare look at Fenris.

He reminds me of some proud, wounded beast—the sort you hope makes it when you see them on the Discovery channel. He's on his side, arms stretched toward me; the dark t-shirt pulls away from the waistband of his jeans with every ragged breath, and I try not to stare in fascination at the trails of markings snaking around the narrow band of skine. Strands of white hair cling to his sweat-slicked forehead, to the nape of his neck. What chills me, though, is the far-gone expression that dims his bright green eyes to a dull gray. He looks miserable, and I can't help feeling that at least a small sliver of it is my fault.

On my hands and knees I traverse the wide expanse of carpet between us. It's significantly less terrifying in the overhead fan's warm light than it was a scant five minutes ago. I don't let my gaze wander from his face as I gingerly touch my fingertips to his. "Fenris?" I whisper.

He blinks, and his eyes focus slowly on my face. An almost rapturous relief wipes the horrible blankness from his face as his breathing starts to return to normal. "You're not her," he murmurs.

"No," I reply. I don't know or care who "her" is, but if he keeps looking at me like that I will give thanks every day that I'm not "her". And possibly find "her" and introduce her to my dainty fist. "No, I'm not." Our palms touch as I thread my fingers into the spaces between his. "I'm me."

I can see the change happen, as clearly as though I was sitting at a traffic light. Recognition finally dawns, and he rips his hand from mine. "What were you thinking, woman?" he all but roars.

"Keep it down, will you?" I hiss frantically. I struggle to my feet, glancing nervously at the closed door. "Some people like to sleep past (I have to check my watch) six-thirty in the morning."

"I'm one of them," he retorts acidly. "You haven't answered my question."

"And I'm not going to. Not here." I fumble for the doorknob. Light floods the hallway as I yank the door open. "We can have this out in the barn, if you're really attached to the idea—"

An iron grip closes around my wrist and roughly jerks me back into the square of buttery light. There's an odd, hollow sound as Fenris arrests the door's momentum and forces it in the other direction. It's not quite a slam, but I still wince at the impact of the loud click as the door settles back into its frame. "I am not going to hide in the barn," he growls. "There is no need, because you are not going to speak. You are going to listen."

"Oh, like hell I am, you stubborn overgrown gibbon—"

"I could have killed you," he snarls. "You don't seem to understand this. I could have killed you." His fingertips dig into my shoulders, like he can fold comprehension into me through my skin.

I wriggle in his unyielding grip—I feel like slugging him. But his thumbs are digging through my shirt into some mysterious pressure point around my collar bone, and even just twitching my fingers has become a herculean effort. "I know you could have killed me. You could also shoot me, or stab me, or hold a fucking pillow over my face until I stop breathing."

"I don't need a weapon to kill you," Fenris snaps. "You know that. So what spirit of idiocy possessed you to come in here and touch me? To touch my markings?"

All the words in the world get stuck in my throat, like hard candy. "What does it matter?" I ask defensively. "I'm not dead, and I'm done talking about this."

"We are most certainly not finished!" he shouts (quietly, if that's possible). "Why were you in here?"

The hard candy comes back up and fills my mouth with sticky sweetness that glues the truth to my teeth, my tongue. I open my mouth—I try to push the words out but the only thing that comes out is nothing.

His hands unclench—his grip on my shoulders softens and hovers in the uncertain territory between restraint and a caress. He searches my face with wide eyes. I don't recognize the expression in them, but it shoots through me and shivers down my spine. "I could have killed you," he says again, but it sounds different. "At least tell me there was a reason."

His rage and hurt, I could have answered with nasty, biting sarcasm, with insults and ineffectual physical struggling. But this gentle probing asks for the truth, as much of it as I will give. "You sounded like you were having a rough night," I say softly. Please don't make me say any more, I plead silently. Please don't make me say I care— "Well, technically I guess it was a rough morning, but still. It sounded rough."

"You and I have been sleeping on opposite sides of a very thin wall," he reminds me. "I know you have heard my 'rough nights', as you call them, and thus far, the only notice you take of them is to make the coffee stronger the next morning. Yes, I noticed," he adds with a faint smile. "But you did something different this time. You know what I can do. I know you know. So why were you in here?"

I fold my arms over my chest. I feel the tickle of my sweater on my palms, and wish it could distract me from the deepening warmth of Fenris's hands on my shoulders. "You know Mom and Helena and Laurie and Gran were all up?" I ask. "What if one of them had come in here? At least if you pounce on me, you don't have to explain anything."

"Besides your dead and gutted body," he shoots back.

"I'm not dead," I point out wearily. I grab his hand and press his palm against my neck. "See? Alive and well, complete with pulse." I let his hand drop. "It was dumb to come in here, I know, and I'm sorry."

He's quiet for what seems like a long time, looking thoughtfully into my face. Tentatively, he touches his palm to my neck, where my pulse is suddenly doing cartwheels. "You really can't bluff worth a damn, can you," he says, looking exasperated and amused, and tired. Up close, I can see the deep, purple bruises under the glassy green gaze. His head is probably pounding, too, if the way my head feels is any barometer. "How can I trust you, if I know you aren't telling me something?"

Ouch. Low blow, sugar. "You wanna know the truth?"

"Every time," he tells me solemnly.

I take a deep breath. The words come out as though forced through molasses. "I—I didn't want you to be afraid. When you woke up, I mean. After what you said in the barn—I dunno." I shrug helplessly, and manage to keep the reflexive shiver to a minimum as his hand brushes up and down my neck. "It seemed like the thing to do."

"You were worried," he murmurs. A faint frown turns the skin between his eyes into a valley. I have to squeeze my forearms against a ridiculous urge to smooth it out with my fingertips.

I nod. What else is there to say (besides all the things I can't say)? "That about sums it up, yeah." I shrug away from his hand on my fluttering pulse and pull the door open. No violence, no desperation—just a small displacement of air and space, and I can cross the barrier separating light and dark. "Look, I'm going back to bed," I sigh. For normalcy's sake, I manage a wry quirk of my mouth and add, "I promised Gran I wouldn't let you see me in my pajamas."

"Erin?"

I turn, one hand curled around my doorframe and my heart in my stomach.

Fenris's mouth pulls toward his cheeks, and I recall with brutal clarity that for a half-second, it touched mine, and felt a bit like I'd brushed my teeth with a lightning bolt. "Thank you," he whispers.

I stare at my bed, half-hidden in the gray of predawn. The covers are thrown back—it would be a trifle to pull the blue-and-white quilt back over my head and succumb to exhaustion. I can even see the imprint of my body in the rumpled sheets. I could fold back into it, a perfect piece for a jigsaw puzzle made of cotton and synthetic down.

"On the other hand," I hear myself say, "it's probably easier at this point to just stay up." I angle my body back down the hall, where Fenris waits with one eyebrow delicately lifted in unspoken question. "C'mon. I wanna make waffles."